Krister Henriksson

Chaos and Krister Henriksson

Krister Henriksson in character as Kurt Wallander

In 2015 Joan and Greg had the opportunity to visit the Canary Islands, to attend a conference hosted by Ricardo, a good friend of ours, and professor at the University of Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. This was not our first visit to the Islands; we had been there some two years earlier for another iteration of this same conference.

Having been there at all seems miraculous, much less twice. The Canary Islands is one of those places that we had both heard about growing up—far, far away and deeply exotic—a small set of dots in a broad expanse of Atlantic blue off the coast of northwestern Africa. As a boy Greg could locate them with a single finger on his old Replogle globe. Yet, quite improbably, here we were, in Las Palmas on a pleasant evening in January.

Ricardo and his spouse took us to dine at a small restaurant next to our hotel. As we sat down to look at our menus, Greg glanced at another customer sitting relaxed at a table, eating al fresco as the southern sun went down. He looked familiar, and for a minute Greg couldn’t place him. Then the realization dawned; it was Swedish actor Krister Henriksson. We had been watching him in the title role of Wallander (the Swedish version) on Netflix in the weeks just preceding our trip.

On the Calle Ferreras, January 2015

Unlike his rumpled, stubble-faced character, Krister was impeccably dressed and groomed, a sweater draped casually but perfectly over his shoulders (at least as we recall it now). A glass of wine on the table, he gazed serenely out over the blue Punta de Arrecife, a small slice of it visible down the narrow Calle Ferreras.

Some unruly part of us wanted to go over and talk to him, to tell him how much we enjoyed his work—and how well he seemed to inhabit Henning Mankel’s iconic character. But, he seemed content and quite enjoying his solitude, so we left him alone, as we’re sure he much preferred it. We only remarked to our friends that it was quite an improbable coincidence—to have traveled so many miles, to arrive at just the right time to sit in the same restaurant with him in, of all places, Las Palmas de Gran Canaria.

A view over the Punta de Arrecife

What strange butterflies in the Amazon rainforest precipitated the chain of decisions and actions that would eventually lead to three people taking their leisure in the same café—such an improbable nexus of time and place that it beggars the imagination? We like to imagine that Greg and Joan and Krister simply and quite randomly decided to go to the same place at the same time—but life is not that simple is it?

Some complex set of initial conditions had to be in place for each partner to arrive at this meeting—conditions that could lead to this outcome. This conjunction didn’t have to be, need never have occurred; but, yet, it did. Chaos theory tells us that life isn’t as random as it seems. It is just so complex, influenced by so many interacting variables, that it is, more often than not, simply profoundly uncertain and unpredictable in its outcomes.

We can’t speak for Krister at all, but for Greg and Joan to be on the Calle Ferreras one fine Tuesday evening in January was the result of a long and complex series of precedent decisions and events. Greg wouldn’t have been invited to Las Palmas if he hadn’t been a translation scholar, if he and Joan hadn’t met Ricardo some 14 years earlier in Granada, if Joan and Greg, with a toddler in tow, hadn’t taken the opportunity to live in East Germany for a year where Greg met and worked with an eminent translation scholar and colleague. If Greg hadn’t been dismayed by the state of his career in the fall of 1984, if Joan and Greg hadn’t met at a county hospital geriatrics ward, fallen in love, and married…

Our lives are products of chaos; that is, not to say they are random and senseless, although they may sometimes seem that way. Rather, our lives are emergent patterns that arise out of the complexity of living, of doing this rather than that, of going here rather than there, of marrying this one instead of that one, of making love tonight instead of tomorrow.

Our mind valiantly cobbles together some order out of chaos—memory strives to perceive patterns, to create a coherent narrative of our past experience. We lose this memory, slightly edit that one; we censor those we may wish not to remember; we elaborate those we do. We make the variable lurching path we took through life a bit more ordered and maybe more meaningful than it actually was—a way of exerting control over the uncontrollable—but also just a way of getting things to make some sense.

We are, to a very great extent, a construct of what patterns we make and retain of the actual chaos of living. Our memory is our resident biographer, and it often takes some creative license in assembling its story—the internal narrative we call self. Indeed, some of us tend to create great works of fiction, while others, of a more non-fictional persuasion, if you will, hew more closely to some objective rendering of the past.

As Joan and Greg remember Krister gazing serenely into the setting sun, they cannot help but think of Henning Mankel’s Wallander, at the end of his fictional life, succumbing to Alzheimer’s disease. The precise, clever mind of Skåne’s greatest detective comes undone. A mind that once uncovered the minutest details of other peoples’ lives and misdemeanors to assemble a pattern of motive and means and opportunity, could no longer maintain the details of his own story—as the narrative woven by his own memory falters, dissipates, and concludes—as his sense of self disappears.

Krister Henriksson in the Swedish television series Wallander as Detective Inspector Kurt Wallander

That sad unraveling struck close to home. Joan lost a father to the disorder of Alzheimer’s disease. We say disorder and not chaos—chaos sits at the boundary of order and disorder; it is the substrate from which the patterns of cosmos, life, and mind emerge. But for Joan’s father there would never again be order—the spinning of pattern and meaning from the chaotic bits and pieces of living one’s life.

Instead, the entire carefully constructed edifice of her father’s life, the architecture of his extraordinarily organized memory, came apart, neuron by neuron; this memory and then that one broke away and disappeared. Like a dark star, his self collapsed, until at the very end he remembered only the smallest, densest core—his traumatic experience in the Sicilian Campaign of 1943—and then that too was gone, past the event horizon, irretrievable.

A memory from the life of Donald T. Nelson. One of many that slipped away.

So, by the time we, Joan and Greg, reach our sixty-sixth year, the year we write this blog, we’ve seen Krister Henriksson, against all probability, in an improbably exotic place. We want to attach some cosmic significance to this meeting—but realize, alas, there probably is none. Except that, perhaps, in pondering Krister Henriksson and his portrayal of the last days of the damaged Kurt Wallander we can find, amidst the chaos of life, expression for, appreciation for, the evanescence of memory and the fragility of self.

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