The Root of Evil Read online

  ‘Mes amis!’ she cried. ‘Mes amis les Suédois!’

  ‘Bonjour petite!’ Katarina Malmgren called back. ‘Comment vas-tu ce matin?’

  The girl braked to a halt right beside us and was immediately earnest. ‘Not so good. I’ve had an argument with my grandmother.’

  ‘Et pourquoi?’ Erik managed to produce. ‘Why?’

  Troaë launched herself into an animated description of her morning run-in with Grandmother, making faces and doing pantomime; Katarina seemed to understand most of it because she kept laughing at the girl, putting in a comment here and there. We other three tried to follow as best we could: plainly the grandmother had wanted the girl to go into town with her – I assume she meant Quimper – to do some shopping, but Troaë hated shopping. Especially with her grandmother, who took eight hours to buy a cheese and a pair of shoes.

  ‘She called me a guenon and said I took after my mother.’

  ‘Guenon?’ asked Erik.

  ‘A she-monkey, I think,’ said Katarina Malmgren.

  Spot on, I thought. A she-monkey is exactly what she is.

  The girl had declared her grandmother to be un chameau, also some kind of monkey as far as I could tell, so then the grandmother had gone off to town on her own.

  ‘What are all of you doing today?’

  Just then, Henrik and Gunnar came into sight. A white plastic craft had rounded the point and was approaching at speed, its engine a piercing roar. I know nothing about boats but nonetheless realized this must be quite an expensive one. I wondered for a moment about this Englishman who was prepared to lend out his boat to a group of strangers without further ado. But perhaps Henrik and Gunnar had been able to demonstrate better boatmanship and nautical sense than I could give them credit for. Katarina explained to Troaë that we were about to go on a trip to the islands.

  ‘Des Glénan!’ exclaimed Troaë. ‘I love des Glénan! Let me come with you!’

  Several seconds passed as the boat came closer, I exchanged a look with Erik but could not ascertain his view, and then the girl slipped her hand into Katarina Malmgren’s and pressed herself close to her.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘And Grandmother?’ asked Erik. ‘What do you think Grandmother will say?’

  ‘She won’t care,’ Troaë assured them. ‘I’m used to getting on with things by myself. She always checks I’m in my bed around midnight, but that’s all. Please?’

  ‘All right,’ said Katarina Malmgren.

  ‘Je vous aime,’ said the girl.

  I don’t know why she did it. Why Katarina agreed to take the girl on our all-day trip to des Glénan, just like that. She took the decision unilaterally, without asking the rest of us; I’m sure Anna, at least, thought it was a stupid idea, but it struck me that perhaps this was precisely why Katarina said yes. Because she knew that Anna took a totally opposite view, but would find it hard to express that view. I have never entirely understood that intricate sort of game that is played between women, I can only speculate. At any event, the decision was made: young Troaë would come with us in the boat to the islands; none of us offered any objections, not I, nor Erik, nor Anna.

  Nor did Henrik or Gunnar, once we had waded out into the water and climbed aboard the Arcadia, and the girl kept her excitement and cheeriness in check and did her best to appear grown up and to blend in. She had social skills, that Troaë, I can’t take that away from her.

  Arcadia was white and plasticky, with a big black engine. There was space for about four people in the cabin, but no one was interested in sitting down there. The women immediately found themselves a spot up on the deck at the front, spread out big red and yellow towels and started sunbathing. Gunnar was instructed to take it gently at the wheel so they were not troubled by strong wind or spray, and the rest of us ranged ourselves along the narrow table in the cockpit. Henrik and I on one side, Erik and Troaë on the other. The girl tucked her hand through Erik’s arm and he left it there. We didn’t say a lot, it seemed too much of an effort to make ourselves heard above the engine noise, which was insistently loud. I noted that there were seven of us; no one had a life jacket and no one commented on the fact, either.

  As we drew closer to des Glénan – which is a cluster of about ten small islands, none of them populated all year round but several of them with additions to accommodate the needs of modern tourism – Gunnar reduced speed, Anna and Katarina climbed down to the rest of us and there was a short discussion about which island to choose. A map was produced and spread out. I did not offer any opinions. They eventually agreed on Ile Brunec, I don’t know why, but presumably because it was sat a little apart. It was not one of the five larger islands, spread in a ring round the famous lagoon. Henrik read from the brochure he had with him that there were no houses on Brunec, no restaurant and no facilities.

