In a sudden moment of clarity she understood that in forty years it would be her turn to see the meaninglessness of life finally confirmed. Just like Alice, over the years she would spread her bitterness over anyone who came near her, over Ellen and her future family. Passing on to her daughter the futile task of attempting to make up for a wasted life. Illuminated from a different angle, all perspectives had changed, her obligations to her daughter other than she had envisaged. For whose sake had she sacrificed herself? Who was expected to show gratitude? Ellen, who would be sent out into life with a distorted view of what love is? Jan-Erik, whose behaviour she condoned by not telling him to stop? What sort of role model was she for her daughter? Louise realised that her fear of making a move was merely selfish cowardice, for what joy would Ellen gain from a mother who was already dead? A mother who, when it was much too late, would expect gratitude for everything she had given up to keep the family together.
All she desired was to be allowed to surrender. To set free a life that had been imprisoned for so long. She could feel it inside, how it was begging for oxygen, pulling and tearing to be allowed to show its potential.
The instant she made her decision, everything became calm.
The little glass horse was standing on the window-sill. She reached out and picked it up, placing it gently in her hand. Then she returned to the kitchen. Alice was still standing where she had left her, picking through her parents’ silverware. Louise hesitated, wanting to thank her, but as usual couldn’t quite find the words. She put her hand tentatively on her shoulder.
‘I’m going now, Alice. Good luck with everything you have to do. I’m taking this little horse and giving it to Ellen. I know she’d love to have it.’
T
orgny was sitting at his kitchen table holding Gerda’s obituary. No poem. No grieving relatives. Just as anonymous as his own would be one day, if someone even took the trouble to put one in the paper.
His black suit was hanging in the hall. Nowadays he only wore it to funerals. Newly brushed but as outdated as himself. A disguise he allowed himself now and then.
He would often look in the newspaper to see who had died, and if a name sounded familiar he would go to the funeral. A chance to get out and kill some time, steal a little sympathy. His tie had once been tied by Halina’s fingers. He had never undone it. He simply widened the loop a bit and pulled it over his head, wearing his noose as a symbolic marker.
He struck a match and lit a cigarette, opening the window a crack as he’d promised the landlady when the neighbours complained about the smell of smoke from his flat. For fifty-four years this had been his home, ever since he moved to Stockholm. With youthful enthusiasm he had moved into the city proper, ready for the world to open up to him. A world that had been divided into black and white, where no nuances of grey had yet made themselves felt. The black was everything he had left behind; his childhood and the inherited job as a metalworker. Even as a child he had felt different. Early on he’d learned to hide his pain whenever a schoolmate, one of his brothers, or his father gave vent to their fury because he refused to apologise for his individuality.
Short, thin and not very strong, he was easy prey for anyone who felt so inclined. Until he discovered the power of language. With his new-found weapon he fended off every antagonist, and over the years he honed his argumentative technique to perfection. Not that he escaped being bullied; on the contrary, people who are inarticulate are quick to raise their fists, but the beatings were always easier to bear when he knew that he’d already won.
The white part was what awaited him in the future. Stockholm, its cultural offerings, and the writer’s life that had begun. He would certainly show everybody back home just who they had been laughing at.
He would soon turn seventy-eight. Twilight had come early, his life had long been moving towards evening. The days were growing more desolate; everyone he’d known was gone or had been lost somewhere along the way. Few people were left who could share his memories.
He looked at the obituary he’d torn out of the paper.
Kristoffer’s confession had forced Torgny to concede that an aeon of time had passed, to accept all the wasted days and the fact that his waiting had long ago become meaningless. The little boy was transformed into a grown man, but in Torgny’s world he was still a sorely missed four-year-old. What Kristoffer had told him was a final confirmation that Halina was no longer alive.
Torgny hadn’t had time to ask for Kristoffer’s phone number or his last name. The boy he’d once viewed as his own had surfaced only to disappear once more. Above all else he wanted to be able to see him again.
How strange that he’d turned up just now, when the advent of Gerda’s funeral had also speeded up his memories. It was asking too much of him to attend. He couldn’t handle it now that the images of what he had done had surfaced, bursting through the thin membrane in which he’d wrapped his shame.
He no longer even understood why he’d wanted to go to
the funeral in the first place. Maybe it was so he could take one last look at the man who had destroyed his life. One last look, to reinforce the hatred that had been his only lifelong companion.
