Two days later Tobiasson-Svartman was back in Stockholm. He went straight home from the station.
Kristina Tacker was surprised but delighted to see him. On the hall table was a message from Skeppsholmen, requesting him to report as soon as possible.
It was drizzling the following morning. As he crossed the bridge to Skeppsholmen he noticed a familiar face. Captain Rake looked thinner, and his face was very pale. Tobiasson-Svartman could see that something was troubling him, perhaps he had some crisis in his life.
'I've seen the new chart for the navigable channel at Sandsänkan,' Rake said. 'I hear that we'll be able to start using it soon.'
'It won't save as much time as I'd hoped,' said Tobiasson-Svartman. 'A ship progressing at full speed, let's say twenty knots, will save fifty minutes. I'd hoped for something better than that. But the seabed didn't behave itself as I would have liked.'
'So the seabed is a bit like people.'
"There'll be less of a risk of being hit by torpedoes and mines, of course. And the new channel ought to be able to cope with the considerable increase in draught that we can expect new naval vessels to have.'
Tobiasson-Svartman shook hands and made to continue on his way to Naval Headquarters. But Rake held on to his hand.
'I never cease to be surprised about how my memory works,' Rake said. 'I've seen an endless procession of bosuns and officers passing through my life, but even so, the most graphic memory is that of Bosun Rudin.'
'The man who died while he was being operated on for his appendix?'
'An insignificant spider in the massive web. But for some reason I can't shake him off. I wonder why.'
Rake let go of his hand and saluted.
'I talk too much,' he said. 'But at least I don't ask what you are doing now, because I take it for granted that whatever you're up to, it's secret.'
Tobiasson-Svartman watched Rake walking over the bridge. He was hunched, his long overcoat flapping around his legs.
He was ushered in without delay.
To his surprise there were only two people waiting for him. One was Vice Admiral H:son-Lydenfeldt, the other a civil servant with a pale complexion and big bags under his eyes.
As he sat down in the chair provided for him, he felt a nagging pain in his stomach.
The vice admiral eyed him up and down.
'Are you aware of why you are here, Commander Svartman?'
'No, but I do know that I must ask for an extension of my unpaid leave.'
'Why?'
'I'm not restored to health.'
The vice admiral pointed impatiently at a file in front of him on the desk.
'Restored from what? The only reason you have given is exhaustion. Who the hell isn't exhausted? We're all exhausted. The
world
is exhausted. Our highly esteemed Naval Minister Boström sometimes nods off during our meetings. Not because he's bored, but because he's exhausted, he claims.'
Tobiasson-Svartman was about to justify his claim to be exhausted but the vice admiral held up his hand.
'You have been summoned here for a different reason. It has been reported that while you have been on leave you have undertaken journeys, and you have been seen in the Östergötland archipelago. We've received reports from people wondering if you are a spy working for Germany or Russia. And there are other relevant circumstances. Not least the fact that you claimed to have found errors in the charts you have produced yourself. It has become clear that you were lying. We haven't been able to throw full light on that one yet, but it is obvious that you have been making strange and clearly unjustified assertions and acting in highly questionable ways. What do you have to say to that?'
Tobiasson-Svartman was struck dumb. He had no idea how to answer. He felt himself blushing. The vice admiral had more to say:
'I don't think you are so damned stupid as to be a spy. But you have betrayed our confidence in you and caused a lot of trouble. You have proved to be unreliable. As nothing harmful has ensued, and as you are basically a competent hydrographic engineer, one of the best we have ever had, all we ask is that you resign your commission. If you refuse, we shall dismiss you and the reasons will be dishonourable. If you resign voluntarily, we shall give you the best possible reference that the circumstances allow. Is that clear?'
The civil servant with the big bags under his eyes leaned over the table. His teeth were yellow, his moustache dirty.
'I represent the minister with responsibility for the navy,' he said in a voice that suggested he enjoyed torturing others. 'The minister is in full agreement with what the vice admiral has just said.'
H:son-Lydenfeldt slammed both hands down on to the desk.
'You have twenty-four hours in which to make up your mind. You might think that this is an unnecessarily dramatic reaction from His Majesty's armed forces, but in present circumstances the Swedish Navy cannot tolerate the slightest stain on its reputation. I believe you understand that.'
