In his third year he was already having trouble with mathematics. Words fell into place of their own accord, but he found no logic in numbers; they refused to yield up their secrets to him. He got the highest marks on all assignments in Swedish class, while he barely passed his maths exams. It was during the same period that his father had been called up; the country was being mobilised after the Germans had occupied Denmark and Norway. The lack of his father’s income brought the family to their knees. Not only was there food rationing; in poor homes there was a lack of everything. He remembered the endless queuing in shops with empty shelves. The cold nights. How there was never enough wood, and how the dampness ate into the fabrics. How he and his sister went out in the evenings to try and find something to put in the stove. The blackout curtains, the frenetic voice on the radio and the terror that Hitler would come.
He concealed his failed maths exam, made sure the results were never seen by his eager parents, and when it was time to choose a major subject he was forced for the first time to go behind their backs. The scientific path with mathematics as a major focus was the one that would open the way to the Royal Technical College. Instead he selected the humanistic linguistic path, and thus the anticipated door was secretly closed.
Jan-Erik came back again with an attendant. Together they lifted Axel onto the bed. He felt the relief as the pain gave way and his body was straightened out on the soft bedding. The head of the bed was raised and some pillows were arranged behind him. Then came the constantly recurring question.
‘Is that comfortable?’
No, he wanted to scream. No, it’s not comfortable. I want you to bring me all the sedatives you have in this ward and pump them into my bloodstream so that I can go to sleep once and for all. But he could only lift his little finger and assure them that everything was fine.
Jan-Erik sat down in the visitor’s chair, and the attendant left. His son usually brought along the day’s paper and read aloud to him, and he had done so this time as well. Axel didn’t understand why he had to be kept informed. How could anyone believe that he had the slightest interest in the world he had already left behind? He had to be kept company, and this was Jan-Erik’s brave attempt. Their relationship was not constructed in such a way that the power balance would tolerate a shift. He couldn’t explain his antipathy, why he had never felt close to his son. There was something about his compliant gaze, the fact that he never demanded his rights. Never burned so strongly for something that he dared take up a fight. And on the rare occasion he had tried, he had been so wrong. As if he had no concept of what was best for him.
Jan-Erik’s voice droned on through the endless columns, and Axel returned to his own thoughts.
It was during the final year before graduation that the conflict inside him had erupted in earnest. A consuming anxiety about having to tell his parents that their engineering dreams would remain nothing but dreams. But also about the other matter that was becoming stronger and stronger. He knew that he had a talent, and the years of study had confirmed his brilliance. His lack of aptitude for mathematics had left room for another quality: he was drawn irresistibly to language, like a moth to the light. The temptation was irresistible. He could feel the stories jostling about inside him, waiting to be given life. But writing was not a real profession, it was a dissolute hobby that one might take up in free moments. There was every reason to be suspicious of literature that did not lead to concrete knowledge. He knew that his parents would never understand, and with each day that brought him closer to the conversation he would have to have with them, his fear grew.
It had been on the day of his final examination. They were sitting in the room next to the kitchen where in honour of the day they were going to have their coffee, watched over only by Hjalmar Branting. No guests had been invited; you shouldn’t believe that you were somebody even though your son against all odds had just passed his final exam. But real coffee would be served, not that substitute they’d got used to during the wartime rationing. They were all dressed up, his parents beaming with pride and his sister joining them, although in silent protest. With excruciating clarity he recalled how something in their eyes was extinguished when he told them about his decision. The fact that there would never be a civil engineer in the family, but rather a writer. His sister’s spontaneous guffaw. His father’s slap that silenced her. On that day he passed the fork in the road and went on to meet his calling.
Sixty-three years later he still didn’t know whether he had done the right thing. He had followed his conviction, but with the years his perspective had changed. A nagging guilt
had become his companion, constantly driving him forward. No matter how much fame he acquired, it would never sink in. He could stand and look at his books and all his fine prizes, but he had never been able to feel any pride. They were and remained mere mileposts that he needed to surpass.
And all his life he had felt uneasy every time he was unlucky enough to meet an engineer.
Young people believed there was a goal in life. He had believed it himself; on that particular day he had believed it, believed it blindly, when in spite of his parents’ annihilating disappointment he had set off to write his book. And he had written his book. And he had become an author. And he had realised that life was an infinite journey. The redemptive goal had always turned out to be a new starting point by the time he managed to get there. It wasn’t possible to reach any goal. Only an end. And when he finally arrived, much like before, so many things had forever been left too late.
