A
lice Ragnerfeldt didn’t need an alarm clock to get up early in the morning. Even though she would rather stay asleep. She’d always said she preferred the night-time, revelling in the space those sleeping left behind. But being awake and having insomnia were two different things. Nowadays she wanted nothing more than to be able to sleep, but the sleeping pills only worked for a few hours. In the small hours she would wake up with vascular cramps. A heaviness around her heart, as if all the world’s horrors had landed on her chest. Getting old was nothing but one long, drawn-out torment. The face of a strange old woman in her mirror. The anticipation of youth had been transformed as if by magic into the bewilderment of old age. The realisation that everything had gone so fast and so little had been accomplished. Chance occurrences that imperceptibly slid over into conditions that could not be budged. Decisions were made even though she could never remember being involved. People appeared, briefly kept her company and then departed.
Everything had become dispersed but nothing had been lost. The essence of her life remained, like preserved fruit from a season long gone.
Yet it wasn’t the vascular cramps that woke her this morning, but a pain in her right calf. She had been waiting for it, and as she stretched out her foot to alleviate the cramp, she turned on the light and pulled out the newspaper clippings from her nightstand. Taking them out of the plastic sleeve she immediately found the right one.
15 September. 900,000 Swedes
are struck by kidney disease – most of them without knowing it.
A simple test can reveal kidney failure
. She read through the list of symptoms again: headache in the morning, fatigue the first and most common sign, itching, swollen legs, then at a later stage nausea and vomiting. There, there it was. She knew she had seen it.
Leg cramps are also common, probably because of
the disturbance of the salt equilibrium.
She would ask Jan-Erik to drive her to the clinic. Ring and get an appointment. She would demand that they take a new sample, even if she had to pay for it herself.
She stood up and raised the window blind. Outside it was still dark. She put on her slippers and dressing gown, and went out to the kitchen. Tore a page off the calendar and filled the coffee-machine with water. Not just one cup today. Jan-Erik and a Marianne Folkesson were supposed to visit around ten, so she might as well make the coffee now. And she needed to see if she had anything ironed to wear, now that someone from outside the neighbourhood was coming to have a look at Axel Ragnerfeldt’s wife.
Gerda Persson.
She hadn’t a clue why they should have anything to do with Gerda’s funeral, but Jan-Erik had insisted. She poured a glass of water and took her pills. She skipped her little shot of whisky today; she didn’t want to smell of booze when Jan-Erik arrived. He didn’t come very often, as he was so busy. It was mostly Louise she heard from these days. Imagine, he was already fifty years old. Her Jan-Erik. How the years flew by. Annika would have been forty-five. She clenched her jaw. It happened less and less, but now and then the memory would flit past uninvited. The tyranny of age. The slowness of the present speeded up the past.
As a young girl she had known everything. Strong-willed and choosy, she’d had definite ideas about the way life should be. Influenced by the feminist movement, she’d be damned if she’d follow the paths that others had taken before her. The modern woman had to be strong and take responsibility
for herself, demand more of herself but also of men. Together men and women would create a better world. That’s what the feminists had written, and Alice had agreed with every word.
As the third in a family of five children, she’d obediently helped out with chores on the farm, trying out of sheer self-preservation to adapt to the little community in which the path one was expected to take was blatantly clear. But in secret she harboured a hope for something greater. She had been the odd one out in her childhood home. She wondered why she couldn’t be satisfied like her siblings. Why she could never fix her eyes on things within sight, but always felt compelled to direct her longing towards the horizon. Away from the crunch of the gravel path under her bicycle wheels and the distant cries from a football pitch. Away from the smell of new-mown grass and the familiar faces in the little town. Away from the security of the season’s recurring daily chores.
Books had been her refuge. And she had counted the days until she could head off for the big city and all its opportunities.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and put the rest in a thermos. Sitting down, she looked at her legs. They were a bit swollen, especially the right calf where the cramp was. She would ring the clinic as soon as it opened. She glanced at the kitchen clock. In three hours Jan-Erik would be here. Before that she’d put her hair in curlers so she’d look nice when he arrived. As nice as she could look, these days. Her thick, chestnut-brown hair was also a thing of the past, but she could always amuse herself by thinking about it.