He took out his pocket watch.
'You will report here tomorrow at 10 a.m.'
The meeting was over.
When Tobiasson-Svartman left the room he was forced to lean against the corridor wall, so as not to fall.
He paused on the steps outside Naval Headquarters. He watched some sparrows pecking away on one of the gravel paths. Then he continued. But stopped when he came to the bridge. He was still in shock. But he was thinking clearly now.
He was convinced. There was only one possible explanation. Sub-Lieutenant Welander had returned from the dead. Or at least from the
demi-monde
he had occupied while slowly recovering from the tribulations he had suffered as he wriggled out of the grip of strong drink.
He could see it all in his mind's eye.
Welander had not been cashiered but allowed to return to duty. Before that he had been reprimanded for the inadequate soundings he had made in the area surrounding the Sandsänkan lighthouse.
Needless to say, Welander had not understood what his accusers were talking about, and maintained that he had carried out his duties impeccably until the moment when everything fell to pieces. He had demanded to be confronted with the soundings Tobiasson-Svartman had attributed to him.
The truth had emerged. Welander had not in fact made any errors.
Tobiasson-Svartman started to walk over the bridge. Every step he took made him more certain that the bridge was like thin ice that could give way at any moment.
That evening he sat in the warm room and told Kristina Tacker about his next mission. It put his mind at rest, describing an expedition that would never take place and which no superior officer had ordered him to undertake.
It was not the lies themselves that calmed him down. It was the impassive way his wife took in what he had to say. Thanks to her everything became real.
Her questions were always the same. Where would he be going? How long would he be away? Was there any danger involved?
'It doesn't have to be risky just because it's secret,' he said.
Without having prepared anything in advance he started to talk about lighthouse beams. The light projected from remote rocks or lightships in order to help ships stay on course. He talked about the beauty of the transit lines, the interplay between the red, green and white lights. He invented a mission he had never had and would never be given.
'I shall be measuring the distance from which the beams of various lighthouses can be seen in different weather conditions,' he said. 'I shall be investigating the possibility of creating an extra line of defence round our country by misleading the enemy with beams of differing strengths.'
Then he stopped. 'I've already said too much,' he said.
'I've already forgotten everything you said,' she replied.
He thought he detected a hint of alarm in her voice, barely noticeable, but there even so.
Measuring lighthouse beams.
Perhaps he had gone too far? Did she not believe him? Was there, for the first time, a vague suspicion in her mind?
She looked down and stroked her stomach. 'When will you be leaving?'
'Nothing is fixed yet, but a decision could be made at short notice.'
'I want you to be here when the baby comes.'
'Obviously, I hope the expedition will be over by then. Or that it hasn't even started. But I shall protest strongly if they want me to leave just when you are due to give birth.'
He stood up and went out on to the balcony.
He wondered where Sub-Lieutenant Welander lived.
Two days later he had discovered that Welander lived on Kungsholmen.
When he called in at Skeppsholmen to submit his resignation he took the opportunity of visiting the personnel department. They informed him that at the moment Welander was not on board any navy ship.
His first new mission was to spend all his time outside the building where Welander had a flat.
It was four days before Welander appeared. He emerged from the front door with a woman and a girl aged about fourteen. Tobiasson-Svartman remembered vaguely that the family included a daughter and three sons. He followed them down Hantvarkergatan. When they came to Kungsholms Torg they went into a shop selling ladies' wear, and when they came out again both the wife and the daughter were carrying parcels.
Sooner or later Welander would be on his own. He would confront him. He observed Welander's face from a safe distance. The paleness and bloated features had gone. Welander really seemed to have overcome his addiction.
His wife was small and thin. She kept looking at her husband with a loving smile.
Days passed. He waited, displaying the patience of a predator. The opportunity came one evening when he had been observing Welander for a week. The hydrographic engineer came out on his own. It was raining, and he set off towards the centre of town. He was walking fast, his gaze directed at the pavement ahead of him. Then he turned off on to a path running alongside the water in Riddarfjärden. The path appeared to be deserted.
Tobiasson-Svartman wrapped a scarf round the lower part of his face. In his pocket he had a hammer with an old sock round the head. He took it out and followed Welander along the path.
