Open Grave: A Mystery (6 page)

He decided to take a walk around the block to check the whole thing. He wanted certainty. Not least he wanted to have something to say to Bunde if they were to meet again.

*   *   *

Suddenly he saw the comic
side of all this, this activity that had developed on the otherwise so calm little street. He stopped by the gate, laughed to himself, but quickly became hesitant.

He remained standing a good while, with his hand on the gate handle and his eyes fixed on the street, while his thoughts wandered back to the cottage in Rasbo and the “big road,” in this strange interplay that had marked the whole afternoon.

No shabbily clothed people ever come here, it struck him, and the familiar irritation came over him. It was an irritation, not to say anger, at himself that he had felt so many times. Why in the world should he continue to go over the old days? Times are different now and the smells are different, so why?

I became a doctor, I became an associate professor, if not a Nobel Prize winner, nonetheless respected and appreciated by my colleagues, but still so afraid of the shabbily clothed. No, not afraid, more like ashamed that I was so afraid then. But I was a child. I was alone, with no siblings to defend me, explain to me. Mother’s words that they were not dangerous did not take, because I knew intuitively that Father didn’t like it that the shabbily clothed were entertained by the gate.

He went out onto the sidewalk and began his walk around the block. It was just starting to get dark. The associate professor quickened his pace. He walked with long strides, staring straight ahead, anxious not to appear curious.

At Tibell’s he turned left. Linda Tibell shared his interest in Japanese maples and had a magnificent Ozakazuki, whose leaves were now orange-red, at one end of the house.

Then the associate professor turned left again. Lundquist’s house was number three in line. In the other house, belonging to the Winblad family, with whom he shared the privet hedge on the back side, small lamps were shining invitingly in all the windows on the ground floor. On the steps Winblad’s Irish setter was sitting, following the associate professor with his eyes.

He seemed to sense how the neighbors were also peering behind their curtains. What would he do if no one was seen in the yard? Could he go up to the house and ring the doorbell?

He stopped outside Lundquist’s gate, pretended to retie his scarf. The morning newspaper was sticking up out of the mailbox. That convinced him that it was not Lundquist himself he had glimpsed in the bushes and that there was no point in ringing the doorbell. He continued his walk. A stranger, in other words; the question was whether he had a valid reason to be in the yard.

Suddenly the entry light above the front door came on and a figure emerged from the darkness between a pair of extensive spindle trees.

The associate professor stopped abruptly.

“Sorry, I think I frightened you.”

The same man whom the associate professor had glimpsed earlier—he recognized the knit cap—came up to the fence.

“Yes, I was a little startled, I’ll admit.”

Just then the outside light turned off.

“It must have a loose connection,” said the associate professor.

“No, the light is motion controlled, it senses a limited area,” the man explained, and took a couple of steps back. The light came on again.

The man on the other side of the fence was in his sixties, perhaps a hundred ninety centimeters tall, and gave a forceful impression. His face was chiseled as if it had been worn down by wind or long-term hardship. He was dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a half-length green jacket of somewhat sturdier material.

“Perhaps you’re wondering what business I have here?”

“No, not at all,” the associate professor assured him. “I’m just out on a late walk.”

“It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.”

“Of course not.”

They stood quietly a moment.

“Do you live in the area?”

“Yes,” said the associate professor, pointing a little vaguely in the direction of his house.

“Are you the one who has the splendid climbing hydrangea?”

“That’s right.”

“It must be incomparable when it’s blooming.”

“Are you interested in plants?”

The man smiled and nodded.

“The spindle tree is not so bad now that it’s fall, otherwise it can be a little uninteresting. But now I won’t keep you any longer,” he said.

“No problem,” said the associate professor.

They went their separate ways. The associate professor was happy about the comment about the hydrangea, which really was enormous and covered a large part of the east wall, but at the same time he was very displeased. He had been able to determine that he’d indeed seen a stranger on Lundquist’s lot, but had not gotten any answer to what he was doing there. Frustrating to say the least. He definitely did not look like a burglar or photographer, as Bunde had suggested. And why would anyone sneak around? Ohler was no camera-shy movie star or member of the royal court who had to be photographed surreptitiously. On the contrary, he certainly welcomed all the attention.

The stranger had sounded so certain when he talked about the hydrangea and the spindle tree on Lundquist’s lot. Could he be a gardener? The associate professor decided that was the case. What other person wandered around that way talking so naturally about plants?

He had been polite too, and well-dressed in practical, durable clothing. The latter also argued for gardener.

The associate professor rounded two street corners before he was back on his street. He glanced in toward Ohler’s, where the lights were on, as in the past when the house was full of people. He tried to imagine what was going on in there, and above all what would happen in the future. Festivities, children and grandchildren gathered, colleagues on visits, media people driving up in cars for live broadcasts, dinners—in brief: life and motion.

He himself would go into his turret. The professor would point up toward the illuminated tower and say something about “my assistant, Associate Professor Johansson.” He would stand out as a mossy hobby gardener, who for lack of anything else devoted his solitary life to “begonias or whatever.” A skinny shadow figure in a silhouette play who now and then was lit up by the cold blue glow from the lights the associate professor had arranged for his rare plants, while the professor could shine of his own force, surrounded by living, warm people.

He had remained standing on the sidewalk, staring straight ahead without seeing, afflicted by heart palpitations. He waited until his pulse regained its normal rhythm and took a deep breath. His throat was burning from all the coffee that gave him sour belches during the walk.

“What do you say, Uncle Gregor!”

He turned around. Birgitta von Ohler was standing in front of him with a broad smile and outstretched arms. She persisted in calling him Uncle Gregor, which she had done since childhood. He didn’t like it, but now it was too late to correct.

“Birgitta,” he said tamely.

