There was a half-full rubbish bag inside the door. He shone the torch beam into it and saw printed materials and other papers. He would take those with him when he left – if his father had intended to throw them away they were undoubtedly rubbish. Axel had saved everything. Jan-Erik’s mother had called his hoarding a disease.
The cupboard was bigger than the others in the house, and ran along one whole side of the room. Heaps of paper, magazines, folders, binders, fan letters, newspaper clippings and boxes. All in a godforsaken mess that could not have been systematic even for the person who had once stuffed it all in. It would take weeks to clean out, sorting through what should be saved. The rubbish bag was a sign that his father had already begun, but considering the small amount in the bag and the quantity left he hadn’t got very far. The dream was to find an unpublished manuscript somewhere in the mess. After his Nobel Prize, his father had only published a few books; they were well received by the critics, but there was no real enthusiasm for them. It was clear to everyone that
Shadow
had been the high point of his career, a level he never managed to achieve again. But an unknown manuscript published after his death would bring in a considerable sum, even if it was from his declining years.
Jan-Erik began to dig through the piles, at a loss as to where to start. Notebooks, reviews, letters from admirers, programme flyers for author visits and the follow-up articles in the press. Much of what he found he was interested in studying further, but he knew this was not the right time. Even finding a photograph of Gerda might take hours. He opened a cardboard box full of old letters and to his relief
found some old photographs. He took the box over to the desk and sat down. He moved the typewriter and set the box in its place. The first photo was an old black-and-white snapshot showing his father’s parents; the next was in colour and more recent, and they looked just as he remembered them. They had come to visit occasionally, always formally dressed, his grandfather in a suit and tie and his grandmother in a dress. They had moved about the rooms cautiously as if they were afraid to knock something over. They would come on the occasion of some celebration, and he recalled that even as a child he had noticed the way his father changed. He had looked on in wonder as Axel suddenly lost his usual commanding presence and instead dashed about the house showing off his fine prizes and framed certificates. His grandparents had looked on wide-eyed but didn’t say much, except for trivial remarks about some detail of a frame. Otherwise they had seemed to be more comfortable in the kitchen with Gerda, who on those occasions was always welcome to eat with the family in the dining room. And he suddenly remembered one Christmas dinner when they had been using the fine china, and his grandmother had tipped over her glass on the white tablecloth. Her face had turned crimson despite all assurances that it didn’t matter in the least, and she hadn’t eaten another bite. Not until Gerda happened to tip over a half-full beer bottle ‘by accident’.
They had died in the mid-eighties, four days apart, and at the joint funeral Jan-Erik had seen his father cry for the first and only time.
He put the lid back on the box and went back to the cupboard, determined to start at a different corner. There was a box on the floor at the back. A tall pile of papers was stacked on top. He lifted them off and opened the box. The first letter was dated 1976 and was from a publisher, but the date showed that he was in the right time frame. He took the box out to the light in the office.
He found it somewhere in the middle of the pile, after he’d glanced through his father’s name and address on countless envelopes and other items of mail. It was not at all what he was looking for, but the printed text up in the corner attracted his interest. A brown envelope from the police. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and everything he thought he knew became meaningless in an instant.
It was a police report.
Annika’s full name, address, and Social Security number. The words underneath made his body react as though he’d been startled by a sudden bang.
Immediate cause of death: Hanging.
Manner of death: Suicide.
‘W
hen you hear the tone – ding-a-ling – it means it’s time to turn the page. Now we’ll begin.’
Kristoffer pushed the stop button on the old tape player. Many years had passed since he’d listened to the cassette. When he moved it had been packed in a carton and always had its obvious place among his belongings, but now he could no longer listen to it.
If a person had been waiting for a phone call for thirty-one years and that call finally came, how would that person be expected to react? Kristoffer didn’t know. For five hours he had sat motionless on the sofa, incapable of feeling anything at all. The little scrap of paper on which he’d written the number lay beside him on the sofa cushion; occasionally he would turn his head to look at it.
Named as sole beneficiary in a will.
As long as he could remember, he had been afraid of the dark. He always slept with a light on when nobody else was around. Terror gripped him whenever what was revealed by the light disappeared into the dark; he had fantasies about what took shape when he could no longer see. Right now the room lay in darkness. Only the stubborn blinking from the closed lid of his laptop shone at regular intervals, pulsating like visual heartbeats. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t called anyone, hadn’t done anything at all. Just sat there motionless, trying to decide what to feel.
Biding his time.
He had always waited. And yet he was incapable of pressing
down the numbers on the telephone. Like a magic formula they would transport him to the desired place, the place he had always dreamt of, though he knew nothing about it.
Who would he be transformed into once he did arrive?
His ego had been formed on two foundations. One was everything that it was possible to see, everything tangible with which he could have a relationship. The second consisted of what had always been out of reach, the hidden world where he belonged but to which he had always lacked access. Who was he? Why was he the way he was? Did he have any genetic traits? What had been affected by what?