Yet he could not summon the courage to hit him, and he turned and ran away. He was afraid Welander would see him and follow, but there was no sound from the path behind him. He put the scarf and the hammer back into his overcoat pockets and forced himself to walk slowly.
When he came to Wallingatan he took his pulse. He did not go up to the flat until the rate had sunk to sixty-five.
He continued leaving the flat every morning. He told Kristina Tacker that he was going to a meeting of the secret committee. He spent the days in museums and cafes. Eventually he reconciled himself to the fact that he had not dared to attack Welander. He was still furious, but unsure of where he should direct his rage.
Weeks passed. Kristina Tacker's stomach became bigger and bigger.
He tired of going to museums first, then cafes. Instead he went for very long walks. As dusk fell he would imagine the lighthouses, the ones that had not yet been switched off on account of the war. He could see in front of him a beam of light over the sea. Soon he must start measuring it. It was time to give himself the order to set out.
He thought about Sara Fredrika and the skerry on the edge of the open sea.
The sea is calm, he thought. For once the sea around me is dead calm.
One evening it dawned on him that he was outside the building where Ludwig Tacker lived, the place where those dreadful Christmas dinners were held.
He recalled that his father-in-law went out for an evening walk every week.
Ludwig Tacker had once visited the British protectorate in southern Africa ruled autocratically by Cecil Rhodes. He never stopped telling his family about the long journey that had taken him to distant Lusaka via Gothenburg, Hull and Cape Town, and then by rail and on horseback to the copper mines at Broken Hill. He had never seen anything like it. Veins of copper were exposed on the ground in some places, so that you only needed to bend down to gather the valuable ore.
The object of his journey had been for Tacker to invest in the copper mines, but Rhodes had enough money and did not want anybody else to become involved. It had come to nothing. But Tacker was still interested in mining. That is why one evening every week he would meet a group of men roughly his own age who shared his interest in minerals. They met at the home of a mining consultant who lived at Järntorget in the Old Town.
As he walked home that evening it struck him that he might have found an outlet for his fury after all.
The next week he followed his father-in-law through the streets to the mining consultant's home. He had no specific plan, he only wanted to find out what route Tacker took. He remained hidden in the shadows. It was a warm evening, and he waited for four hours until Tacker emerged and went back home accompanied by two other men. One of them stumbled occasionally, they were laughing a lot, kept stopping, then moving on again, all the time engrossed in talk.
That night, when his wife had gone to bed, he sat in his study and worked out a plan. On his desk were the hammer and the dark-coloured scarf. He was perfectly calm. It was like preparing for one of his expeditions. He did not notice that on two occasions his wife had appeared in the doorway, looking at him.
It was a windy evening, with occasional showers.
He had put the scarf and the hammer with the sock round its head in his overcoat pockets. When Ludwig Tacker came out of his front door, Tobiasson-Svartman hurried to waylay him at a spot where it was especially dark and usually deserted. He hid in the shadows next to a wall. His father-in-law passed by so close that he could smell his cigar. The old man's walking stick tip-tapped on the paving stones. Tobiasson-Svartman wrapped the scarf round his face and took out the hammer. Seven paces, eight at most and he would have caught up.
Tacker spun round and raised his walking stick.
'Who are you?' he yelled. 'What do you want?'
Tobiasson-Svartman was terrified. He was sinking, hitting out was a way of coming back up to the surface. Tacker bellowed and defended himself stoutly, hitting with his walking stick and trying to pull off the scarf round Tobiasson-Svartman's face. Tacker was strong. He pulled and tugged and the scarf was half off when the hammer hit him on the nose. There was a crunching sound. Tacker fell heavily. Tobiasson-Svartman ran away. He threw the hammer into the water at Nybroviken, having first knotted the scarf tightly round its handle.
All the time he was afraid that somebody was going to grab him. But nobody came. He was alone with his fear.
He stood in Wallingatan for a long time. He had never been so terrified in all his life. Ludwig Tacker had almost exposed him. Everything would have collapsed.
In the end he opened the front door and walked up the stairs to his flat. Kristina Tacker was asleep. He listened outside her door.
The dead eyes of the china figurines glinted in the light from the street lamps. He sat down in the warm room and hoped that Ludwig Tacker was dead.