Mona Read online

  Scribe Publications

  MONA

  Dan Sehlberg was born in 1969. He began studying classical piano at the age of eight, and later became part of the rock band Nova, which recorded an album and played at several Swedish music festivals and clubs in the mid-1980s. Dan has also composed and recorded music for film and multimedia projects.

  Dan holds an MBA from the Stockholm School of Economics, and currently works as a partner and financial officer in a Swedish real-estate firm. As an entrepreneur, Dan has launched companies ranging from Sweden’s first travel-booking website to social-media ventures.

  Dan lives with his wife and two daughters in Stockholm, and retreats to the tranquillity of Sörmland, on the south-eastern coast of Sweden, to work on his books.

  Mona is his first novel, and will be followed by its sequel, Sinon.

  Scribe Publications Pty Ltd

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  50A Kingsway Place, Sans Walk, London, EC1R 0LU, United Kingdom

  Originally published in Swedish by Lind & Co. 2013

  First published in English by Scribe 2014

  This edition published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency

  Copyright © Dan T. Sehlberg 2013

  Translation copyright © Rachel Willson-Broyles 2014

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  The Quran quotes are taken from the translation by Abdullah Yusuf Ali, 22nd US edition, published by Tahrike Tarsile Qur’an, Inc., Elmhurst, New York, 2007.

  Abraham Sutzkever’s poems were translated by Barnett Zumoff in Laughter Beneath the Forest: poems from old and recent manuscripts, KTAV Publishing House, Hoboken, New Jersey, 1996.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Sehlberg, Dan, author.

  Mona/Dan Sehlberg; Rachel Willson-Broyles, translator.

  9781922070975 (Australian edition)

  9781922247261 (UK edition)

  9781925113037 (e-book)

  Notes: Translation of: Mona.

  1. Swedish fiction–Translations into English.

  Other Authors/Contributors: Willson-Broyles, Rachel, translator.

  839.78

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  To Anna, Natasha, and Rebecca

  Prologue

  Qana, Lebanon

  The little girl in the beautiful dress was taking a big risk. It had rained, and the field behind Grandma’s house was muddy and slippery. Her ponytail had slipped and released her dark curls. She was sneaking up on a cat, trying not to scare it, stepping in the brown mud with her white canvas shoes. The cat was nosing at a car tyre that was half buried next to the rusty soccer goal. It was a thin cat with pretty stripes. Like a tiger. Maybe it was a tiger. And maybe she was a magic princess who could speak with tigers. Then something scared the cat and it ran off toward the stone bridge and the roaring brown river. The princess found an old can instead. No, of course it wasn’t a can — it was the tiger’s little cub, abandoned in the mud. She carefully dried it off with her dress. Her mother often, and accurately, called her ‘the chameleon’. Given a little time, her clothes would look like the ground where she played. On this particular day, her mother and grandmother had been too busy in the kitchen to notice her running out into the field in her new turquoise dress. Unlike the dress, the can-tiger was now nice and clean, but hungry. Tigers are always hungry. She pressed the can to her chest, slipping and sliding off across the field.

  The two women looked in horror at the muddy little girl as she came into the kitchen, out of breath.

  ‘Grandma! I need a bowl of water right away.’

  Elif set down a steaming pan of sambousek pastries that was just out of the oven.

  ‘You don’t just need a bowl. You need a whole bathtub.’

  She laughed and looked at Nadim, anticipating an outburst from her daughter. Mona did the same, suddenly conscious of her muddy condition.

  ‘Mama. Don’t be mad. I found a tiger cub! And it’s hungry.’

  Mona held one hand inside her dress and urgently stretched the other toward Elif, who gave her a sambousek. As the girl fed her charge, her dress slid up and Nadim caught a glimpse of the tiger. The room swayed suddenly. She had to grab the counter to avoid losing her balance.

  ‘My darling, that tiger is very dangerous. It could bite you. Stand perfectly still.’

