Open Grave: A Mystery (19 page)

She opened the window, as if to blow out all the thoughts that were circulating in the car. The wind had picked up, due west, she noticed. She thought about Edvard and his musings about weather and wind, how he drew her into his speculations. At the start of his time on the island he was a little uncertain, accustomed as he was to inland weather phenomena, a farm worker’s observations of the outlook for precipitation or clearing. But as he became more sure, Viola, and above all the old neighbor Viktor, also taught him a great deal about the idiosyncrasies of archipelago weather.

The side road down to Viola’s had been widened. That was surely thanks to Edvard. He had always complained about the road. Viola seldom left her farm and experienced no great need for a good road. Edvard on the other hand commuted to his job as a construction worker and was of a different opinion. Ann wondered whether he was still in that industry. She knew nothing about his present life.

There were two cars in the farmyard. One was a pickup, probably Edvard’s, thought Ann. Behind it was hidden a Corolla that was at least twenty-five years old.
I should have called,
it struck her when she caught sight of the car. Perhaps he was living with someone? That was not an impossibility, more likely probable. He was surely still an attractive man, of which there was a shortage on the island.

She got out on shaking legs, prepared to throw herself back in the car at any moment and take off. Steeled herself to look relaxed. She realized that Edvard had already heard the car, unless his hearing had gotten even worse.

There were lights on in the kitchen, in the parlor, and one flight up. Viola’s bedroom—Ann assumed that the old woman was bedridden—faced out toward the sea.

When she was a few meters from the glassed-in porch, and noticed that all the door and window frames were freshly painted, the door opened. Edvard. He had not turned on the light, perhaps he had stood and watched her for a few moments, uncertain whether he was mistaken. But to her his shape was so familiar that she would recognize it among thousands.

“You,” was all he said.

“Me,” said Anna.

You and me,
she thought.

“I heard that Viola was ill.”

He nodded, perhaps he was waiting for a continuation. Was the shock so great that he was incapable of saying anything? Perhaps his disgust at her unexpected visit made him mute?

“Do you have … company?”

The question was unbelievably silly, she realized that immediately, but she could not get herself to put it another way.

“Yes, a buddy of Viola’s is here,” said Edvard, nodding toward the Toyota. “She’ll be leaving soon.”

She sensed that he understood her embarrassment. Buddy, she thought, and could not help smiling a little. Viola’s buddy.

“How is she doing?”

He was still standing with his hand on the doorknob. Perhaps he didn’t want to let her in.

“She’s very weak,” he said.

Ann heard from his voice that he was tired.

“You’ve fixed the road,” she said.

He nodded.

“And painted the porch.”

“Yes, a lot has happened since the last time,” he said, and she could not determine whether he was teasing or amused at her remarks.

“Nice,” said Ann, “very nice,” and nodded eagerly as if she wanted to underscore that she thought everything seemed to be in tip-top shape with the side road, the house, Edvard, and life.

“Come in,” he said curtly, leaving the door and disappearing into the house.

She followed him as if he were an executioner and these were her last steps up onto the scaffold.

The smell was the same. In the kitchen to the left as usual it was sparkling clean. Ann suspected that Edvard had help, he never cleaned up completely himself, there was always something left on the counter, a cup on the table or crumbs on a cutting board. Perhaps there was another woman in the house?

To the right were the stairs up to Edvard’s room, worn by his feet, not repainted since last time.

Edvard walked straight ahead. He was limping a little. The hair on the back of his head was perhaps a little thinner, otherwise he looked like he always was.

He stopped and waited for her before he pushed open the door to Viola’s room.

“You have a visitor,” he said, taking a step to the left and making room for Ann.

The room was lit only by a table lamp in the corner. Viola was laying like a dowager, submerged in a sea of blankets in the gigantic bed. Ann remembered that she was always cold and in the winter often had double blankets. It smelled of cleanser and coffee.

Her cheeks were skinnier than ever. The thin, white hair was even thinner and whiter. Immediately when Ann came into the room she opened her eyes and fixed her with her gaze like the way she did the first time they met.

