“I thought you looked familiar.”

“Hi,” Christian said.

“It’s a small world.” The distributor moved to one side.

Now the sun was in Christian’s face again. He squinted, then cupped one hand over his eyes. The distributor’s features were obscured by the shade. His teeth glistened and it looked like he was smiling.

“One of my contacts lives on this street. An honest-to-goodness Jamaican. Up by the hospital-have you seen it? The biggest one in south London.”

“No, I haven’t,” Christian answered. “I didn’t think any black people lived around here.”

“It’s a strange part of town-like a chessboard, you might say.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m on my way to see another guy down on Coldharbour Lane, and he’s white.” The distributor’s teeth flashed again. “I’d ask you to come along, but he doesn’t like to have more than one guest at a time.”

“That’s okay.”

“I think I can squeeze in a quick beer. Do you want another one?”

“Sure.”

The distributor went into the pub. The sun was behind a chimney on the other side of the street, lighting it up like a torch. An ambulance passed and Christian remembered the hospital up on the hill, or wherever it was.

A woman and a man came from the direction of his hotel and sat down at the next table. After a few minutes, the man got up and walked inside. The woman stared at the chimney, now surrounded by a halo of sunlight. The distributor came out carrying two pints of beer with foam running down the sides. Christian felt the cold glass in the palm of his hand. He put it down and reached for the wallet in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“It’s on me,” the distributor said.

“Okay, thanks.”

“So tell me about your favorite CDs.”

Christian gave him a quick rundown.

“Brilliant. I’ve got to remember this.” Taking out a pen and a small notebook, he asked Christian to repeat a few of the titles. “A whiz like you could come in handy,” he said.

“I don’t know about that.”

The woman’s companion stepped back out of the pub with a glass of beer and something that could have been wine. He sat down across from her.

Christian heard her say that they had left home too late and missed the sunshine.

“At least it’s warm,” the man said. “I don’t ever remember it being so nice this early in the year.”

“I’ve really got to go,” the distributor said.

“Okay.”

He stood up. “Are you staying nearby?” he asked.

“It’s not too far,” Christian said.

“Stop me if I’m being pushy, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Me?”

The distributor took a stack of CDs out of his briefcase. There must have been at least eight of them. He sat back down. “I’m meeting with one of my other contacts tomorrow, and we’re going to discuss these. I was planning to listen to them tonight. Maybe it’s not so important, but he wants his customers to know what they’re getting. I have to be able to say something about them.”

It was colder now. The couple at the next table took their glasses and went inside.

“I have a little lady here in London who needs her man, if you know what I mean.”

“I think so.”

“You could listen to them for me.”

“Sure, but…”

“And give me your expert opinion.”

“Hmm.”

“I might have time to come by and pick them up later tonight, but my lady friend will be with me, so it would be better if you could leave them at the front desk.”

“But then you won’t know what I thought of them.”

“Damn, how stupid of me.”

“You must have that chick on your mind.”

“Yeah, and then it’s not exactly the thing between your shoulders that you think with.” The distributor laughed.

“No.”

“If I put off my meeting for one day, I can stop by for a few minutes tomorrow night and go through the CDs with you.”

“I probably won’t be able to tell you anything you don’t already know,” Christian said.

“The CDs are yours, that goes without saying. You can keep all of them.”

“What time will you come by?”

The distributor took out his notebook again. “I have a dinner date at eight, so I could come right after that. Is eleven too late?”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No problem.”

“My friend might be with me, but she can sit in the corner while we talk.”

“Okay.”

“Here’s my cell number in case something comes up.” The distributor tore a page out of his notebook and jotted something down. “Shit, I forgot that my phone doesn’t work in London for some crazy reason.” He put the piece of paper in his pocket. “I don’t remember the number of my hotel, but I’ll call and leave it at the front desk of your place when I get back.”

“Sounds good.”

“Now I’m really late.”

Christian felt a little dizzy from the two beers. He was starting to like this guy. A little speedy, maybe, but businessmen were like that.

The distributor was on his feet. “Just one more detail.”

“What?”

“You’ll have to tell me where you’re staying.”

THEY HAD SEEN EACH OTHER THREE TlMES AFTER THElR CON versation at the club in the Vasastaden district.

Bergenhem had turned into two people, or maybe three, each with a conscience that bumped up against the others like ice floes.

When he was at home with Martina, he couldn’t understand what he saw in Marianne. When he put his hand on her belly and felt the baby kick, he hated the other person who was also him.

She called herself Angel when she danced. A pair of small wings were attached to her shoulder blades. They were white and glittered like fish scales. Everything-her name and costume, if you could call it that-went perfectly with the sleaziness all around her. He couldn’t think of another way to describe it-everything was sullied, like the world seen through a dirty car window.

The third person in him was the policeman. Somewhere in the dimly lit underground chambers, that person disappeared. So he got together with Marianne elsewhere. That’s what he would say if anyone asked, but nobody asked except him. He had also seen a question mark in Martina’s eyes, as if she knew, and realized that he knew that she knew.

He was on his way to Marianne’s place. She lived on a boat at Gullbergskajen Wharf. He hadn’t believed her at first, but she did.

It was an old fishing vessel that had outlived its usefulness, surrounded by others.

People in Gothenburg called it the Wharf of Dreams. He had heard the name all his life but never made it out there. An odd way to experience it for the first time, he thought.

It was best in the summer, she had said. The boats that still had any life in them put out to Älvsborg Fortress and back, the only time they sailed all year. It was something of a competition.

She had called it the Regatta of Shattered Illusions.

“You haven’t told me much about your life,” Bergenhem said after she had poured the coffee.

“This is unbelievable.”

“What?”

“I can’t figure out why I’m sitting here talking to you.”

He listened for some kind of noise outdoors, like water lapping against the side of the boat, but they were encircled by silence.

“You’re taking advantage of me,” she said.

“That’s not true.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I want to be here.”

“Everybody takes advantage of someone.”

“Is that what your life has been like?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How long have you had the boat?”

“Years and years.”

“Do you own it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any of the others who live here?”

“What do you think?”

He drank his coffee and heard a motorboat hum out on the river.