  ‘Ideal,’ said Anna. ‘Just white beaches and turquoise sea.’

  ‘Food and wine and warm skin,’ Gunnar added.

  This proved to be pretty much the case. We went across the lagoon, rounded Île de Saint-Nicolas and dropped anchor on the west side of Brunec in a little channel between sharply pointed cliffs and a beach of ivory sand. We waded ashore in pleasantly warm water about a half metre deep, carrying baskets and bags on our heads. There wasn’t a soul to be seen; we had encountered a certain amount of sea traffic on the crossing and there were a dozen or so boats bobbing in the lagoon, but none at Brunec. We seemed to have found an island all of our own with at least 300 metres of sandy beach; the place wasn’t very big, maybe two kilometres in circumference with a little row of trees running down the middle. The highest point couldn’t have been more than five metres above sea level.

  I looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty. I looked at the sky. It was azure blue. The sea was still largely a smooth mirror, the seagulls drifting about in lazy ellipses, and it came home to me that I was at the mercy of these people. For a whole day.

  Why did I get myself into this?

  I actually thought those thoughts, Lord of the Flies fluttered through my head, and that isn’t something I’ve reconstructed after the event.

  This was Troaë’s second trip to des Glénan, it turned out. The first time, she was here with her mother and father; if I remember rightly, she was four years old at the time.

  ‘But if your grandmother gets home at five o’clock and you’re not there, won’t she worry?’ asked Katarina.

  It was a bit late to be asking that question now, but the girl simply laughed and shook her head.

  ‘She just thinks I’m a nuisance,’ she said. ‘I told you that. For her, the main thing is that I’m still alive when Dad comes to collect me. But it doesn’t matter that she’s the way she is, I get on better without her.’

  ‘And when is Dad coming?’

  She shrugged. ‘A few days before school starts, probably. In six weeks or so.’

  It occurred to me that Troaë might be a compulsive storyteller. That in actual fact, she lived with her parents in Fouesnant all year round. Or was staying at one of the campsites I had seen near Beg-Meil. That the grandmother did not exist and that we were in for a bollocking for having abducted the girl. But I kept this to myself. I got to my feet and went into the water instead. I swam out from the shore, it really was crystal clear and the sand shelved away steeply after about twenty metres; I regretted not having brought flippers and a snorkel, which would have provided the ideal way of making the time pass. Just floating, watching the deaf, dumb world spread out below the surface. The thought also struck me that more than five years had passed since I got my diving certificate and almost as long since my wife’s accident.

  When I returned after about half an hour, they had already started organizing lunch. ‘Might as well get a couple of bottles of wine inside us while they’re still relatively chilled,’ Gunnar pointed out. ‘I assume the water’s too warm to cool them in?’

  The question was directed at me. None of the others had been in yet. I shrugged. ‘Around twent
y, I’d say.’

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ said Anna. ‘I thought I might take a dip in the nude later, but I need a couple of glasses before I dare.’

  I had a feeling she was eyeing me up as she said this, but it might just have been my imagination.

  ‘Anna’s got this thing about only bathing naked if she’s got company,’ said Gunnar. ‘Never alone. I wonder why.’

  ‘Get lost, arsehole,’ said Anna. She laughed and slapped his backside. Troaë asked what we were talking about and Katarina told her we were admiring the beauty of the island. Then we started lunch. Baguettes and cheese, salads in messy dressings, Bayonne ham, crêpes and avocados. Strawberries, raspberries and cherries; they had gone to a lot of trouble and the cool bag of Alsace wine turned out to contain no less than eight bottles.