He threw the cigarette butt out of the window and closed it. He no longer wanted to remember anything now, and he buried the obituary under a pile of newspapers. It didn’t help. Gerda and all that was connected to her memory lingered on. They had barely known each other; they’d merely exchanged an occasional word when he was at the house. On the way in or out he might stop for a moment as she worked in the kitchen or knelt by a flower-bed.
The last time he’d seen her was immediately afterwards. On the verge of vomiting he’d rushed out of the house and, leaning on his knees, tried to throw up all his own wickedness.
He shook another cigarette out of the packet but left the window closed. He got up to fetch a beer but slumped back on the chair when he remembered that he’d drunk them all.
If only he’d understood then that he was genuinely happy. Back then, when Halina and Kristoffer had been in his life and he still had the ability to write. When he didn’t have to crouch behind the words after once and for all losing the right to make himself heard. Not until all was lost had he realised what he’d had. His suffering increased by the contrast.
The invisible breaking point.
Not until much later had it become as clear as a beacon.
The moment when Halina had asked him to take her to Västerås.
He should have been suspicious, since she never wanted to come along. Childcare was so expensive, she always said. Wasn’t it when he mentioned that Axel Ragnerfeldt was going to be there that she suddenly changed her mind?
As so many times before, the answer had forgotten its question, when everything in the light of what followed had become apparent.
In the period that followed, everything was Axel this and
Axel that. Her constant comments about his brilliance. His books that she kept reading, over and over again. They were spread out all over the flat, a visible confirmation of Axel’s superiority. Torgny tried to swallow the hurt but she noticed straightaway and used it against him during their arguments. When it seemed that nothing could get any worse, the intimations came sneaking in – that they’d spent the night together in Västerås behind his back. The sly passing of little notes and letters that proved the contact had continued. The excruciating jealousy he’d felt.
Axel Ragnerfeldt, always his superior, demonstrably possessed a greater gift than he had. Who had achieved all the respect that Torgny had always coveted.
In the end also superior as a man and lover.
He thought about the day when Halina packed her bags and took Kristoffer with her. He did nothing to stop them. He had believed her when she said that Axel was waiting for them. He hadn’t begun searching until it was too late. When it became obvious that Axel was still living with his family, and Halina and Kristoffer seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth.
He got up and looked at the painting. Her gaze that always followed him. Whenever he looked she was there, her elusive eyes taking in his every meaningless step. Eternally young, constantly present, always within reach. Like a chronic disease she had lodged in his chest and refused to let go. Was it her he still loved, or merely the idea of their love? Had time beautified the colours, toned down her moodiness and unforgivable betrayal? Was she only a stubborn melody playing over and over, bewitching him?
His prison consisted of all that remained unfinished, his longing for an explanation; everything was laid open with no means of closing it up again.
At first he had felt utterly paralysed. When he was forced to give up his search and no longer knew what he should do, the walls of the flat, emphasising her absence, kept creeping
closer and drove him outdoors. In the crush of people there was no one like her; each meeting became an insufferable reminder. Then, in his despair, he had begun to write. He shut himself in the flat and tried to recreate her, deep in his heart, hoping that she would return the day she read what he’d written. When she got a chance to see how brilliant he was.
The Wind Whispers Your Name
became the best thing he had ever written.
But not even that lured her home.
Once again he was beaten. The glowing reviews had been pushed off the cultural pages. All the news was about Axel Ragnerfeldt and his Nobel Prize; his literary triumph,
Shadow
, which had finally convinced the Swedish Academy. Praised to the skies, the book had been named the novel of the century. At first Torgny didn’t want to read it, but curiosity won out. He needed to see with his own eyes what it was that made this man so superior. And made Torgny a nobody.
He remembered his reluctance when he bought it at the bookshop.
And his shock when after only the first page he’d understood.
A year after the terrible day when he’d stood in the Ragnerfeldts’ living room and been forced to apologise, he realised the enormity of the lie.
Torgny didn’t even bother to ring the doorbell. He just opened the door and walked right in, feeling fully entitled to do so. No more tiptoeing round a man who was worth more contempt than he could possibly muster. Gerda saw him from the kitchen as he passed by, but she was so surprised she didn’t say a word. She just came dashing after him as he strode towards Axel’s office. Torgny had already opened the door by the time she caught up. Axel jumped out of his chair but managed to control himself. Yet Torgny had time to see the glint of fear in his eyes.
‘It’s all right, Gerda, I’ll handle this.’
He didn’t even look at Torgny as he walked past and closed the door in Gerda’s worried face. Without a word he went back to his desk, sat down in the chair and folded his hands in front of him on the desktop. For a moment they were both silent, then Axel gave an awkward smile as if to test the waters.
