O
ne more and then he would go home. He ought to have gone a long time ago, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Nor had he called home to let them know he’d be late, and he’d ignored the mobile ringing in his pocket. In his other pocket was Annika’s death certificate, and several times he had taken it out to read. Trying to convince himself that he hadn’t missed something, a word or innuendo that might give him an explanation.
Why did you do it? How the hell could you leave me here alone?
You’d already left. We had no idea where you were. You were the
one who left me.
The woman behind the bar served him what he ordered. Maybe he was just imagining the contempt in her eyes; maybe his own opinion simply mirrored in her gaze. He’d already had too much to drink. There was a roaring in his ears, and the contours of everything around him kept blurring and then slowly returning to their original state. He asked for a glass of water and heard himself slurring.
They had never fought the way he understood other siblings did. There had never been enough space for that. They had been forced to form a united front against everything that was unpredictable – Axel when he turned his back on them and Alice who would sometimes get angry and other times beg for more love than they were capable of giving. He couldn’t comprehend how his mother had managed for all those years to keep the suicide a secret. Why she had never said a word about it. Not even when he finally
returned from the States, more than six months after it happened. Back when he found himself a run-down bedsit and wanted to manage on his own and she kept popping up at his place of refuge, always unwelcome. Sometimes drunk, sometimes sober. Always begging for his affection. The bitterness about Axel that she dumped on him in an attempt to turn him into her ally. He had hated her tears. He wanted to be left alone, to cut all ties and have a chance to start his own life. To be honest, he probably hadn’t made the proper sort of effort. Nor had he turned down the money she would foist on him, since his visits to the in-crowd hangouts cost a good deal. But he had mixed in the right circles, and there was always somebody willing to pay the bill. His surname had an astonishing way of making new contacts. Doors were opened, queues vanished. The letters of his name were a guarantee of Jan-Erik’s splendid qualities. Not everyone had a father who had won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
‘We’re closing now.’
He couldn’t raise his head but saw a hand and a light-blue cloth wiping the bar in circles. He grabbed his glass and raised it to his lips, downed the whisky and immediately felt like throwing up. He stumbled off the bar-stool and tried to get control of the nausea but couldn’t. Something had to come out. Without looking round he rushed towards the door and made it about ten metres outside before the contents of his stomach spewed out on the pavement. He stood there leaning over with his hands on his knees and saw through his tears the vomit on his shoes. He couldn’t go home like this. He’d have to walk for a while to sober up a bit. Most of all he wanted to go home to bed and sleep as long as necessary, so he could wake up and no longer feel the way he felt.
The streets were deserted and the city seemed different. What had been concealed in the bustle of the day became visible at night. He wandered aimlessly along the streets of Östermalm. Occasionally he would meet a bunch of youths
on their way downtown, those who were in the process of finding a life for themselves. Now and then he saw a middle-aged night roamer who at the midpoint of his life had dis covered that what he’d found was no good and set out to search again. And occasionally he saw one of those who’d got lost and was stumbling about with paper bags hoping only for a miracle, or death.
He grew increasingly cold and thirsty. Not until the ground stopped pitching up and down and a mild headache set in did he dare head home. In the stairwell he went into the utility room and threw away his shoes. In his stockinged feet he walked up the stairs; the risk of meeting someone at this time of night was slim. As quietly as he could he put the key in the door and turned it. He stopped and listened. It was almost three in the morning, and if he was in luck she would already be asleep. Gingerly he pressed down the handle and opened the door a crack. Only the little lamp on the hall table was on; the rest of the flat was dark. He hung up his coat and went straight to the bathroom and put his mouth under the tap to quench his thirst. Then he tossed all his clothes in the laundry basked and got into the shower. The nausea had retreated, to be replaced by disgust. He should have come straight home instead of sitting in a bar. She would ask him where he’d been and why he hadn’t called, and he had no intention of telling her. Confess to her that his sister had hanged herself and his parents had lied about it for all these years? He knew what she thought about his family and didn’t plan to give her more grist for the mill.
He stepped out of the shower and dried himself, rubbing the towel harder than was comfortable. Then he drank more water in the hope of easing his headache. After brushing his teeth thoroughly and wiping off all the white spots on the bathroom mirror even more thoroughly, he stood and looked at himself. He had a hard time meeting his own gaze. He had to cut down on the drinking, he really did; he hated
hangovers. It was already creeping over him. It would force him to suffer through the anxiety his boozing had postponed.
