Henning Mankel: “After the Fire”

Henning Mankel’s After the Fire, which has just been published here by Harvill Secker in a translation by Marline Delargy, was first published in his native Sweden in 2015, the year that he died. It’s a strange book, strange but compelling – not a crime novel, not a mystery – though there is a mystery smouldering deep at its centre – a story told in the first person by a seventy-year-old former doctor, Fredrik Welin, who has chosen to live alone on one of the remote islands of an equally remote Swedish archipelago. The house he has been living in has belonged to his family for generations and it is his intention to pass it on to his daughter Louise – the daughter he never knew existed until ten years previously, when she was already thirty. But as the book begins, Fredrik is woken by a blaze of light which signals that the house is in flames and he just escapes with his life, the house burning to the ground. It is this event that forces Fredrik out of the carapace into which he has retreated and makes him engage again with the world.

After the Fire is a novel about loneliness, about need; about the fears that come with old age, that of dying most of all. It is a book soaked in mortality. And anger. Frederic is angry with himself – angry at the loss of balance that comes with ageing, at the feelings of lust that still rise up, unbidden and unrequited – angry at the world. He is truculent, standoffish; loses his temper frequently and for little reason, shouts at strangers and at what few friends he has; pursues in embarrassing fashion a woman journalist some thirty years younger.

As the story develops there are other fires, accusations of arson, sudden deaths, and circumstances shake Fredric away from his surly loneliness; his daughter and her partner have a child; the journalist, while still resisting Frederic as a sexual partner, finds in him a salve to ease a loneliness of her own. And gradually, almost against his own inclinations, Fredric comes to a state of equilibrium, of acceptance …

It was already late August.

Soon the autumn would come.

But the darkness no longer frightened me.

Like the winter, death will come.

Mankel has written, of course, about ageing before. In the early Wallander books there is a memorable portrait of Kurt’s father, an obsessive painter driven to put the same scene on canvas after canvas, and, like Fredrik, a man who is quick to anger, slow to reason. Unlike Fredrik (though we may detect, perhaps, early signs) Wallander’s father is suffering from a form of dementia, an illness from which Wallander will suffer himself, the implacable onset of Alzheimer’s Disease chronicled with merciless compassion and understanding in the final novel of the sequence, The Troubled Man.

And, away from the novels themselves, though dependent upon them, there are two, I think, wonderful portrayals on film of ageing men shaking an unsteady fist against the dying of the light: David Warner as Wallander’s father in the British-made series featuring Kenneth Branagh, and the incomparable Krister Henriksson in the final episodes of the Swedish Wallander series.

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Looking for Kurt …

Writing recently about Henning Mankel’s posthumously published book of essays, Quicksand, I mentioned interviewing him in the course of making a documentary about his crime fiction – Looking for Kurt Wallander – that was shown on BBC4 in 2008. Meeting Mankel aside, making the programme was a strange and slightly surreal experience, much of it involving me appearing suddenly in the middle of a field of ripening wheat and walking slowly towards the camera while trying desperately to remember what it had been agreed I was going to say.

I mention this because a short trailer for the programme has turned up on YouTube, complete with Spanish subtitles, and it doesn’t look too bad at all. There’s an extract from one of the interviews with Mankel, a nice sound track, a glimpse of Kenneth Branagh as Wallander, and me in a dishevelled summer suit. No walking through wheat fields, but a clip from a rather nice night time scene in a bar, the filming of which I remember fondly as it necessitated me downing a fresh shot of Glenmorangie for each take.

If you like this, the whole thing – an hour in length – is now available as a video download from the BBC Store. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00fzbmt

 

Henning Mankel, 1948 – 2015

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I had the good fortune to meet Henning Mankel on several occasions some half-a-dozen or more years ago, when I was in Sweden with a crew from BBC Scotland, fronting a documentary on Mankel’s work as a crime novelist for BBC4. The programme title (it was to be shown in tandem with the adaptations then being filmed with Kenneth Branagh) was Who is Kurt Wallander?, though, of course, it should have been, more properly, Who is Henning Mankel?

We met first in Stockholm, at a conference that Mankel had largely funded, dedicated to the subject of child literacy – one of his major concerns.

… to teach every child in the world to read and write would cost no more than we in the west spend on dog food.

The second, and longer meeting, was at his home in Gothenburg; the last in Ystad, fictional home of his police detective hero, the aforementioned Mr Wallander. It was at Gothenburg that we were scheduled to conduct the main interview, which would become the backbone of the programme. I’d been forewarned that Mankel suffered fools less than gladly, so had come well-prepared, attentively re-reading all of the novels, (in addition to bringing him a CD of the Chris Barber Band playing a batch of Ellington numbers, which I knew he’d long admired) and wanting to show, from the off, that this was a meeting of like minds, if not of equals, and therefore it was to be a serious conversation, concerned with themes and approaches, rather than tittle-tattle and scuttlebutt.

It seemed to work. After the first ten minutes or so, Mankel relaxed and the recorded interview ran for just over an hour. I was especially interested in the socio-political elements in his crime fiction, harking back as it did to the ten politically-driven Martin Beck novels of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, as well as the use of often extreme violence which sets a number of the Wallander stories in motion. It was, we agreed, akin to ways in which Shakespeare, with his references in the tragedies to strange and terrifying happenings, signalled that the world is seriously awry and out of sync. Something, thought Mankel, was rotten in the state of Sweden, if not the world, and we were just not paying it sufficient attention.

A serious writer and a deeply principled man, Mankel put his money where his mouth was. His considerable energies, too. He spent almost half of each year working with the Teatro Avenida in Maputo, for whom he wrote many plays. From endowing a children’s village in Mozambique and funding an oral history project for the families of Aids victims, to his consistent support of the Palestinian cause – sailing on one of the ships attempting to break the Gaza blockade – he  was an activist who walked the walk first and foremost, talking the talk as and when he deemed it necessary.

A good man is gone.

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