  In the two and a half hours that followed, we emptied six of them. Troaë claimed she had been brought up on wine and water so she was allowed a couple of glasses too. The usual lugubrious beach conversation developed of course, the more wine the more listless the chat; Gunnar kept on at Troaë to sell us the watercolour, and the girl said she planned to finish it off the next day – if we made sure to be on the beach, she would come and show us the finished work of art. Perhaps she could auction it to us? She had been to various auctions with her father and knew how these things worked. Gunnar and Erik discussed this suggestion for a while with simulated seriousness, but soon lost interest. They changed to the subject of the strange French predilection for bad, sweet breakfasts, and other related subjects. The girl said less and less, fished a book out of her little rucksack and started to read, while I got out The Confessions of St. Augustine, which always travels with me. Reading had the effect of drawing some kind of line between the two of us and the rest of the group. A slim but significant boundary. I pondered for a while on the Lord of the Flies aspect: a situation like this, in which we were shipwrecked and would be forced to live on the island for months – and how the girl and I would gradually form a kind of enclave, a united front against barbarism, but I soon abandoned the idea as unconvincing and improbable.

  Soon after half past two, another boat put in and anchored at the other end of the beach, and a man and woman came ashore and settled themselves on some basic beach chairs.

  ‘There you go,’ said Gunnar. ‘You’ve got a decent audience now. Time for your skinny dip, Anna.’

  Anna was not slow to take up the challenge. She rose on slightly unsteady feet, removed her bikini and ran into the sea. It might have been an attractive sight, but for the fact that she had drunk too much; she tripped and fell headlong, just a couple of metres from the shore. She swore, picked herself up and turned to the rest of us. ‘Come on then, you twats!’ she said. ‘Chill a bit, why can’t you, we’re in paradise here!’

  Katarina Malmgren hesitated for a second, no more, before throwing off her bikini and galloping after Anna. She was significantly steadier on her feet, ran a good bit further out and launched herself into the water.

  Gunnar laughed. Erik laughed and shouted bravo. Henrik and I made no comment. Troaë clapped her hands and cried out something in French that I didn’t understand; then she ran into the water after the two naked women.

  This time she kept her swimsuit on. I wondered why. Perhaps she realized she couldn’t compete with the ample endowments of Anna and Katarina, but I am probably crediting her with more cunning and calculation than she actually possessed.

  A minute or two later, the male quartet also went into the water. We all kept our swimming trunks on; for my part, I had good cause to, and I could see that Erik, at any rate, was in the same predicament.

  The other couple left the beach around four and at about the same time, Anna and Gunnar announced that they wanted to go on a little expedition of their own. By that time we had polished off the rest of the wine, and it seemed pretty obvious that they were looking for a bit of privacy for a fuck.

  ‘We’ll take the boat over to Les Bluinieres,’ said Gunnar, waving the map. ‘It must be those two we can see over there.’ He pointed in the direction of a couple of small islands silhouetted on the western horizon. ‘We’ll be back in an hour, OK?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Katarina Malmgren. ‘Have fun, ha ha.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Troaë.

  ‘You’re too young to understand,’ said Katarina, leaving the comments untranslated.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ put in Erik, thoughtfully watching Gunnar and Anna on their way out to the boat. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘I want to know what you’re all talking about,’ protested Troaë, crossing her arms. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘You’ll get over it with age,’ said Erik. ‘You’ve got to learn to have a bit of patience, little girl.’

  He said this in Swedish and I don’t think Troaë understood that he was addressing her. As for me, I felt as though the wine and sun were starting to addle my brain. I realized the best thing would be to find a shady spot and have a nap. We sat in silence, watching Gunnar and Anna climb aboard the boat. Gunnar got the engine going after a few false starts, and they set off round the cliffs towards Les Bluinieres.

  ‘Not fair,’ repeated Troaë once they were out of sight, and it was suddenly far from clear what she was actually referring to. Erik got to his feet. ‘Think I’ll take a walk round the island,’ he said. ‘You can come with me, Troaë.’

  He said this in flawless French, as far as I could judge, as if he had been formulating it in his head for a while first.

  ‘Oui monsieur!’ cried the girl. ‘Avec plaisir!’ She leapt up and took his hand, and the two of them trotted off into the sun along the water’s edge.

  I was left there with Henrik and Katarina Malmgren. Katarina had just turned onto her stomach and asked her husband to apply some sun oil to her back. I felt it was high time to put my plan for a nap into practice. I took my towel and withdrew to the shade under the trees. I thought I ought to masturbate before I went to sleep, but I was far too tired and inebriated to make it happen.