Who was it who had once chosen his name?
And then the fundamental question, the one he’d carried with him like an invisible stigma: why had he been abandoned?
The missing answers had become a part of his identity. Time after time he had been forced to invent his background, altering details when the old ones had worn out, adapting it to new demands.
All the conversations he’d been forced to listen to; about hopeless parents and insufferable family get-togethers, Christmases that had to be endured and family squabbles about weeks of holiday in summer cabins that were a shared inheritance. Bitter battles, broken family relations and sick parents who required time-consuming care. He had always hidden behind the claim that his parents were dead. Someone had even had the bad taste to express envy because he had the freedom to do as he pleased without having to be subjected to a guilty conscience.
All around him was emptiness. Everyone else he knew was anchored to a clear chain in which the links could be followed. But he hovered freely with nothing holding him. He dreamt of finding the chain that was his, the one that would become whole when the missing link was finally rediscovered.
Kristoffer had been about four years old when he moved in with his foster family. Apparently they had handled the
situation as well as they could. They had answered his questions to the best of their ability, but what could they say when there were no answers to give? The police investigation had produced no result. He had only been able to give a first name for his mamma, and everyone named Elina had been contacted with no result. He had never named a pappa.
At ten years old his foster parents had taken him to Stockholm and showed him the steps at Skansen. He got to meet the guard who had found him, who had never been able to forget the experience. But none of the questions Kristoffer asked him had produced an acceptable answer.
Sometimes a vague sensation would float by, a second-long feeling rather than a memory. Always torn out of its context, squeezed in between dim and incomprehensible thoughts.
He had created his own truth for himself, convinced that his real parents would soon show up. Overjoyed at finally finding him again, they would take him home to his real life, away from the life where he was simply waiting. They would explain how crushed they had been, how a horrible witch had locked them in a tower and refused to let them go. How they finally in spite of difficult hardships managed to escape, prepared to do anything to see him again. Over the years his fantasies had developed and the explanations became less like fairy tales, but the feeling that he was living in a temporary situation had never left him. He decided that it wasn’t worth immersing himself in anything, since at any moment he would have to start over.
If only they would show up some day.
If he just held his breath until that car had passed, then they would show up soon. If he peeled the tangerine in one piece, then they would show up soon. If a man and a woman got on the bus at the next stop, then they would show up soon. As he approached each corner he would hope, and in every crowd he would search for his own facial features. He would stand for hours in front of the mirror. He memorised
every detail of his face. Sometimes just for an instant he thought he saw someone else, one of the two unknown people who lived inside his body.
His relationship to his adoptive parents had been quite distant. They had done everything to win his trust, but he had never been interested. In secret he had even despised their ingratiating behaviour, the way they would back off instead of restricting his freedom to act. Sometimes he had even seen fear in their eyes, when he flatly refused to obey their wishes, although sometimes he did it out of sheer obstinacy. They were and would remain intruders in a space intended for others, and when he turned eighteen he left home and broke off all contact.
In January 2005 he had read their names in the paper in a list of missing persons after the tsunami in Khao Lak. He hadn’t felt anything in particular.
He got up and turned on the desk lamp. The note was still lying on the sofa and his whole being was conscious of its existence. His mobile lay next to the keyboard, and he was just about to pick it up when the intercom buzzed. The unexpected sound made him jump; nobody should be coming unannounced. He decided to ignore it; he didn’t want any visitors, not right now when everything was upside down. The next moment his mobile rang. It was Jesper. Not now, he thought. The ringtone stopped abruptly and then there was a beep for a voicemail message.
‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m standing in the street outside your front door, because I thought I’d ask if you could do me a favour and take some pictures of me. I’ve got a camera with me. I think I’ve solved the problem with the book promotion. Call me as soon as you hear this. Bye.’
Kristoffer deleted the message and pressed recall. Then he stopped and put down the mobile. Not a very nice thing to do, but these were special circumstances. Jesper would
understand. Sometime in the future he’d explain. Besides, Jesper had sounded happier this time. No longer so gloomy.
Somebody had died. Maybe it was all too late. He sat back down on the sofa. Got up again, went out to the kitchen, drank some water out of the tap, turned and went back into the living room. He wanted a drink. Just a little one to get up the courage to dial the number. He brushed aside the thought, drove it off, but could feel how it stayed close by in case he changed his mind. He clenched his fist and smacked himself on the forehead, trying to pound in the courage he was lacking, and went back to the kitchen. He had to do it, he had to decide to do it right now, before he had a chance to change his mind. Resolutely he went back to the living room, picked up his mobile and went over to the sofa. Sat down and began to dial, put the phone to his ear, got up again. Seconds passed. Maybe the last seconds of his life as it had always been. Then an unfamiliar voice.