He unlocked the door and peered out cautiously. Everything was quiet. Only the unpleasant sound of his own heartbeat pulsated like the bass on a dance floor. He padded down the hall past Ellen’s door and went into his office. Reached behind the books but changed his mind before his hand found the bottle. He wanted it, and yet he didn’t. He went out to the living room. The door to the bedroom was closed and no light seeped through the little crack at the bottom.
On the table in the kitchen stood a candelabra with candles that had never been lit, and in front of the chair where he usually sat were a wine glass, a plate and half a bottle of wine. Two saucepans on the stove. He closed his eyes. It was just a matter of accepting that everything was untenable in the long run. It was only a question of time before it all began to crumble. Couldn’t anyone tell him what to do? This morning’s conversation came back to him, but suddenly all the rage had drained out of him. All he was appealing for was calm, all he wanted was to be forgiven. He would do better, see to it that there was a change, he really would! Imagine if what he had done tonight was the last straw, the final thing that made her decide. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. He pressed his hand against his chest. He would stop drinking, he would, and now he really meant it, because this wasn’t worth it, not by a long shot. He went back out to the living room and looked at the closed bedroom door. So many times he had wished that she wouldn’t lie in there waiting, but now, faced with the possibility of having his wish granted, he imagined for the first time in earnest that the room really was empty. That instead she lay in another bed next to some other man. That Ellen’s room was empty and quiet and that another pappa who was better suited would take his place. All at once he wanted to cry, but no
tears came and instead he got a cramp in his chest. Something broke loose inside and came bubbling up to the surface, from all the way down in the depths, where it had lain submerged in the blackest ooze.
An overwhelming fear that Louise would abandon him, leaving him all alone.
A
xel lay wide awake. Since not even one of the twenty-four hours made any specific demands, they were all interchangeable. He often lay sleepless at night. Waking hours that were compensated for during the day when he was still lying there. But tonight there was something else hovering over his wakefulness. Jan-Erik’s visit and everything he’d said had dragged him away from where he wanted to be and left him with memories he didn’t want to confront. Now they were streaming in from every direction, like old acquaintances happy that he’d finally got in touch. Eager to contribute what they could, as if they’d never been banished. Shadows crowded around the bed, all talking at once to fill in the gaps. Piece after piece was dragged out to complete the picture. Even the emotions he’d once felt, which he’d always wanted to forget. Because like spilled water one could never take back what one had once said and done.
The desire to be perfect. To know that not a single shadow could stain. To be able to lean on his life’s work, and deep inside know that it was untouchable.
He was back in the little room where they gathered, where the bookseller was informing them of the order of events at Västerås Theatre.
‘… and we thought that Axel should close the show. Then there’ll be a book signing in the foyer, where tables and book displays will be set up, and when the whole thing is over
we’ll serve some hot food, canapés and sweets, and then the evening can continue as long as you like.’
Axel thumbed through his book and noticed that his hands were sweaty. This was the fourth Book Day event he had participated in this autumn, and as usual they wanted him to close it. Implicit in this was that he was the big name of the evening, a fact not always appreciated by the other authors.
‘I hope there’s a little something for the throat as well, and not just hot food.’
Scattered laughter followed Torgny Wennberg’s comment. He was the one who had the honour of opening the evening.
‘I don’t think anyone will be disappointed.’
They were sitting in a room behind the stage. Book Day was a popular event out in the country, and the tickets were sold out. The authors had an opportunity to read aloud and discuss their books and perhaps sell a few copies. In the early seventies the book trade had fluctuated as book prices rose, sales dropped and bookshops closed. Now optimism had begun to grow, but publishers were still being cautious with their lists. Even though Axel was comparatively safe, he had sensed an undertone of concern from his publisher that it had been a long time since he had delivered a new manuscript. In the end it was his publisher who had convinced him to show up at some Book Day celebrations during the autumn, even though he had nothing new to offer. Axel had been reluctant. The book he was struggling with was far from ready, and he feared more and more that he might never finish it. For days he sat ensconced in his office without squeezing out a single word, and with each day he grew more frustrated. Worried that something had been lost. Before, creativity had been taken for granted, as if all he had to do was open up to the universe and take notes – a collaboration with a divine source that flowed through his pen. His duty and calling was to write down what came to him. He had a feeling of being chosen. The process was very delicate and required that he shield himself from earthly distractions.