“Are you standing here? Come in for a cup of coffee!”

“Thanks, but I think I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy will be very happy.”

“I’m going to throw together a little food in my cottage,” said the associate professor. “It will be a lot—”

“Of course it’s quite amazing! After so many years. You did hear that he mentioned you?”

“How’s that?”

“On TV.”

The associate professor shook his head.

“‘My best colleague,’ he called you on the news.”

The associate professor stared incredulously at the radiant Birgitta and then let his gaze disappear into a darkness of rising anger. The street and the sidewalk disappeared, likewise the houses and Birgitta von Ohler.

“How are you feeling?”

She took a step closer, took hold of his arm. The associate professor opened his eyes.

“Excellent,” he said, but the paleness and weak voice were obvious signs to the contrary.

“Gregor! You’re not feeling well.”

The associate professor freed himself from her grasp, turned around and staggered toward his house.
I can’t run,
he thought,
I cannot die on the street.

He shoved open the gate and took a couple of deep breaths. Home. From Bunde’s house organ music was heard, a Bach cantata, always this pompous Bach! Otherwise it was silent.

His heart had never protested.
Perhaps this is God’s punishment for my unjust thoughts and my foolish anger,
thought Gregor Johansson.

He was astonished at himself.
Suddenly I am turning to God! Both brain and heart have become dysfunctional due to this damned Nobel Prize!

He went over to the beech tree and pressed one palm against its trunk. The coolness of the bark was transmitted through his arm and cooled down his agitation a little.

Should I speak freely? Should I too, like Schimmel in Germany, write an article and tell how it really happened, about Ferguson, about the teamwork, about how one man steals all the glory for himself, as if it were the solitary genius who creates? I could testify. Schimmel can raise up Ferguson, I can push Ohler down from his pedestal.

The thought gave him a certain consolation, but he realized that few, if any, would be influenced. He would stand out as a bitter and jealous loser, as if he was only speaking on his own behalf. The professor was right on one point: There was no justice.

All that remained was to keep his mouth shut. As soon as he had drawn that conclusion the associate professor went into his house.

Seven

Agnes
Andersson stared at her
feet. How far had they taken her? Or on the contrary, where had she taken her feet? Assuming now that it was the head and not the feet that decided the direction.

To a footbath. In a house where basically she had spent her entire adult life.

Agnes was the third Andersson sister from Gr
ä
s
ö
who worked for the Ohlers. Carl von Ohler rented a house on the island a few summers in the 1930s and then came into contact with the fisherman and smallholder Aron Andersson, who supplied fish and helped out with odd jobs.

Then, when Carl needed a new maid for their home in Uppsala, the oldest of the Andersson daughters, Anna, was talked into starting. When she left the household after a couple of years her place was taken over by the middle sister, Greta, who stayed a few years longer, and who in turn was replaced by their little sister, Agnes.

Bertram and his family had use of the wing rooms, as they were called. When his father died in 1959 he became sole master of a fourteen-room house.

At the time, there was one maid besides Agnes on the serving staff, and a half-time caretaker, all of whom had to take care of Bertram, his wife Dagmar, and the two sons, and as of 1960 a nanny who took care of the afterthought, Birgitta.

Now only Agnes and Bertram were left.

She was sitting in what the family always called the “small parlor.” Fifty years ago it would have been inconceivable that as a servant she would be allowed to occupy a room that was reserved for the “ladies,” then equipped with a couple of small couches and a handful of armchairs. It was intended that the female guests could gather there after dinner, drink a glass of liqueur, and exchange a little gossip. All while the men sat in the library drinking cognac and talking about their business.

Now it must have been thirty years since any ladies drank and gossiped in the house. The parlor had been redone into a kind of living room for her. Next to it was her bedroom. To start with, she had thought it was quite unnecessary, but Birgitta, who had taken the initiative, insisted on it and Agnes moved from her old room to a new one in the wing. And thus got her own parlor in the bargain.

The time she spent with her sore feet submerged in the tub of lukewarm water and Epsom salts was a break for her head too. Every evening she sat like that, ten minutes, a quarter of an hour.

*   *   *

She heard the professor rummaging
about. Quite suddenly it had become important, after years of Sleeping Beauty slumber. He had instructed her in how he wanted it to be and she could tell that if he was often confused he was exact and clear where the arrangements for the study were concerned. The stuffed bird would be removed—“Toss it” was the professor’s curt order—and that made her happy. She had wanted to get rid of it long ago, the ugly and malevolent-looking thing.

He had talked long and well about the picture with the family tree and lost himself in stories and kinsfolk. Tales she had heard ad nauseam. But she let him talk on without listening, while she dusted off the bookcase and stowed away old magazines and loose papers.

Suddenly the monologue had ceased. Their eyes met for a moment and in his features she could glimpse what she thought resembled distress, before he laughed.

“The way I go on, as if these … diagrams, these branches”—he threw out his hand toward the picture—“might interest you. You have your own family out on the island.”

She did not really know what she should say but nodded instead.

“You never married, did you, Agnes,” he observed unexpectedly.

“No, I never did. And there were no branches on the Andersson tree. I, and my sisters too for that matter, have been fully occupied with Ohlers.”

The professor stiffened, without saying a word, and shortly thereafter left the room.

*   *   *

Perhaps there had not been
a line of suitors outside her door, though at one time there had been men. But Agnes never married. That was not something she dwelled on or considered particularly notable or tragic, it was simply the way it turned out, she had always reasoned with herself. A fragile defensive wall, she realized that, but her background, as daughter of the fisherman and lay preacher Aron Andersson, founder of the congregation God’s Army, had given her a fatalistic attitude. A fragile wall, for certainly she had longed many times to be out of the Ohler house, and the only way that had existed at one time would have been marriage.