It was starting to get dark. They were freezing cold. He heard footsteps on the path. Sara Fredrika emerged from the hawthorn bushes.
He wondered if she'd been waiting there, just as he used to hover out of sight.
Sara Fredrika gave a start and stopped dead.
'Who's she?'
He did not answer. His first reaction was to head for the water. He could hijack the sailing boat and then vanish, straight out to sea, or to the south, to one of the German ports around Kiel, where he could seek asylum.
Sara Fredrika was approaching now, and asked again who the woman at his side was.
'I don't know,' he said.
'Don't know?' Kristina Tacker said. 'Don't you even know who I am any more? Who's she? What do you get up to here? Do you ever say anything that's true?'
Sara Fredrika took hold of him.
'Who is she?'
He could not answer. He was trapped. He did not have his sounding lead with him.
Both women showered him with questions, who was this woman who had come from the sea, who was this woman clinging on to his arm? He said nothing, the trap had been sprung, it would soon be over and he had no idea how it would end.
Sara Fredrika and Kristina Tacker did all the talking. But he was the one they were staring at, as Kristina Tacker grew more and more outraged and Sara Fredrika more and more desperate. The cat appeared from out of nowhere, it seemed to sense that a trial of strength was taking place and was waiting to witness the outcome. He tried once again to find a way out, to identify a weakness in what he was faced with. But all he could feel was weariness and an urge to give up.
Somewhere in the rocks round about him was his father's face, his eyes would soon be liberated.
The stone hands were hovering over his head.
In the end, he told the truth: that was the only possibility left.
'Her name's Kristina. She's my wife. I'm married to her.'
'But you said your wife was dead? And your child?'
Kristina Tacker took a pace forward.
'He said that I was dead?'
'Who are you?'
'I am his wife.'
'But that's impossible. His wife fell over a cliff. And the child was dragged down as well.'
'Well, he lied to you, whoever you are! I'm alive and I am married to him.'
Kristina Tacker screamed and set off running along the path. She disappeared from view, but her screams bounced back and forth off the rocks.
'Who is she?' asked Sara Fredrika again.
'She's telling the truth. I am married to her, I have not yet concluded the divorce proceedings.'
'But you said she'd fallen over a cliff, and your daughter as well?'
'That was my first wife. I haven't told you everything about my life. I work on top-secret missions, and it's infectious, I end up by being top secret even to myself.'
She backed away from him, he could see that she was frightened.
'What's she doing here?'
'I don't know. She came here in the sailing dinghy.'
Kristina Tacker came back. He tried to embrace her and calm her down, but she avoided his grasp.
'I don't want you to touch me, never again.'
She turned her back on him and started talking to Sara Fredrika. 'Who are you?'
'I live here with him.'
'With him?'
'Yes, I just said so. What's it got to do with you? It's my life, not yours.'
'But I'm the one who's married to him. Can't you hear what I'm saying?'
'He's not married. He lives here with me, and he's going to take me away to a new country. I want you to leave here.'
Another voice joined in the argument, from the far distance, a baby crying. It was clearly audible in the silence. Kristina Tacker looked round wildly before she grasped the truth. She started shaking and then she collapsed.
'It's my baby,' Sara Fredrika said. 'My daughter. She's called Laura.'
Kristina Tacker started whimpering and crawled away, trying to force her way into the thorn bushes.
'Is she out of her mind? She'll cut herself to pieces on the thorns.'
'She's ill,' he said. 'She's very ill. She needs help.'
He tried to pull Sara Fredrika away, but she beat him off with enormous strength.
'Don't you dare lay your hands on me. I don't know what's going on here, I'm hearing things that I refuse to believe. Don't you dare touch me, and don't touch her either.'
Sara Fredrika squatted down by Kristina Tacker's side. Kristina Tacker was wrestling with the thorn bushes.