Now he wondered if the gift had deserted him. Or maybe it was Alice’s bitterness that lay like a cloud over the house and blocked the flow. After Jan-Erik had moved to the States she had become even more difficult to be around. It was as though the air itself was contaminated by her presence, which halted all creativity. It had contributed to his decision to say yes to travelling this autumn. The opportunity to breathe a little fresh air.
Despite his loss of creative power the promoters wanted him to close the evening. He felt neither joy nor pride. He hid behind old achievements, and it gave him as little satisfaction as the memory of a sandwich when he was hungry. Writing was what he lived for, and without it he was nothing. To lap up admiration from a stage only made him uncomfortable, as if the audience were secretly peeking at him through a keyhole.
‘You’re on in ten minutes.’
The evening’s organiser left the room and only the authors remained. He had known Torgny for some time, while the other two were strangers, one a first-time novelist and the other a crime writer. The latter had apparently sold a good number of books, although it was incomprehensible to Axel that people read such drivel.
Torgny reached out his hand and grabbed the book that Axel had on his lap, eyeing it as if it might divulge a secret.
‘Oh, that’s right, you haven’t published a new novel this year. This one’s two years old, isn’t it?’
He turned the book over.
‘So you’re going to read from this one, I suppose, since you won’t say anything about your writing, as usual.’
He laughed but his taunt was clear to everyone in the room.
‘Yes, I thought I’d read a few selected passages.’
‘How’s your new one going, then? Or maybe you can’t tell me about it because then you’d have to shoot me.’
He cast a glance at the two listeners in the room who
were obviously amused by this exchange, and by Torgny’s disrespectful tone towards the famously shy author. Axel was aware of his reputation but had no intention of apologising for taking his creativity seriously. There were plenty of buffoons like Torgny, never missing a chance to draw attention to themselves. He came to visit sometimes, always without an invitation and always with a bottle in his pocket. Sometimes the visits would amuse Axel as a welcome break in the daily grind, but often he found them simply tiresome. They came from a similar background; both had made the escape from poor working-class homes. He suspected that Torgny’s visits were prompted more by curiosity and a desire to stay up to date. With the starting blocks in the same place it was possible to pick a winner, and the race was always on. Axel knew very well that Torgny’s indulgent friendship was feigned, since Axel was several lengths ahead in the race. His name had even been mentioned in connection with the Nobel Prize. The fact that he had not yet been elected to the Swedish Academy was remarkable and much discussed, and not merely an omission that was magnified by his own offended look.
‘It’s going well, very well in fact. I just don’t want to let go of it before it’s done, so I’ll hold onto it a bit longer and polish it up. Nobody wants to publish a book that’s worse than the last.’
Torgny’s latest novel had received bad reviews in the main papers. Axel had been somewhat amused by the sarcastic pieces.
Torgny looked at the clock.
‘I think it’s about time to go out.’
Axel remained seated in his chair. ‘Quite right. You’re supposed to lead off, aren’t you?’
Torgny smiled, winked and raised his hand. He pointed his finger like a pistol barrel and aimed it at Axel. At least he had a sense of humour.
* * *
The performance, if that was the right word for the evening’s event, was neither worse nor better than expected. Torgny’s opening act contained many funny lines, and one burst of laughter from the audience followed another. He told them frankly about the agonies of writing and his sources of inspiration, ending with a reading. Axel’s discomfort grew. The book in his hand seemed more irrelevant with each minute that passed, as if someone else had written it and he’d been sent to defend it. Now it was his turn to take the stage. He listened to the lyrical introduction and tried to step into the role of celebrated author.
‘… who with his unique narrative voice and his shimmering prose has given us so many magical reading experiences. With the clarity of his vision into the depths of the human soul he leads us in a search for atonement in a hard and inhumane world. In the contrast between light and darkness his characters assume razor-sharp contours, and their fates continue to enthrall us. Tonight it is with great pleasure that I have the honour of introducing Axel Ragnerfeldt.’
He didn’t recognise the man described. Only at his desk in the moment of inspiration was he this person. Not here and now, trembling in the wings, ready to show himself to the masses. Unsteadily he walked out on stage. The book in his hands was shaking, and he wondered if it was noticeable. A sea of expectant faces. Well-educated, intellectual, well-read.
Engineers.
At any moment he could be unmasked. He quickly turned to the first page and began to read. He read and read until his time was up and he was free to go. The audience’s thunderous applause. Like a wave it crashed over him, on and on. The master of ceremonies standing next to him seemed pleased at the evening’s success. Some in the audience stood up, pulling others with them, and there he was, Axel Andersson – now Ragnerfeldt – esteemed, celebrated, idolised by a standing ovation.