Back then, in the late forties, she had worn her long hair pinned up. She had turned twenty-one, thus was of age, and her parents could no longer force her to stay at home. Even so, her departure had occurred with much commotion, and she had left with only ominous warnings in her bags. She took lodgings with an angry lady in Vasastan, in the centre
of Stockholm, and went out looking for a job; what sort was not important. She wanted to write, and all hardships were acceptable since she knew where she was headed and nothing could stop her. Damned if she wouldn’t show her family back home that she’d made the right decision. On the second day she was hired as an assistant at a Wassberg’s beauty parlour in the City Palace building at Norrmalmstorg. Her duties were to wash the customers’ hair, make coffee, and keep all the hairdressers’ equipment clean, the brushes combed out. She could perform most of her tasks while listening to the rich conversations between customer and hairdresser. Sometimes usable as inspiration for the stories she wrote at night; in the best cases for small articles that she sold for cash to some newspaper.
As a new immigrant to the big city she quickly discovered the places frequented by similar-minded people. Those with extravagant dreams and empty wallets whose genius would be discovered any day now. Those who considered themselves gifts to the world and whose distinctive characters would in future appear in cultural history; young women and men, lingering over glasses of beer or wine, artistic equals and presumptive bed companions. The war was over and the future one long avenue of possibilities. The restaurants Tennstopet, W6, Pilen and Löwet. They would spend every evening smoking Gauloises to compensate for not being in Paris, preferably near one of the tables where the journalists from the big dailies drowned their sorrows. Axel had been one of that crowd of young people, someone she hadn’t noticed at first. Nor had he shown any particular interest in her.
She got up and went to the refrigerator, checking she wasn’t out of milk. Jan-Erik always took milk in his coffee. She drank it black, a habit from the days when it was supposed to help her stay alert even though she was cross-eyed with fatigue. When the days were filled with hair and the nights with pounding on her portable Royal typewriter that she
had bought in a second-hand shop for seventeen kronor. At least that was her routine until the angry landlady forbade her to use the noisy machine and forced her to write in longhand. The waste-paper basket filled up with crumpled pages and returned manuscripts from publishers and magazine editors. In the evenings anguish could be shared and diluted with red wine, only to reappear with the next rejected manuscript.
No replies came to her letters home, despite her reassurances that everything was going well. She received a single note from one of her older siblings, a printed greeting card with wishes for a Happy Christmas and New Year. When things were at their worst she sometimes wished she were back down on aching knees amongst the weeds in the turnip fields, or feeling the sweaty prickle of hay on the drying racks: tangible results of an honest day’s work instead of feeling her mind rambling on endlessly. She was just about to give up when it finally happened. A few sentences in a letter, proving that her literary turnip fields were cleared and the drying racks were ready.
She smiled at the memory, remembering how she strode into Tennstopet restaurant like a queen and announced that her novel had been accepted. She felt as if she were physically raised above the crowd. Her personal, meticulous choice of letter combinations had been judged as more skilful than those of all the others. Her door had opened, while the others were still knocking on theirs. The smiles – some honest and happy for her sake, but most of them filled with distrust. How could the world be blind to their greatness yet take notice of her insignificant scribblings? From across the table, Axel’s blue eyes had burned into hers, taking her breath away. He was the only one not smiling, not toasting and congratulating her. He just gave her a look that screamed that he wanted to have her. Have her right then, if only she would stop lowering herself to the level of the riffraff surrounding them and follow him out of there. The thought
had been dizzying: for once to say to hell with all obligations and let herself be swept along; finally to live the life for which she was destined. After that evening they had made a pact.
Art above all else
. Together they would realise their dreams and give the world what it had always longed for; nothing would stand in their way. And with a passion that almost killed them they had set to work.
At first everything had been wonderful. Too good to be true. She recalled how she often had that very thought. As if all her childhood dreams about how things could be had come to pass. She wrote long letters home and told them all about it, no longer as compliant, but still she got no reply.