Tobiasson-Svartman looked at his wife. She was like a wounded animal. He was the one who had pulled the trigger, but he had not been able to give her the
coup de grâce,
he had only wounded her. Sara Fredrika pulled her away from the thorn bushes. Kristina Tacker did not resist. Despite the darkness he could see the blood running down her face from where the thorns had pierced her skin. She was hanging like a dead body in Sara Fredrika's powerful arms.
He was motionless. The cat was still observing proceedings from a distance. Four metres, he thought. The shadows make it hard to be precise about the centimetres. But the cat is sitting four metres away from me. Kristina Tacker and Sara Fredrika and the baby are a few metres further away. But in fact the distance between me and them is infinite, and it is growing all the time. The lines have been cut and the current and the wind are propelling us in different directions.
He was reminded of the ice. The open channels, people falling in and meeting their fate in the black cold of winter.
But most of all he was reminded of the drift net he had seen the previous summer, when the sun's rays were beating down on the water, the drift net with all the dead ducks and fish. At that time he had interpreted it as a symbol of freedom. But he was not the net, he was one of the dead fish. What he had seen then was his own downfall.
He started running along the path, running away. He stumbled and hit his face on a rock, cutting his lips. It seemed as if the whole skerry had made him its enemy and was attacking him.
The sailing dinghy was at anchor in the inlet. He waded into the cold water and scrambled aboard. But the sail was furled tightly round the mast and a locked chain prevented him from unfurling it. The tiller was also locked: she had prepared for all eventualities, she knew him far too well to leave anything to chance. She had cut off his escape route even before they had started shouting at each other in the freezing cold water. He tried to break the chain with a hammer he found in one of the pigeonholes in the cockpit. But it refused to yield, and he could see that he would break the tiller if he kept on trying. He threw the hammer into the sea and slumped on to the seat in the cockpit. Everything was still on all sides.
Beneath him, underneath Kristina Tacker's sailing dinghy, the depth was two and a quarter metres.
He spent the night in the cockpit.
Loneliness was the walls that encircled him. He had exchanged his wet clothes for hers that he had found in the cabin. He was waiting for the conclusion to all this while dressed in his wife's underclothes. As the long night drew to a close and light started to creep in, the rocks looked to him like stones waiting to be used for the building of a mighty cathedral.
He had dozed off at one point during the night. He had dreamed about flotsam and jetsam. He had been walking along a beach, searching. The kelp seemed to be transparent, and the smell of mud very strong. Eventually he found what he was looking for, a splinter of wood from a stern. He was that splinter of wood, wrenched out of his context, drifting out of control.
The first thought that occurred to him when he woke up was that the seabed inside him had slowly started to transform itself into an infinite, unmeasurable depth.
I know how to set up a lie, he thought. But I cannot cope with living in the world that lies create. The impostor lives a life, but the deceit involved lives a different life.
He heard footsteps on the path. It was Sara Fredrika.
It was still only half-light, and he felt very cold sitting there in the cockpit.
'Come ashore,' she shouted.
He neither answered nor moved.
'She's ill. If she stays here she'll die. I don't care what you've done, but she must have help.'
He waded ashore with his half-dry clothes over his head. The cold water made him gasp for breath. He started sobbing, but she merely shook her head dismissively at his tears. Her hair was tousled, like it had been the first time he had observed her in secret.
She kept him at a distance all the time.
'I know everything,' she said. 'She's told me all. I can cope with that even if I ought to tie a sinker round your neck and send you down to the deepest part of the seabed. I can cope. But she can't. The baby was too much. I have just one question before I run out of words. How could you give both your daughters the same name?'
He did not answer.
'It's hard to imagine that so much shit can come out of a little man like you. It just comes pouring out. But for the moment we are not important, she is. I think she's going out of her mind.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Help me to get her to the boat. I can't take her in the dinghy, if she starts getting violent she could throw herself overboard. I can't tie her up either. I can't take a tied-up person ashore.'
'Can she cope with seeing me?'
'I don't think you exist any more as far as she is concerned. When she saw our baby, when she heard its name, something snapped. I could hear it inside me, the sound of a branch snapping. That branch was her life.'