  Mona smiled happily, glad her mother was playing along. Nadim instinctively pushed her mother aside. She, too, had seen what Mona was cradling in her arms, and started to pray.

  Nadim slowly moved closer to her daughter.

  ‘May I have the tiger?’

  Mona shook her head obstinately.

  ‘She’s only calm when I hold her. She gets scared really easily. Her mother abandoned her.’

  Nadim couldn’t hold back her tears. Mona was the most beautiful being in existence — her beloved daughter, the miracle of Qana. In a shaky voice, she repeated: ‘Give Mama the tiger now. Otherwise Mama will be angry. Super angry!’

  Mona saw her mother’s tears. She looked nervously at her grandmother, and heard her prayers. Then she extended the hand with the tiger cub. That wasn’t a tiger cub. That was a can. That wasn’t a can. That was a grenade from an Israeli cluster bomb. Nadim held her gaze steady on her daughter’s face. Their hands met. It was as though the nerves in her hand — the small, thin hairs on her skin — were reaching for her daughter with a pulsating intensity. She held her breath and placed her hand around the cool grenade.

  The tea in his cup had long since grown cold. People came and went. Everything was happening far away. It didn’t affect him anymore. He was empty, and cold like the tea. Dead, but still so painfully alive. Left behind. But it was only his discarded shell, with empty eyes and in wrinkled clothes, that sat motionless at one of the window tables in the small teahouse. His hair was uncombed. He was grimy, inside and out.

  He didn’t know how long the old man in black had been sitting there across from him. He didn’t know where he’d come from or why he’d come. The man’s friendly eyes lingered on his frigid façade. The old man placed a hand on his own. It was a rough, warm hand.

  ‘Samir Mustaf.’ He gave a start at the sound of his name. ‘The Quran says, “But verily over you are appointed angels to protect you. They know and understand all that you do. As for the Righteous, they will be in bliss.”’

  They sat there, the old man and the empty one. He had no idea how long they sat — maybe an hour, maybe a week. The small café was across the street from Hiram Hospital in Tyre. He should have visited the city with her. Shown her the ruins of the Hippodrome and the beautiful triumphal arch. Gone swimming with her at the beach.

  There was a sour taste in his mouth. The old man stood up and took his arm. Pulled him up. Samir followed him stiffly out of the teahouse. He didn’t see the street, the cars, or the people. Didn’t hear the clamour. He just saw the same image over and over again. His daughter had no face. It was gone. They were gone.

  He arrived at a waiting car. Someone opened the door. The man spoke in a soft voice. ‘There is nothing more you can do here. But there is more you can do.’

  Samir sank down into the back seat of the car. The old man didn’t follow him, instead closing the door aft
er him. The car immediately pulled out into the bustling traffic. A faded picture of the soccer player Ronaldo dangled from the rear-view mirror. He closed his eyes.

  PART I

  INFECTION

  Five years later. Dubai City, Emirate of Dubai

  Burj Al Arab, the Tower of the Arabs, had been called the most luxurious hotel in the world. For a long time, it was the symbol of Dubai, rising 321 metres above an artificial island, in the shape of the sail of a dhow. The hotel contained only large suites, and over two thousand square metres of it were covered in gold. All the rugs were hand-knotted.

  As one of three entrepreneurs responsible for the project, Mohammad al-Rashid had spent a great deal of his waking time at the construction site during the five years it took to build Burj al Arab. His construction company was one of the largest and most respected on the Arabian Peninsula.

  Mohammad had spent a great deal of time at the hotel even after construction was completed. He lived in Saudi Arabia, and many of his business negotiations took place in Dubai. It would be hard to beat the exceptional service and the high level of security that the hotel provided.