They stopped going out with the old crowd. Hidden from the world they gave themselves over to their creativity. She received a small advance from her publisher, and occasionally they managed to sell a poem or short article to some magazine, which made their scant income stretch a bit further. Through Axel’s contacts they were able to rent a little house with two rooms and kitchen just outside Stockholm. Each had a room with a desk and bed. Being a couple made them bold, and what before had felt lonely and vulnerable now became a bulwark against mediocrity; two co-conspirators wrapped up in their separate worlds but at night reunited in the heat of passion.
She sat down at the kitchen table again and stared at her coffee cup. It had been bought by Gerda some time in the seventies. Maybe she should tell that to the woman from the council so they could mention it at the funeral. Always something. She hadn’t taken much with her when she moved to the flat after Axel had his stroke. She had no idea why she’d brought the coffee cups along. She hadn’t been able to get away fast enough, and Jan-Erik and Louise were left to pack most of the things. Maybe this was the reason – the cups were quite ugly when she inspected them more closely.
She played with her wedding ring. Slid it down her finger and looked at the impression it had left. For fifty-four years
she had worn it, and it had carved its way deeper and deeper into her finger. Just the two of them and a minister; no guests were invited, not even Axel’s parents. She knew he’d regretted it later, but since her parents refused to put in an appearance, his shouldn’t be there either. Fair’s fair.
Or that’s what he’d said back then.
In order to demonstrate their union they had both renounced their surnames and become united in the joint name ‘Ragnerfeldt’, the name that would bear their words out into the world. They both had novels published, first Alice and then Axel immediately after. Their new name became a constant on the arts pages. Their youth held the critics back, but more and more words of praise crept into the reviews. With genuine interest they participated in each other’s creations, following each other’s meandering thought processes, offering suggestions when needed and words of encouragement when things were going badly. After they both published a second novel, their affiliation was secured, but it brought higher expectations as well. Their books did not sell in great numbers, and they were utterly dependent on the publishers’ willingness to pay advances. The increased pressure made it harder for them to write. It had been so much easier to be new and to surprise people than it was to live up to expectations. They were both afflicted by writer’s block and retreated into their own work, becoming indifferent to the other’s. Fewer words were written when they met in the evening, and their reunion half-hearted since they both became mired in frustration over what had not been achieved. But even half-hearted seed is good enough to conceive a child. A year later they bought the house in Nacka, and Jan-Erik was born. Contact with their old friends ceased completely since their new bourgeois life in the wealthy suburb aroused only contempt or disinterest. And a new era began. Their creativity was hampered by wakeful nights and hazy days. The baby demanded new routines that conflicted with publishers’ expectations. Where mutual consideration
had prevailed, it now became necessary to guard their own territory. The fictional characters of the novel suddenly invaded reality to compete with the shrieking baby who demanded constant attention. They were not content with the occasions that arose when Jan-Erik was sleeping, or with the scheduled writing times that they finally had to establish to avoid arguments. And then, like a preliminary solution, Gerda came into the picture. At least to remove all the dirt and take care of the cooking and other daily chores which had forced them into a situation that left not the slightest room for creativity.
Gerda Persson.
Once again Alice felt irritated that she was expected to take an interest in the woman’s death. It was odd what a fuss was being made. Money was so tight everywhere nowadays that the council must have more important things to worry about. What she knew about Gerda was not much, despite the fact that they’d lived under the same roof for almost twenty-five years, from the years Jan-Erik was a baby until the day Gerda turned sixty-seven and needed a housekeeper of her own. And she needed one even before that; she was quite slovenly, if truth be told. But Axel had refused to replace her and let a stranger into the house. He had thought that Alice was exaggerating her criticism. She in turn hadn’t understood what difference it would make to exchange one stranger for another. It was a mystery to her how Axel could have any opinion about the household, since he was always cooped up in his office. Gerda was constantly there, padding through the house like a cat, but they hadn’t really known each other. The boundary between the gentry and servants was clear as glass, and they had both been equally inclined to maintain that distance. But Gerda always had a front-row seat. She had witnessed Alice’s transformation from Axel’s companion and artistic equal to representative wife who was expected to stand by his side and be happy for his sake, watching as he received his honours. Gerda had been along for the whole
ride, and Alice begrudged the fact that Gerda knew that she knew that she knew.