The Fifth Woman by Henning Mankell (Translation by Stephen T. Murray): A review

The Fifth Woman is the sixth in Henning Mankell's series of books featuring the morose Swedish detective Kurt Wallander, and in this one I felt that he finally hit his stride. It was well-written (also well-translated which was important since I was reading it in English) and kept the action moving, which kept me turning those pages. It was interestingly plotted and featured a goodly number of red herrings, some of which were never explained.

By now, we are used to the fact that Wallander is a severely depressive personality who also suffers from hypochondria. He's always imagining he's coming down with something, a common cold, a heart attack, or whatever is the flavor of illness at the moment. But at the beginning of this book, we see a different Wallander. He has made a trip to Rome with his aged father who suffers from the beginnings of Alzheimer's. It is a trip that his father had long wanted to make and that had been long postponed. Both of them understand that it will most likely be their last trip together, but it is a happy time. They grow closer together and Kurt comes home with a Roman tan and a brighter outlook on life.

He decides that he needs to make some changes. Perhaps he will buy a house, get a dog, and finally try to persuade the woman he thinks he loves, Baiba, to move from Riga and live with him. But before he is able to act on that, a man is reported missing and a few days later is found dead, impaled on sharpened bamboo stakes in a ditch behind his farmhouse. The chase is on once again and, with it, all of Kurt's doubts and insecurities return.

Then another man is reported missing. He was thought to be in Africa for two weeks, searching for orchids, but when he doesn't return on time, police discover that he never actually caught his flight out. A few days later, his emaciated and strangled body is found tied to a tree in the forest. It's beginning to look like Wallander's team may have another serial killer on its hands.

Kurt's work is suddenly complicated when his father unexpectedly dies and he is overcome with grief and regrets, but after some time off, he returns to the investigation. No real progress has been made in his absence.

When a third man is found dead in a weighted sack in a lake, the investigative team begins to realize that they are up against a very determined killer who seems able to leave no clues. Moreover, there seems to be nothing linking the murder victims. The highly intuitive Wallander doesn't buy that, though. He knows there must be a link and the key to finding the killer is in discovering that link.

Granted, the actual manner of the killings and the plot which allows the killer to accomplish them is a bit far-fetched. Still, Mankell has obviously planned it as meticulously as his obsessive killer has planned the "executions" that are carried out. For these are executions in the killer's mind and the impetus for them relates back to the prologue of the book which finds a Swedish woman in Africa who was seemingly randomly killed in the political violence there and her murder then covered up by the police.

This is a complicated tale, but, at its heart, it is one in which we see that Kurt Wallander may finally be able to shake off his constant depression and move ahead with his life. It'll be interesting to see whether that is borne out in the several books which follow this one in the Swedish police procedural series.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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