She looked at the sailing boat.
'I've never sailed a boat as big as this, but I dare say I'll manage. How many sails does it have?'
'Two.'
'I'll be able to sail it, even if it is big.'
'Where do you intend to take her?'
'I'll make sure she gets back home.'
'You can't sail her to Stockholm. It's a long way, you'll never find your way.'
'If I could find you I'll no doubt be able to find the way to Stockholm as well. I'll take the baby with me, of course. But you will stay here. When I come back we'll leave. I don't forgive you for all your deceit, all the falsehoods you have surrounded yourself with. But there must be something genuine somewhere inside you.'
He touched against her arm. She gave a start.
'Don't come too close. If I weren't so hardened I'd be as mad as she is. All you really deserve is a sinker attached to you. But I can't bear the thought of losing another husband. Even if he does act as if he has no guts and had evil intentions when he first came to this skerry with all his kind words and smiles.'
They walked up to the cottage. He shrank back when he saw Kristina Tacker. Her face was covered in scratches from thorns and branches, her clothes were torn and covered in vomit. She was sitting on the stool, swaying backwards and forwards. Sara Fredrika squatted down in front of her.
'Let's go now. There's not much wind, but enough to get us away from here.'
Kristina Tacker did not react. Sara Fredrika had prepared a basket of food, and another one with clothes. The baby was lying on the bed, wrapped up in a fur.
'You carry the baskets,' she said. 'She and the baby are mine.'
Sara Fredrika led the way, carrying the baby and supporting Kristina Tacker.
Behind them walked Tobiasson-Svartman, carrying the heavy baskets.
Once again he had the feeling he was in a procession. Behind him were other marchers that he could not see.
They waded out to the boat.
It was a cold, clear autumn morning. There was a south-easterly breeze. Kristina Tacker said nothing, allowed herself to be led out into the water as if she were to be baptised. Sara Fredrika laid her down in the cockpit together with the baby. He stood by, up to his waist in water. Using a key she had found in one of Kristina Tacker's pockets, Sara Fredrika first unlocked the chain round the sails, then the one securing the tiller.
'I'll come back,' she said. 'I ought to make myself scarce, but I won't. You could take the dinghy and sail away, of course, but where would you go? You'll wait for me to come back because you have no choice.'
She struck anchor and told him to give the boat a push. He stayed in the water until she had raised the mainsail and set off in a north-easterly direction.
The sailing boat disappeared behind the headlands. He waded ashore.
His only thought was to get some sleep.
The time that followed was like a conversation with shadows.
He wandered around the island, climbed among rocks, wriggled his way into crevices where there was some protection from the autumn winds that were becoming colder and colder.
One night he was woken up by the sound of a heavy gun, and he could see the glow on the horizon. Otherwise he slept soundly, without dreaming. The cat was curled up at the foot end of the bed.
He fished only when he needed food. He started to hear voices coming from the rocks, from all the people who had lived on the skerry before it was abandoned. People used to live here once upon a time. Sara Fredrika said they had rowed here using their ribs as oars. I did not understand what she meant then, but now her words are crystal clear. They came here in rowing boats, the skerry received them in admiration. They sailed, rowed, fished and died.
People used to live here once upon a time. Nobody saw them come, nobody saw them leave, only the rock lifted its hand of stone as a farewell salute.
When he was curled up in the crevices, sheltering from the bitter autumn winds, he tried to imagine what would have happened when Kristina Tacker had got to Stockholm. But he could not picture her. Her face, even her fragrance, had disappeared for ever.
He also tried to imagine what would happen when Sara Fredrika returned.
America, her great dream? He could certainly imagine going there, but he would want to be on his own: a Swedish naval officer could make a new life for himself in the US Navy. But he would never be able to go there with Sara Fredrika.
It was really the child he was thinking about. Laura Tobiasson-Svartman. He could see her even in pitch darkness. If he abandoned her, he would have finally abandoned himself.