‘Torgny, it’s been a long time.’
Wary but not unfriendly.
Torgny was still standing by the door. The sight of Axel’s discomfort made him want to drag things out for a while. His feigned politeness, a red flush at his throat. Torgny felt a strange sense of calm. With truth on his side, for the first time he had the upper hand. The power he felt was intoxicating. He sipped at the situation as if it were expensive champagne.
‘I must congratulate you on being elected to the Swedish Academy.’
‘Thank you.’
Torgny held his gaze slightly too long but then released him and looked around the room. He went over to one wall, peering with interest at the certificates and photographs, well aware of the uneasiness his silence was creating.
‘Was there something particular you wanted?’
Torgny continued studying the wall with his back turned. He ran his finger along the top of a frame and shook off the dust.
‘I think Gerda’s missed a bit.’
He turned round and walked slowly across the room to the bookshelf. With his head cocked to one side he read the spines of the books, and after a while he found
The Wind
Whispers Your Name
.
‘Well, look here. Have you had time to read such trivial literature? And there I was, thinking you were busy writing your own books.’
‘Can I offer you something? Coffee? Whisky?’
‘No thanks.’
Silence again, and he ran his finger along the row of Axel’s books.
‘I assume you’ve come on some business. I didn’t know you were going to drop in, and I do have other plans.’
Torgny stopped.
‘So you think I’m here on some business?’
‘Yes.’
He looked at Axel. ‘And what sort of business do you think that might be?’
Axel didn’t answer.
Torgny went back to
The Wind Whispers Your Name
and plucked it from the shelf. For a moment he stood weighing it in his hand.
‘Do you know who this book is about?’
‘I’m sorry to admit that I actually haven’t had a chance to read it yet.’
‘No, I can understand that, you’ve been busy. I’ll tell you, so you don’t have to waste your precious time. It’s about Halina. Perhaps you remember her? The woman we had such a pleasant conversation about out in your woodshed a year ago. Does that ring a bell?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
Torgny put on a thoughtful expression.
‘Now, let’s see. I believe I can recall that conversation pretty much word for word. One usually does when an experience is so unpleasant. I remember one detail in particular, since it made me feel so relieved at the time. It was when you said that nothing had happened between you and Halina. Isn’t that what you said?’
‘And nothing did, either.’
‘You said that you hadn’t had anything to do with each other.’
‘What are you getting at?’
The flush on Axel’s throat had spread to his face.
Torgny shook his head.
‘You know, Axel, there have been times when I’ve been
jealous of you, when I’ve been forced to admit that you actually had something special, not only because of your books but because of what I thought you stood for.’
He looked at Axel’s clasped hands. The knuckles had turned white. With clenched teeth he let Torgny’s words pass without countering them.
Torgny could no longer maintain his poise.
‘How the hell can you sit there and keep pretending when you know you’ve been exposed, that I know what a fucking charlatan you really are?’
Axel’s arms began to shake and he thrust his hands into his lap. Torgny put his book back on the shelf and took down a copy of
Shadow
. Axel saw what he was doing but quickly looked away, as if he couldn’t bear to see what was happening. Torgny watched him, careful not to miss a drop of his evaporating dignity.
‘How does it feel to win the Nobel Prize after having been praised to the heavens for this book?’
Axel didn’t move. Then he took in a deep breath, the kind you take before a dive. For several seconds he held it, then let it go; his body fell forward and he leaned his forehead against his typewriter. Torgny stood quite still and watched the facade crumble.
‘Where is she?’
Minutes passed. Long minutes. Axel looked as if it was taking all his concentration to stay in his chair. Then he began to gasp for words, but stopped as soon as anything was about to cross his lips.
‘You have to help me, Torgny.’
‘Tell me where she is.’
With difficulty Axel managed to straighten up, and the face Torgny saw was that of a stranger.
‘I don’t know, I swear. She said something about going back to Poland. Torgny, please, you have to understand, I was completely desperate.’
He was begging, with despair in his eyes. Torgny was shocked
at what he saw. Axel Ragnerfeldt, obsequiously asking for his sympathy. He couldn’t say a word. What he saw made him sick. He looked at the book in his hands, let the pages riffle through his fingers. All those letters, all those words, that taken together described the worst hell a human being can endure. The conditions in a concentration camp described in a way that no one but the person who had endured them could describe. Written down in anguish in order to silence the demons. Axel Ragnerfeldt had plundered and robbed everything from her. He had stolen her thoughts, raped her soul.