He woke up when it was suddenly silent and realised that he’d fallen asleep for a moment. With a rustling sound Jan-Erik was folding up the newspaper.
‘I have to get going now. I’ll swing by the house and see if I can find a picture of Gerda Persson. She died about a week ago and they want one for the funeral.’
All of a sudden he was wide-awake. His eyes flew open. The name had taken him straight into the nooks and crannies of his mind.
‘I thought I’d see if I could find something. You probably know if there’s something in your office, don’t you? Maybe in the cupboard where you saved everything over the years?’
He was having heart palpitations. Gerda was gone and he ought to feel grateful. Evidently she had remained loyal to the end. Now there was only one person left who could obliterate his life’s work. If he was still alive. As long as Axel had been able to talk it would have been both of them dragged through the mud if the truth had come out. But
since the stroke not a day had passed without his thinking of that man’s name and what he might be capable of doing.
And then there was the cupboard in his office, where things were kept that nobody must see. He had begun to clean it out shortly before he had the stroke, suddenly aware of the insanity of keeping those things. Perhaps his unconscious had been warning him that time was growing short. But he hadn’t finished. He wondered whether the rubbish bag was still there or whether Jan-Erik had thrown it out by now. He hoped so. Even more he hoped that Torgny Wennberg was dead. The Devil himself in human form. If only these two wishes were fulfilled, the name Axel Ragnerfeldt would for ever be allowed to retain its radiance.
Then it would all have been worth the effort.
T
he Rector’s Sports Prize in the municipal school district, 1967. Silently he whispered the words to himself and felt an expansive, bright joy spread through his body. He, Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt, had won, and it would be announced in the school’s assembly hall in the presence of pupils, teachers and parents. The choir would sing and the rector would give a speech, and in the middle of the school’s spring concert he was the one who would be called up on stage to receive the cup and a diploma.
Now only the hardest challenge remained, to make sure his father was in the hall when the solemn event took place.
He sat at the kitchen table eating a salami sandwich.
‘Now eat so that you grow big and strong, and if you want more bread it’s in the tin.’
Gerda stood at the worktop preparing meatballs for the following day. She cracked an egg on the edge of a stainless- steel bowl, and her hands began kneading the mincemeat. As so often before she hummed some melody that Jan-Erik didn’t recognise. But he had enough to do with working out a solution to the dilemma occupying his thoughts.
‘Where’s your sister? Doesn’t she want an evening snack?’
‘She’s probably in her room.’
‘I most certainly am not.’ A hand appeared in the corner behind the wood-stove that was no longer used, and the next moment Annika came creeping out.
‘I declare, so there you are. You fooled me again.’
Gerda gave a long laugh as if she found it an extremely amusing trick, even though Annika was most often to be found in that space behind the stove, which she had fixed up as a little house.
‘Well, I told you.’
Jan-Erik smiled at Gerda. It was so odd such things amused her – things that nobody else ever laughed at. Both he and Annika loved being in the kitchen. Partly because it was far enough away from their father’s office that they didn’t have to keep their voices down, but also because there was something comforting about Gerda. As long as no other grown- up was in the vicinity. As soon as one of their parents was present she changed and laughed as little as all the others in the house.
Someone rang the doorbell. Three short rings. It was Gerda’s task to answer it, but right now her hands were full of the sticky meat.
‘Go and get the door, Annika, if you would.’
Annika vanished down the hall. Jan-Erik heard at once who it was, and all hope was extinguished. Now the evening would turn to night before he had a chance to ask his father.
Annika came dashing back into the kitchen and crawled in behind the stove. In the next instant Torgny Wennberg appeared in the doorway with his overcoat on, hat in hand.
‘Hello, all, I see you’re cooking. What sort of delicacy is it this time?’
‘It’s just some meatballs. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
Gerda went to the sink with her gooey hands.
‘No, no, don’t let me interrupt. I can knock on the door myself.’
And then he was gone. Jan-Erik wondered why a stranger who didn’t even live in the house was allowed to do something that nobody else could do. Knock on the door while his father was working. The next moment he realised that now was his chance, now that the door would be opened
even if it wasn’t for him. As fast as he could he ran through the house to get there before it was too late. Torgny Wennberg was still standing at the door when he arrived.