  I awoke with a headache. And because I was cold.

  Possibly also because Henrik Malmgren was standing a metre from me, clearing his throat. ‘Are you awake? We’ve got a problem.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Yes. Gunnar and Anna haven’t come back with the boat. It’s six thirty.’

  I sat up and looked at my watch. I had been asleep for more than two hours. The headache hammered at my temples. I saw that they had shifted our camp a bit further inland, no more than ten or fifteen metres from my sleeping place under the trees. Katarina Malmgren and Troaë were sitting together with their backs to me, Erik a few metres to one side. I shivered, noticing that a cold wind had blown up and dark clouds were covering the sky.

  ‘Haven’t come back?’ I asked. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Henrik. ‘We’ve rung their mobile several times but they aren’t answering.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t bring it today?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Henrik. ‘In any case, something must have happened, and it looks very much as if it’s about to rain.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, heaving myself to my feet. ‘Got to get some clothes on.’

  ‘I reckon the temperature’s dropped fifteen degrees,’ said Henrik.

  We went down to the others. I put my trousers on. And a long-sleeved top.

  ‘Have a bit of this, too,’ said Erik, passing over a bottle of

  Calvados. ‘The fucking bunnies haven’t come back.’

  ‘So I heard,’ I said, taking a large swig from the bottle. I looked at the rest of them. Young Troaë was pressed tightly against Katarina Malmgren, who had an arm round her. She looked concerned. ‘I think the girl’s ill,’ she said. I looked at Erik, remembering he had taken her off on a walk before I fell asleep. He averted his gaze and looked out over the sea, towards those islands that we thought must be Les Bluinieres. Their outlines were no longer visible; the light across the water h
ad changed, it was still not dusk but visibility had worsened considerably. Waves half a metre high rode the sea, and you could sense the storm was not far away. I asked whether they had thought about contacting the mainland.

  ‘We wouldn’t know where to ring if we did,’ said Henrik Malmgren.

  I noticed his speech was a little slurred. My headache hammered two heavy-duty nails into my skull. We’re all drunk, I thought. We’re four pissed Swedes sitting on a desert island without a boat. We’ve kidnapped a twelve-year-old French girl and we know bugger all about what they got up to on that walk.

  ‘We’ll wait another hour,’ said Katarina Malmgren. ‘There’s no reason to kick up a big fuss.’

  ‘I was against them taking the boat,’ said Henrik.

  ‘Shut up, Henrik,’ said Katarina. ‘That’s just the sort of comment we don’t need at the moment.’

  ‘You’re the one who dragged the girl along with us,’ said Henrik. ‘But I don’t suppose you want to hear that either, eh? Nice fix you’ve got us into.’

  Katarina made no reply.

  ‘At least we’ve got half a litre of Calvados left,’ said Erik.

  ‘All I’m saying is that it was a bit bloody irresponsible,’ said Henrik, lighting a cigarette with fumbling fingers.

  The girl whispered something to Katarina. They stood up. ‘She’s going to be sick,’ Katarina explained accusingly.

  ‘Let her be sick, then,’ said Erik.

  Katarina and Troaë made their way up to the trees. I turned my head and saw the girl kneel down and retch; at the same moment I felt the first spatter of rain on the back of my hand. Erik passed the bottle to Henrik, who took a deep draught.

  We tried to erect a primitive sort of shelter under the trees. Put up towels as shields from the wind and rain, but it was ineffective. Henrik was manifestly drunk and mostly just wandered around cursing to himself. Katarina and Troaë sat together, huddled against each other to keep warm; since throwing up, the girl had scarcely said a word and clearly was not well. Erik and I took it in turns to stand down at the water’s edge, spying out pointlessly in the direction of Les Bluinieres. We said very little to one another. At eight o’clock we shared the last drops of the Calvados, though Katarina abstained and the girl did not want any, either, though she was so cold that her teeth were chattering. We started discussing the possibility of making a fire. Henrik scoffed at the idea. ‘For fuck’s sake, this is the wettest place on earth,’ he said. ‘And this is the biggest fiasco I’ve ever been caught up in.’