‘Marianne Folkesson.’
‘Yes, hello, this is Kristoffer Sandeblom. I got your message on my answer machine but I’ve had my phone off for a few days. That’s why I didn’t ring earlier, because I’ve just played your message.’
A little pause followed his speech. The nervousness had made him ramble. He sank back on the sofa.
‘How nice of you to call. Yes, I’m the estate administrator for the county council, and I’ve been looking for you because Gerda Persson has unfortunately passed away.’
He could feel the rhythm of his heart. In his fingers holding the phone, in his thighs resting on the sofa. A regular pulse in his head.
Gerda Persson.
A woman, a mother. Not Elina but Gerda Persson. The name he had always been searching for.
‘As I said in my message, she named you as sole beneficiary in her will.’
He couldn’t speak. All his questions had stuck. For decades they had been practised for this very occasion, but now that it was here, no words would come out.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘The funeral is on the twelfth at 2.30. I’ve begun the preparations since I haven’t been able to get hold of any relatives, but of course I’d welcome your input, if you want to take care of it some other way.’
Gerda Persson. The name was taking up all the space.
Gerda.
Persson.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, I’m here, that should be fine.’
‘Then there are a number of decisions that have to be taken with regard to her flat. Perhaps you’d like to go over there and see whether there’s anything you’d like to have before we clear it out?’
There was a long silence. Naturally he didn’t say a word, and the woman on the other end seemed to have a hard time going on without a response. When she finally spoke, her tone was different. Less formal and more candid.
‘I’m sorry to harp on about all the details, it really wasn’t my intention to be insensitive. I’m sorry for your loss. I presume you were close?’
He got up and went over to the window. Looked out over Katarina cemetery. Was he really ready for this, did he really want to know? Of course he wanted to know, this was what he’d always been waiting for. But what if the waiting had actually become more important than getting the answers? Everything had seemed so good the past few years. What would happen if all his assumptions were changed?
‘It’s like this, I—’
He stopped abruptly. For thirty-one years he had kept his mouth shut, and he now found it impossible to allow a stranger to be the first person he told.
‘It’s like this, we didn’t know each other.’
Now it was the woman on the other end who was silent, and he welcomed the pause.
Here in Stockholm. Had she been so close?
‘Okay… But you have been in touch?’
‘I don’t know.’
She said nothing, as if waiting for more. He realised that it would be fitting to say something, but he had nothing to add.
‘It’s a little odd,’ she said, ‘so I understand your surprise. But you must be the one she intended in the will. You do live in Katarina Västra Kyrkogata, care of Lundgren?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the information I have.’
‘But how could she know my address?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the only one with that name, and as long as you’re listed somewhere you wouldn’t be that hard to find.’
And in a flash he understood. The money each month. The small sum that had appeared since he turned eighteen, wherever he was, and which he at first thought was from his foster parents. But they had denied it after he’d left, when he once confronted them. The money that had not shown up this month.
Suddenly the word came down on him, the most shameful of all. Like a sharp glass shard it cut through all the evasive layers.
Foundling! You’re a foundling!
Whatever was found had been lost by someone. But you didn’t fasten little notes with instructions onto something that you lost by accident. It was deliberate.
He could feel something let go, and tears suddenly blurred his vision. He who never cried. With his hand over the mouthpiece he tried to collect himself; more tears fell and he sank deeper into the sofa. With all the self-control he could muster he tried to continue the conversation.
‘So you have no idea where she could have got my name?’
‘No, unfortunately. I can understand if it seems strange. I’ve gone through the personal records and I didn’t find you in her family. She was unmarried, had no children, and the only family I found was a childless sister, but she died back in the late fifties.’
Seconds passed; everything was swimming around. He straightened up.
‘How old was she, did you say?’
‘The sister?’
‘No, Gerda Persson.’
He heard her leafing through some papers.
‘She was born in 1914, so ninety-two.’
He grabbed a pen. There was something that didn’t add up. Ninety-two minus thirty-four was fifty-eight.
‘A woman couldn’t have a child at that age, could she?’
There was silence on the other end. Kristoffer realised to his dismay that all this dizziness had made him think out loud.
‘What?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘At the age of ninety-two? No, I don’t think so, even if science is discovering the most astounding things.’
Kristoffer cursed his clumsiness. She couldn’t find out, nobody must find out! Not before everything was cleared up and it was possible to excuse what they had done.
‘What happens next?’
‘You mean with regard to the inheritance itself?’
He had actually been thinking of something more important. How he could find out more about Gerda Persson and how she knew about his existence.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not complicated. We can make an appointment to meet so that you can get some information about the estate, and then it’s up to you what you want to do. I can tell you about various alternatives, but first I have to arrange everything for the funeral. The flat and the rest will have to wait until afterwards. Perhaps you’d like to come?’