“Ann, my own policewoman,” the old woman croaked, making an effort to pull her arms out of the covers.

Ann went up to the bed and placed her hand on Viola’s cold cheek. They looked at each other.

“I knew it,” the old woman said.

Ann fought back the tears. This was such a valuable moment that instinctively she did not want to throw away a single second by sobbing and weeping. She wanted to have a clear gaze, be just as strong as Viola had always been.

“I got your greeting,” said Viola.

A discreet cough was heard from the unlit part of the room. Ann turned her head and there sat an elderly woman on a chair. Ann realized immediately that this must be the sister of the Nobel Prize winner’s housekeeper. Despite the darkness it was not hard to make out the resemblance, not least the slightly protruding eyes that now observed her with a mournful expression.

Ann got up to quickly introduce herself so that the woman could then leave her and Viola in peace. She did not want to have a funeral singer sitting in the room.

Perhaps Ann still harbored a wish that it would be only Viola, Edvard, and her in the house. Like before.

The woman got on her feet surprisingly quickly and greeted Ann with a nod.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said. “Perhaps you’d like a cup later?”

She did not wait for an answer but instead left quickly and quietly. All that lingered behind her was a faint odor of sweat. Edvard followed her out of the room and closed the door very carefully behind him.

Ann sat down on the chair that was placed on the other side of the bed.

“You didn’t bring the boy with you?”

Ann shook her head and realized her mistake when she saw the cross frown on the old woman’s furrowed face. Sometimes she had considered Viola a kind of paternal grandmother, a replacement for the one Erik would never have, but out of pure selfishness she had not brought him with her. She had been afraid of Edvard’s reaction, ashamed to display the physical evidence of their capsized love story. Because it really had been a story, full of desire and tenderness. But Erik would have been his child and no one else’s.

She ought to have put herself above this, overlooked Edvard’s possible animosity and her own embarrassment, and introduced her son to his “grandmother.” She would have liked that, Ann realized now. Perhaps she considered Ann the daughter she never had.

Ann, who had been the unfaithful one, the one who betrayed her Edvard, was now forgiven. She understood that and a sense of longing shot through her, making her feel that all the bad things could be made undone. An impossible wish, a dead end. She was taken back for a moment or two to another life, to a different sort of love than what she experienced with Anders Brant.

“Next time,” said Ann. “Do you want to see a photo of Erik?”

The old woman shook her head, and this did not surprise Ann. She had never seen a single photograph in the house.

“It takes a rickety old woman to get you to drag yourself here,” said Viola, regaining in her voice a little of the ironic astringency that was her trademark.

“If you knew how I’ve longed to be here,” said Ann quietly.

“Edvard is in the woodshed,” said Viola. “He goes there when he gets nervous. So he won’t hear us.”

“How are you?”

“I want to die at home,” said Viola, and Ann knew that there was no point in protesting, but instead nodded and squeezed the old woman’s clawlike hand.

“I’ve done my part, always taken care of myself, haven’t been a burden to anyone. I was born when the bells were ringing in the war and I’m leaving in evil times. You should know how afraid they were of the Russians here on the island. We didn’t know any better. Can you understand how badly they steered us? But here on the island we didn’t care that much. The old men sat in Stockholm and gave orders, but we took care of ourselves,” she ended the harangue with a grin.

It was Viola’s showpiece, the incompetence and lack of common sense of anyone from Stockholm, whether it was the government or summer visitors. It was an understanding she shared with generations of refractory islanders.

“Does it hurt?”

The old woman shook her head.

“It aches a little in my hip, but it’s done that a long time.”

Ann could not really understand why Viola was preparing to die, she seemed the same. She had been thin as a rake as long as Ann had known her, and Ann had heard the complaints about her hip before. The explanation came immediately.

“Viktor passed away,” said Viola.

“No,” Ann exclaimed, squeezing the old woman’s hand.

“Three weeks on Monday,” said Viola. “He was buried a week ago. There were a hundred and twenty people at the funeral.”