  Right now, however, both security and service seemed distant. He studied the blue-velvet walls of the large suite. His eyes drifted to the custom-made cushions that were nearly two metres in diameter and sewn with golden thread. The strong scent of the lilies on the bar counter and the dining table made his head feel heavy. He wished he could open the balcony door to let in some fresh air. A big-screen TV displayed silent vacation destinations and happy tourists with broad smiles. He lost himself in an advertisement for Disney World.

  The thought of family made his stomach turn. Or was it the strong scent of the lilies? He wondered what the children were doing now. Bunyamin was probably watching TV; he should have completed his homework long ago. Little Azra was sleeping.

  Mohammad was not a person who cried. Now, as he tasted the salty tears, he tried to remember when it had last happened. Maybe it was when Bunyamin had his operation. He carefully wiped his face with his sweaty hand.

  He looked at her again. She wasn’t tall; she was under 170 centimetres. Shorter now that she’d taken off her high heels. He studied her small feet, which were slightly shimmery in their thin, grey stockings. Her legs looked strong. Her dark skirt was tight. She had taken off her jacket and unbuttoned three of her blouse buttons. Or was he the one who had unbuttoned them? He saw the black edge of her bra against her dark skin. He swallowed. How could he even think of sex at a time like this?

  He nervously moved his gaze to her face. She was beautiful. It wasn’t easy to say no to those dark eyes. At the same time, something wasn’t quite right. A nick in the well-polished veneer: her nose. A fine nose, to be sure, but it looked crooked. Broken. It gave her soft face a note of hardness, like some sort of odd cross between a boxer and a model. She seemed completely uninterested in him as she sat there, curled up in the large easy chair, nonchalantly paging through Vanity Fair. Her fingers were thin, and her nails were beautifully manicured.

  For a fifty-five-year-old, Mohammad al-Rashid was in good physical condition. He did strength training daily. His body attracted the attention of women. He knew that this hadn’t escaped her. Nothing escaped her. Under these circumstances, it ought to have been easy for him to get up off the bed, smash her to pieces, and then just leave the room. But what was stopping him was that he wasn’t tied up. If he had been, he would have fought his way loose and thrown himself over her. But he wasn’t confined by tape, rope, or handcuffs. So this tiny woman, who was no more than half a metre away from him, did not see him as a threat.

  Mohammad’s sense of intuition was good, and the answer to the balance of power was in her gaze. She had told him who she was and had ordered him to sit on the bed. He was still sitting there, two hours later. His throat was dry. His back ached. And he had started to develop a hangover.

  She tossed the magazine aside, sighed, and looked at the clock.

  ‘Should we let in some air?’ Her Arabic was flawless.

  He nodded gratefully. She stood up and walked over to the balcony door in her stockinged feet. A warm breeze swept through the room. The pages of Vanity Fair fluttered, and the scent of lilies blended with eucalyptus. As he studied the woman, who was lighting a cigarette on the balcony, he had the urge to laugh. Laugh or cry. What was she waiting for? Her phone lay on the table by the chair, silent. She had checked it several times. Now she seemed just to be standing out there, dreaming. He sneaked a look at the door on the other side of the room. He could be out in a few seconds. But maybe she wasn’t alone. Were there guards outside? That would explain why she was so calm.

  ‘Maybe you’ll make it, Mohammad. Maybe not.’

  He started, and found her crouching at his side. He hadn’t heard her coming. She was so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath. The tobacco. She sat still, a cat ready to pounce. When he didn’t move, but only lowered his eyes in silence, she returned to the easy chair.

  He thought back to that evening’s dinner. Earlier in the week he had heard a rumour about a large office-building construction project. The Japanese chamber of commerce was sounding out land allocations for a commercial business centre for Asian companies. He knew that interest in Arab business opportunities was great in Asia. These days, as Arab companies and banks were battling against high mortgages and vanishing liquidity, foreign projects were extra interesting. So he had called around and learned that a consultant, a woman from Abu Dhabi by the name of Sarah al-Yemud, had been commissioned to do the purchasing. It took him ten minutes to find information about her, and after studying her references he asked his assistant to contact her. He assumed she would contact his company anyway, but he didn’t want to take any chances. A dinner had been scheduled for the next evening at the tower’s panorama restaurant, Al Muntaha, on the twenty-seventh floor.