‘Yes?’ came a voice from the other side of the door.
Torgny opened it and went in. Jan-Erik sneaked up and stood just outside the threshold.
‘Well, hello there, Torgny, so it’s you coming to bother me.’
‘I thought you might need a little inspiration on a Tuesday evening.’
Smiles and handshakes, and then his father caught sight of him.
‘Did you want something, Jan-Erik?’
‘Yes, I just wanted to ask you something.’
‘It’ll have to wait, I have a visitor now, as you can see. Go and ask your mother or Gerda.’
He closed the door firmly.
Jan-Erik was sitting in the armchair in the living room. From there he had a view of the door to the office, and he hadn’t left the room in two hours. Three times his mother had passed by, each time asking what he was doing. Nothing special, he’d replied, and she’d looked at him as though she thought he was lying. Now it was almost bedtime and the door still hadn’t opened. Everything would be ruined if his father didn’t come. Now that he finally had something to show him.
He heard her footsteps on the stairs and for the fourth time she appeared in the living room. This time she was silent. She simply went over to one of the bookshelves and ran her finger over the spines of the books as if searching for a certain volume.
And then with her back to him she said, ‘Have you asked Axel if he’s coming with us tomorrow?’
‘No, I told him about it a couple of weeks ago, but he hasn’t said yet whether he’s coming.’
‘And how long were you planning to sit here?’
‘I’m just sitting and thinking a little. I have a geography test on Friday, so I’m trying to prepare.’
She turned to him. ‘So where’s your geography book?’
He could feel himself blush. ‘Well, I know almost everything by heart. I’m going over my European capitals.’
That was all she said. But he noticed that she didn’t take a book with her when she left and went upstairs.
Another hour passed. The ticking clock on the wall kept precise track of the time, and the soporific sound made him doze off. He woke up when somebody tugged at his sleeve. Annika had her nightgown on, and he could see that she’d been crying.
‘You have to come, there’s something wrong with Mamma.’
He looked at the door, which was still closed.
‘Hurry up!’
Despite her fear she was whispering, and he ran down the hall after her and up the stairs.
Their mother was lying on the floor of her bedroom, in her dressing gown with her face to the floor. He was filled with a greater fear than he’d ever felt in his life. Annika began to sob. Jan-Erik hurried over and knelt down at his mother’s side. He pulled on her arm and brushed the hair out of her face.
‘Mamma! Mamma! Wake up, Mamma! Tell me what happened. Say something, Mamma, tell me what’s wrong with you.’
She didn’t move. Her arm was limp as he tugged and yanked at it. He felt the tears come. He put his nose to her mouth, but she didn’t smell as sour as she did sometimes when she’d been drinking wine. This was something else.
‘Mamma. Please, Mamma, wake up.’
He let go of her arm and pressed his hands to his face.
‘We have to get Pappa.’
He was just about to jump up and rush off when she opened her eyes. She twisted round a bit and looked first at him and then at Annika.
‘Annika, could you fetch me a glass of water?’
Annika ran off. His mother sat up. All at once she looked completely natural, as if she hadn’t just been lying like a dead woman on the floor.
‘So you do care a little bit after all.’
Jan-Erik froze. At first he didn’t understand what she meant and just sat there. A tear was allowed to run down his cheek undisturbed.
His mother got up but he remained on the floor; follow ing her with his gaze as she went over to the bed and sat down.
‘What do you mean?’ he finally managed to say.
‘You’re so anxious for Axel to come tomorrow, but you’ve hardly asked me.’
‘But I want you to come too. You told me you would. I’m sure I asked you.’
‘Are you quite sure you want me to come?’
He felt the tears again.
‘Of course I want you to be there.’
Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and her shoulders began to shake the way they did when she was crying. Jan-Erik’s tears ceased abruptly. He got up from the floor hurriedly and went over and patted her on the arm.
‘I’m sorry, Mamma, I’m sorry. I do want you to come, much more than I want Pappa, I promise. I’m sorry.’
Annika came back with a glass of water. Their mother wiped her eyes and put the glass on the nightstand.
‘All right then. We’ll say that. I’ll talk to Axel and make sure he comes too.’