Viktor had been Viola’s life partner. They never had a regular relationship. It hadn’t turned out that way, Viola said one time when Ann asked, but they had been schoolmates in the 1920s, neighbors their whole life, and saw each other basically every day. It was Viktor who came over, helped her with small chores. They had sat in her kitchen for eighty years.

“We never got engaged,” said Viola, “but he was a fine man. We were born the same year. He just dropped dead. He was going down to the lake to make sure that Edvard brought his boat up.”

“So Viktor had his boat in the water?”

Viola chuckled.

“He and Edvard were out all the time. That was the life for Viktor. He was so fond of Edvard, that they could go out.”

How I’ve missed this!
Ann thought desperately.

“That he was,” said Ann, “a fine man.”

“He used to talk about you,” said Viola. “Most of all when he’d had a drop.”

“I have longed to be here,” Ann let slip again.

“You should have been here,” said Viola. “But it’s not too late yet.”

Don’t say that!
Ann wanted to cry out.
Don’t entice me with a life that no longer exists!
But she didn’t say anything. If Viola wanted to believe that Ann could come back, that’s the way it was.

“He’s not seeing anyone?”

Viola snorted.

“He’ll be like Viktor, the old bachelor here in the village,” and Viola made it sound like it was Ann’s business to change that.

“But didn’t he…?” Ann persisted.

She wanted to know. She wanted to hear the old woman say that of course there had been women, and hint that perhaps there was someone he was seeing now.

The response was another snort.

“I’ve seen you in a picture in the newspaper,” said Viola. “Edvard usually reads out loud when there’s a story.”

Ann could see them in the twilight at the kitchen table. Edvard with his reading glasses and Viola with her eyes toward the farmyard.

“And then a woman adds a little charm,” said Viola, who never stopped being amazed that women could be police officers. “It’s like an extra … but listen…”

She fell silent and closed her eyes, lying so still that Ann got scared. The covers did not move, her hand was cold.

“Bye-bye, Ann,” Viola said suddenly, opening her eyes. “Now I’m going to sleep a little, I’m so happy we had some time to talk. Take care of yourself and Erik. Do well.”

Ann felt Viola grasp her hand. She squeezed back. Their eyes met. Viola smiled her usual old smile before she closed her eyes again. Ann sat awhile before she carefully released her hand and got up.

She closed the door behind her, but regretted it immediately and opened it again. Perhaps Viola would call for something. She took a last look at the old woman and then let her eyes slowly register what was in the room. She got the impulse to take something with her.

In the kitchen it was quiet. The woman, Ann recalled that her name was Greta, was sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee cup in front of her. Edvard was nowhere in sight.

“I set out a cup for you too,” said Greta.

Ann looked at the clock, there was still time to exchange a few words. She declined the coffee but sat down.

“I didn’t know that Viktor had passed away,” she said. “I really would have liked to be at the funeral.”

“Edvard was pallbearer. There’ll be another one soon,” said Greta. “Viola wants to follow Viktor, but I’m sure you understood that.”

Ann nodded. She could not be upset by the woman’s frank manner. That’s just the way it was, so why pretend?

“I’ve met you before,” said Ann.

“I’ve known Viola my whole life. She took care of us sometimes, Agnes and me, when we were little. Yes, I ran into you when you were going with Edvard, but then you only had eyes for him.”

“And then your sister,” Ann said. “The world really is small.”

“So what is happening at Ohler’s?”

Ann was happy to be able to talk about something besides her time on Gr
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s
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and told what had happened with the Nobel Prize winner. She suspected that Greta wanted to have a different version than her sister’s. Greta listened without interrupting her and then sat silent for some time. Ann recognized the atmosphere from many interrogations, there was something bothering the woman.

“It’s no wonder that people wish him harm,” Greta said at last.

“What do you mean?”

“May God forgive me, but he is a bad person.”

She pushed aside the coffee cup and looked out the window. Ann followed her eyes, she was afraid that Edvard was approaching.