  He looked at her. She seemed to be deep in thought. She was turned toward the TV, but her gaze was far beyond the silent golf competition on the screen. She looked tired. Small. Her hands were clenched so hard that her knuckles were white.

  She had been waiting for him when he arrived at the semi-circle-shaped restaurant, two hundred metres above the water. The furnishings were futuristic, and from the table by one of the large windows they could see Jumeirah beach and the artificial islands, Palm and World. They had eaten a tasty dinner and then moved over to the bar and the deep velvet chairs.

  Mohammad liked to say that he was a pragmatic Muslim. He was a believer, but he was selective about the rules. One of his concessions was alcohol. His work sometimes made it necessary for him to drink with his clients. This was a concession he could live with. The fact was that he drank quite a bit these days, even when he wasn’t with clients. He had offered Sarah his favourite champagne, Louise Roederer’s Cristal. She willingly accepted it. She, too, seemed to be a pragmatic Muslim.

  The project was extensive, and Sarah was well informed about local building regulations and advanced prospecting. He had been surprised at first that the Asians had chosen a woman to do the purchasing; women were rare in the business world, not to mention the construction industry. But after only one hour with Sarah al-Yemud, he realised that she shouldn’t be underestimated. He groaned at the irony.

  After almost three bottles of wine — she hadn’t drunk as fast as he had — he started to become less interested in Asian construction and more interested in her legs. When she laughed aloud, he took a chance and placed his hand on her thigh. The laughter stopped. She looked at him from under her curly black bangs. Without saying anything, she drained her glass and stood up. For a moment he thought she was planning to leave him. He looked at her in surprise, but she smiled and nodded at the ten gilded elevators. He followed her like an obedient schoolboy. This was far too good to be true.

  But as soon as he closed the door to his suite, she became transfo
rmed. There was a new, metallic tone to her voice — a sharpness that didn’t fit with the gentle, feminine, and almost fragile person he had just eaten dinner with. He soon received an explanation: she claimed to be part of Unit 101. He knew who they were. The Mossad’s executioners.

  The fact that she had given him this secret information was worrying in itself. That she also knew that his firm had been responsible for the large-scale construction of a bunker in Iran was even more worrying — particularly because this particular bunker amounted to a top-secret future storage area for enriched uranium. But most alarming of all was that she didn’t ask him any questions at all. Instead she just sat in the easy chair and started paging through fashion magazines.

  Oh, God. How had the Mossad gotten his name? How much did they know about the bunker project? About his other projects? He silently cursed his own greed. He never should have gotten involved in that damn construction project, no matter how lucrative it promised to be. He had no problem with the Israelis and never had. Politics weren’t his thing.

  The phone vibrated. Sarah picked it up, listened in silence, and hung up. She sat there with the phone still in her hand, studying him, nibbling on one fingernail. He couldn’t sit still any longer. He stood and threw up his hands.

  ‘Let’s bring this long evening to an end,’ he said.

  She remained in the chair, following him with her eyes. Then she resolutely placed her feet in her shoes, pulled on her jacket, and stood up.

  ‘You’re right, Mohammad, it’s time to end this.’

  He hesitated for a second, but then he darted forward. With his temples pounding, he grabbed the vase of lilies, rushed at her, and threw the vase at her head. In a fluid movement, she ducked, pinched him in the side, and slipped away. He staggered forward, lost his balance, and fell headlong onto the easy chair. The spot where she’d pinched him burned. He quickly got back on his feet and spun around. She was sitting on the bed calmly, as though nothing had happened. Surprised, he stopped short. It was as though it had only been horseplay between siblings, and now big sister was tired of it. Or had she given up? Should he run straight for the door, or take her on first?