Carl seemed interested. His hand went up to touch the skin around his nose. “And can you do anything about them?”
Anna handed the file back to Ulf. “Wash your face,” she said. “Use a cleanser. And then, for special occasions, you can put an ice cube on them. It tightens the skin and will make your pores look smaller.”
“Oh,” said Carl. “Ice?”
“Yes,” said Anna. “But the most important thing is to keep the skin clean. You don’t wear make-up, I take it…”
Carl smiled. “Not yet.”
Anna pointed out that some men did. “You can wear anything these days. There’s that man in the café over the road—have you noticed him? He wears blusher—quite a lot of it. He’ll have to be careful—he could get blocked pores if he doesn’t remove the make-up carefully enough.”
“Why does he wear the stuff?” asked Carl. “I can’t imagine caking my face with chemicals.”
“Because he wants to look his best,” said Anna. “Most people, you know, don’t look the way they’d like to. It’s a bit sad, I suppose, but that’s the way it is.”
Ulf said, “Very strange.” He was thinking of the case rather than cosmetics.
The assault on the traveller might have led to a swift and uncomplicated prosecution of the assailant were it not for the fact that not one of the fifteen witnesses was prepared to give evidence. Four of them said that they had been looking the other way at the time; five said that their eyes happened to be closed when the assault took place, one actually claiming to have been asleep; and the remainder said that they could not remember anything about the incident and that they very much doubted whether it had taken place at all. This left the victim and the Lutheran minister. The victim was clear as to what had happened: he had been attending to his own business in the town’s public square when a stranger in clerical garb had walked up to him and punched him in the nose. This was purely because he was a traveller, he said. “We’re used to the settled community treating us in this way. They resent our freedom.”
For the minister’s part, he claimed that he had been suddenly confronted by a complete stranger who became so animated in some unfathomable diatribe that he had banged his nose on a lamp-post. He had been so concerned about this unfortunate’s injury that he had offered him his own handkerchief to mop up the blood. This offer had been spurned in a most ungracious way. Any allegation that he had assaulted this man was abhorrent and patently false. “Some people are terrible liars,” the minister concluded. “Bless them, but they really have no shame at all. Not that I’m picking on any particular group, you’ll understand.”
Ulf suggested to the victim and the assailant that it might be best to let the whole thing be resolved through the extraction of a mutual apology. “When it’s impossible for us to tell what actually happened,” he explained, “then it is sometimes best to move on. There are different understandings of conflict—as in this case—and if both sides can see their way to patching things up…”
The victim’s body language made it apparent that this suggestion was not going down well. He appeared to swell, his neck inflating in what looked like a dangerous build-up of pressure, and his eyes narrowing in fury. “So, a Rom nose counts for less than anybody else’s,” he hissed. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“I am not passing judgement on your nose,” said Ulf calmly. “And all noses are equal as far as we’re concerned—let me assure you of that.”
“That’s what you say,” snapped the victim. “But when it comes to the crunch, it’s a rather different story, isn’t it?” His voice rose petulantly. He glared at Ulf, then he went on, “My nose is as Swedish as yours.”
Ulf stared back. He was always irritated by aggression, and this man, he thought, was needlessly confrontational. At the same time, he was aware that he was dealing with a member of a minority disliked by so many. That must change your attitude. His reply was placatory. “Of course it is. I didn’t say otherwise.”
“But you want to let him off, don’t you? Justified assault? Is that it?”
This stung Ulf. “Vili…” He trailed off, realising that he did not know the complainant’s name. It was recorded in the file, but he did not have that to hand. It was a particularly unfortunate lapsus memoriae, given that he was being accused of discrimination. He remembered the name of the minister, but not of this man. “Vili…”
“See!” hissed the victim. “You can’t even be bothered to learn my name.”
Ulf swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” He remembered now, and wondered how he could have forgotten. Viligot Danior. “I’m sorry, Viligot. I’m very busy with all sorts of problems. Things come at me from every direction, and I sometimes find it difficult to master the details. What I want to say to you is this: I am not going to let this go. I understand how you feel, and I am determined that the minister should be held to account.”
Viligot visibly relaxed. “Good. That is very good.”
“And so I’m going to propose that we charge him. It will then be up to the magistrate to decide whom to believe. It will be one word against another, but we’ll just have to hope that the court can work out who’s telling the truth.”
“Which is me,” said Viligot hurriedly.
“If that’s what you say,” said Ulf, “then I shall believe you unless otherwise persuaded to the contrary. After all, you don’t get a bloody nose from nowhere.”
“Especially when there are no lamp-posts in the square in question,” said Viligot.
Ulf thought for a moment. Then he smiled. “I think you have just convinced me,” he said.
The court was similarly convinced, much to the annoyance of the defence when confronted with a photograph of the locus of the incident. Where, the minister was asked, was the lamp-post into which Viligot might have walked? After that, the minister’s conviction was assured. He was fined and given a stern warning. “A man of the cloth has a particular duty of probity,” the judge said. “And you have singularly failed in that duty.”
Ulf felt that justice had been done. Viligot had been the victim of an unprovoked attack because he was a member of an unpopular section of the community. Ministers might be expected to be more tolerant than the average person, but presumably there were those amongst them who harboured vulgar prejudice and resentment. Still, it was a strange case, and Ulf was not entirely satisfied that he had got to the bottom of the matter.
That came later—barely half an hour after the end of the trial. As he left the courtroom to buy himself a cappuccino in a nearby coffee bar, Ulf was approached by one of the recalcitrant witnesses who had failed to see anything: the postman who had been passing, but looking the other way, at the time of the fracas.