And it gave him nothing.
Nothing.
It was time for book signing; Axel and Torgny walked out to the foyer. There was no doubt which table was Axel’s; the queue was already quite long. A few fans were standing at the other authors’ tables, several more at the crime writer’s, but it was obvious that Torgny had no intention of showing his envy. After a pat on Axel’s back he went to his own table.
‘Just say the word if you need any help.’
Axel sat down and began signing books. Several of his older titles were on the table, and some of them ran out before the end of the queue. What fantastic books you write, said the strangers standing before him. Time after time: how good you are. It made him feel worse each time the words were repeated. What did they know about what was good? he wanted to ask. What is it that’s so good about my novels, can you tell me that? Anyone able to describe it would have the right to say the words, he thought, as he wrote his name in yet another book that would be read by yet another ignoramus. Someone who had no idea of the effort that lay behind the book. Who would rush through the pages without devoting the same care and time to each sentence as he had done.
The others had already filled their plates by the time he was finished and stepped into the room where the food was laid out. About thirty people were there, those involved in arranging the evening and specially invited guests. Everyone was already in high spirits.
He noticed her immediately. A perfect work of art among a pile of rejected sketches.
‘Come and sit with us, Axel, we’ve saved you a seat.’
It was Torgny calling to him, a bit louder than necessary. He had always been keen on pointing out how well they knew each other, forcing his way in and taking advantage of
the spotlight. The woman was sitting next to him, and the chair he was pointing to was facing her. Axel went over to the buffet and took a glass of red wine. His curiosity was aroused in a way that felt unfamiliar.
‘Axel, bring a bottle with you, we need a refill.’
The request was so loud that all conversation stopped, but when nothing more of interest occurred the chatter resumed. Axel took a bottle of red and went over to the place Torgny had saved for him. He tried to act less interested than he was. But a true aesthete could not ignore her beauty. She was staring at him intently, and his eyes swept past hers not daring to stop. Torgny grabbed the wine and filled their glasses.
‘Axel, this is Halina. She’s here with me but she didn’t want to come backstage to say hello before we started. She’s a bit shy that way.’
Torgny grinned.
‘I just didn’t want to bother you.’ She reached her hand across the table. ‘Halina.’
Axel took her hand. It was cool and dry and he felt that it might break if he squeezed too hard.
‘Axel.’
She gave him a little smile then lit a cigarette. He couldn’t help it, her touch had affected him. Shy as a schoolboy he sat down on the chair and tried to direct his attention elsewhere. His reaction surprised him; at forty-eight he thought that sort of response had been lost. So many years had passed since he’d last felt it.
Torgny babbled on. For once his torrent of words was welcome. Axel exchanged a few words with a man from the city’s bookshop, the whole time uncomfortably aware of her presence. Glasses were filled and emptied and the noise increased, chairs scraping on the marble floor as people moved around and changed places. Torgny stood up to get more food and fell into a conversation by the buffet table. She was the one who spoke.
‘We’ve met before. Do you remember?’
Axel was taken aback.
‘Really? I can’t believe I’d forget.’
The wine had given him courage. Her eyes were dark brown, her face framed by curly dark-brown hair. She was wearing an embroidered green jumper, and he had noticed straightaway that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her make-up was subtle, if she was wearing any at all, and on her left wrist she wore some thin silver bangles that clinked when she moved.
‘It was only a brief meeting, not particularly special, so it’s no wonder you don’t remember. At a writers’ demonstration in
’69.’
He certainly hadn’t forgotten the event, but he didn’t remember their meeting. In protest against the low payment they received for books borrowed from the libraries, the writers had gathered at the main branches of libraries in Stockholm, Göteborg, Malmö and Umeå. Together with sympathetic librarians they had emptied the shelves and driven off the books in buses, and hadn’t returned them until a week later. He had felt invigorated, taken back to his working-class roots.
‘So you’re a writer too?’
She smiled and fingered her glass.
‘I do the best I can, but I haven’t had anything published yet. I’m struggling. What I’m working on feels like it could turn into something, but right now I’m stuck.’
Her voice was as pleasant as her appearance. Despite her foreign name he could hear no accent. Her fingers slid along the stem of the wine glass, and he couldn’t stop following the movement with his eyes. He wanted to reach out his hand and touch her again, see whether her skin was as soft as it looked. It was so long since he had felt the nearness of a woman. Sometimes he would ejaculate in his sleep. Like a teenage boy. The body’s desperate self-regulation when nothing else was available.