Jean Renaud:One more question, ladies and gentlemen.
Daily Mail:Will you all be attending the premiere?
Sun:Of course. We are family.
Chapter 36
Gothenburg, Sweden
Mattias dug his hands into the pockets of his reefer jacket and crossed Andersmark Park, head lowered to combat the howling wind. Mid-May and it felt like December. Already five years in Sweden, and he still wondered if he’d ever get used to the cold. He missed his home and the hot, dry winds of the Sahara more than ever. It was just past three in the afternoon and he was on his way home from work as an apprentice baker. He liked the job, despite having to rise at two a.m. each morning. The bakery was warm, smelled wonderfully—a far cry from the mud-brick ovens and open fires of his childhood—and he respected his boss, Mr. Nordstrom. The cardamom buns were the best thing he’d ever eaten. The clients, when he worked at the counter, were uniformly welcoming and seemed to care deeply for his well-being. Of course, they knew his story. Everyone in Gothenburg did. At least as much as anyone who hadn’t been there could know it. It was better that way. Some things even the most forgiving people could not come to understand.
Mattias stopped by school and picked up his twin sons, Lucas and Leo. They had names from home, too, but he wanted them to be as Swedish as possible. The color of their skin, even diluted by half, made things hard enough. Not that the Swedes would admit to it. They thought their society to be colorblind. Almost, thought Mattias, warmth in his heart. It was a wonderful country and he was ever grateful.
He gave each of the boys—already four years old,inshallah—an almond-paste cake and held their hands as they crossed Ulfspargattan. His home was one of a dozen row houses, two stories, large windows, painted a bright barnyard red to stave off the bleak Scandinavian winters. His rent was twelve hundred euros a month, more than a third of his monthly salary, but the government gave him some help, and Gitte, his wife, chipped in when she could.
She was working at the kitchen table when they entered, a writer, of course, waiting to be published. But talented, Mattias thought, though as a child he’d never read a novel. Novels wereharam. Forbidden. He was permitted to read only one book, the Koran, and by fourteen, he had memorized it. Gitte rose to greet them, kisses all around, then tea and snacks, before settling the children before the television. Two hours a day. Not a minute more. That was the rule.
Dinner was at six o’clock sharp, early because of Mattias’s schedule. Tonight: turkey meatballs, gravy, lingonberries, with egg noodles and black bread. The IKEA special. If Gitte didn’t make it as a novelist, she could find work as a cook. Mattias was still getting used to having enough to eat. His full belly felt like an affront to those without.
That evening, Mattias insisted on clearing the table. No one looked twice at the scar running the length of his forearm as he gathered the plates. His boys called it “the caterpillar”—pink, reticulated, and uneven. He’d learned to keep it hidden at the bakery. One too many a customer had been unable to stifle a gasp.“Grusig,”one had said. Gruesome. He didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. He didn’t like being reminded either. The nightmares still came, all these years later.
A last sip from the jar—the water hot, murky, dizzy with grease and dead flies. Whose would it be? The rusted gutting saw wasn’t enough. Mattias’s hands were stronger. One man lived, the other died. Survival on the open water.
Mattias kissed the children good night at eight o’clock. Gitte would tuck them in at ten, after reading them a story. His life was a fairy tale. A Western fairy tale, but so what? To know that his children would want for nothing…that was enough. More than he could have dreamed of.
He went upstairs and got ready for bed, kneeled, said his prayers. Twice a day was enough. If his bed faced east, west, north, or south, he didn’t know. He was sound asleep when Gitte slid in next to him, pressing her cool body against his back, wrapping an arm around him. Her kiss barely registered.
He woke at one fifty-five, five minutes before the alarm sounded. Rising from bed, he padded to the bathroom. The tile floor was warm beneath his feet…heated from beneath. A wonder. He showered and dressed, clothing laid out before bedtime so as not to wake Gitte. He looked in the mirror. Sharp cheekbones—though nowhere near as sharp as before—slim lips, liquid eyes, the regard of a warrior. Forever and always.Inshallah. God is great.
Only now did he alter his routine from the one he’d followed these last years.
Let it begin.
Mattias left the bathroom and opened the bottom dresser drawer. He found the roll of bills tucked into a pair of socks. Three thousand five hundred euros, all that he’d saved since coming to Sweden. There was more, much more, but he wanted her to know that this was from him and him alone.
He placed the roll in Gitte’s drawer, in the wool socks she wore for cross-country skiing. She would find them at the right time. He put on his belt and shoes, then took a look at this woman who had captured his heart. Blond, a little heavy, a gap between her front teeth, rosy cheeks—as different from him as chalk from cheese. Or perhaps, snow from coal. And yet…love.
Then, no hesitation in his step or his heart, he left.
His phone and wallet and passport remained on the dresser.
A man waited downstairs. It was the man from the mosque. A Saudi. His name was Abdul. “Sheikh Abdul,” Mattias called him. As always, he was perfectly dressed. Suit, necktie, an overcoat that would cost a month’s wages.
“Tonight is the night,” he said. “Peace be unto the Prophet.”
“May peace be unto him,” said Mattias.
“Did you check your wife’s bank account?”
Mattias said he had. One million euros transferred from the Bank of Liechtenstein, though he could neither pronounce the name nor had any idea where the place might be.
“Do not worry,” said Sheikh Abdul. “I will look in on your wife from time to time. She will want for nothing. As it should be.”
A car drew up. A man who could be Mattias’s brother sat behind the wheel. Mattias said goodbye to Sheikh Abdul. He had memorized his instructions long ago. He knew where to go, what to say, and what was expected of him. It was really not so difficult.
“Shut the door, Ibrahim,” said the driver, using Mattias’s birth name. “It’s freezing.”
Mattias slammed the door and put on his safety belt. “How far?”
