So maybe Harry had survived, a fact they’d kept from Finn for whatever reason. But, no, he couldn’t have lived. Harry was the only other person who knew about Jerry de Borg, but he also knew that there could never be anything imperative about identifying him—with some relief, Finn realized Harry couldn’t be part of this, even if he was still alive.
He reached the river, the water wild and dark below. He’d glimpsed the cathedral a few times, but seeing it now, rising up above him, somehow made the whole town feel familiar. He knew he hadn’t been to Uppsala before, and wondered if it reminded him of somewhere else in the Baltic. Maybe he’d just seen it in a Bergman film.
He crossed the bridge and found his way to Domtrappk?llaren, a salmon-pink building that was under the cathedral as much as it was beside it. The snow was banked up against the railings at the front, with only the steps to the door cleared.
The lights were on inside, and now that the sun was low and the afternoon was fading, the snow developed a blue tinge in the shadows and the temperature seemed to drop another couple of notches. He stepped inside. There was no one in the small reception area, so he walked through into the white-domed cellar of the dining room, where even this late in the afternoon there were still people eating.
A waiter was standing chatting with the people on one table, but he saw Finn and left them, smiling and talking as he came over.
Finn said, “Hi, I was wondering if I could book a table for tonight.”
“Sure,” said the waiter, slipping seamlessly into English. “We’re pretty busy tonight, but if you can be flexible . . . How many people is it for?”
They had made their way back to the reception desk and Finn said, “Just one. I’m here on business and had this place recommended.”
“Yes, it’s very good.” The waiter smiled then, saying, “One person is good, too—what time?”
“Eight o’clock?”
“That’s not a problem. Your name?”
“Harrington.”
He scribbled it down and said, “We’ll see you at eight o’clock.”
“Good. And if I could, a table back in the corner.” He pointed through the arch, spotting a place that had a good view over the dining room whilst allowing him to blend into the background.
“Of course.”
“Okay, thanks.” Finn turned and headed to the door, and the waiter looked set to walk back into the dining room. But then Finn said, “Oh, one more thing. You might be able to help me.” The waiter stopped and turned, though he didn’t look inclined to continue the conversation. “I was just curious. I see all these students about, but there doesn’t seem to be a campus as such—where do they all live?”
“Most of them live in Student Town.” The waiter caught Finn’s quizzical expression and added, “You were probably at Ekonomikum—if you keep going in that direction you’ll come to Student Town.”
“Thanks.” Finn thought of adding something to make his inquiry sound less suspicious, but it was obvious the waiter didn’t care, so Finn smiled and left.
The sun had gone even from the upper reaches of the buildings now, and a sharp wind kicked along the street. Finn walked quickly, up to the cathedral, making his way around to the entrance. It was warm inside, and he immediately felt at peace in there.
Again, he was surprised that even this late in the afternoon and at this time of year there were still a few tourists wandering around, some of them taking pictures—it was one of his pet hates, each camera flash like a little piece of carelessness.
He sat for a while, a few pews behind a middle-aged woman who appeared deep in prayer. Religion fared badly in so much of the history he wrote about, and yet he was constantly surprised by how much solace he gained from places of worship. It wasn’t redemptive, nothing to do with conscience—more the strange sense of meaningful emptiness he found in these places, a quality that allowed him to disappear effortlessly.
The woman stood up and left, nodding to him as she passed, as if sensing a fellow pilgrim rather than just another trigger-happy tourist. He stood himself, and walked around the cathedral, stopping to look at the tomb of Gustav Vasa and two of his wives.
He left then, finding night had set in while he’d been in the cathedral, though now that the darkness above was total, the combination of lights and snow gave the city a picturesque, illuminated look. He would come back here, when he was finished with the Cathars—if he ever finished with the Cathars.
He’d avoided writing about the north until now, wanting in some way to keep his past at bay. But that past had followed him to Switzerland, and now he was drawn to Vasa and all the other stories he’d been ignoring unnecessarily, as if the ghost had been exorcised by coming here.