The Double Silence (8 page)

She motioned towards Håkan and John, who had both fallen asleep at the back of the bus.

Andrea again glanced to the side and gave Beata an angry look.

‘On the other hand, she looks quite alert. At the next stop I’m going to change places with her. And that’s that.’

The tour ended in Hammars, and everyone realized that they must be very close to Bergman’s home. It was common knowledge that Bergman lived somewhere in Hammars.

‘In
Through a Glass Darkly
four people come up from the sea at that very spot,’ the guide told them, pointing at the shoreline north of Hammars. ‘And in the movie there’s a slender little tree on a cliff. Most people are very surprised when they see the same tree now, forty years later. It’s not so little any more.
Persona
was also shot right here.’

They all got off the bus and clips from the actual shooting of the film were shown on a large movie screen. It was easy to imagine Bergman clambering among the limestone rocks and along the shore, pointing and
gesturing as he conversed with the actors. Moving back and forth to get just the right shot with the right light; working with Sven Nykvist, who was always the cinematographer for his films.

They ambled over the rocks, enjoying the view. They noticed that a short distance away, Jörn Donner and the TV newsreader were walking on ahead. They seemed to have a specific destination in mind. They stopped in front of a fence that ran across the middle of the rocks. The field on the other side was nothing more than a wide expanse of stone-covered ground before the lowlying woods began. It seemed completely desolate.

Jörn Donner raised his hand and pointed, but they couldn’t hear what he was saying. They could only guess.

THE TOUR ENDED
with a luncheon, and by the time the group returned to the inn, it was already two in the afternoon. She declined to accompany the others to the beach and instead set off on a bicycle ride. She had already decided where to go, but she didn’t tell anyone what her plans were. She was going to try to find Bergman’s house. She glanced at her watch. She had four hours until she had to be back for the evening film showing. It was at least worth a try. She suspected that they had been very close to his house during the bus tour. She didn’t actually remember which way they had gone to get there, but she did know that he had lived somewhere in Hammars.

She decided to take a detour via the ferry dock at Broa in order to get some real exercise. She would bike around the promontory at Ryssudden and then go to the little village of Dämba. From there she would head to Hammars. She set off pedalling towards Fårö church, passed the turnoff for the
rauk
area called Langhammars, and continued down to the ferry dock. Just before reaching the strait between Fårö and Gotland, she turned on to a narrow, asphalt road and went past several limestone farmhouses that sold Fårö potatoes, strawberries and vegetables. What an idyllic country scene, she thought. On one side was the beautiful view of the sea and the houses situated on the shore of Fårösund. On the other side of her were the farms, windmills and small feed barns with high, thatched roofs typical of Fårö. She also saw flocks of sheep and windswept heaths where the trees were bent crooked by the wind, never growing taller than a metre high.

As the road meandered upwards, the landscape opened up: flat plains with stone walls in the middle of the barren landscape, juniper bushes, the skeletons of dead trees with white branches, and even more sheep, grazing undisturbed in the poor soil. She kept up a good pace, and it wasn’t long before she was drenched with sweat. She enjoyed the exertion and breathed air deep into her lungs. She passed a man standing at the edge of a ditch, staring at her. Without changing expression, he raised his hand in greeting. Otherwise the road was deserted. Most people had probably gone to the beach on such a beautiful day. Fårö had plenty of long sandy beaches.

She passed a big lake. The light-coloured gravel road, dusty with limestone, wound its way onwards, and she saw a cluster of houses up ahead. The secluded village of Dämba consisted of a dozen or so houses, surrounded by low walls. There were also small farms. An old windmill with broken sails stood on a hill a short distance away. Somewhere she’d heard that it belonged to Bergman, and that he’d used it as a guesthouse for people who worked on his films.

After a kilometre a sign appeared. Hammars. Her pulse quickened. She was now truly in Bergman country. A road, straight as an arrow, led east. On either side were meadows filled with flowers and hectares of oats billowing in the faint breeze. The sun was high overhead, and it had to be over 25 degrees centigrade. She passed pastures where well-nourished cows were grazing, and she caught glimpses of the sea. Here and there she saw a summer cottage. All of a sudden she found herself right outside a farm. Too late she discovered that it was private land, and a furious Doberman came rushing towards her as if shot out of a cannon, barking wildly. She froze in terror. The dog would reach her in a matter of seconds. She deeply regretted setting out at all. What business had she being here? At the very moment when she thought the dog was going to take a bite of her bare leg, she heard a sharp whistle. Like a remote-control robot, the dog stopped in mid-air and took off in another direction.

She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to stay here a second longer than necessary, so she pedalled as fast as she could, leaving behind the dog that didn’t like strangers. The owner shouted after her, but she
pretended not to hear. The road became smaller and smaller, and she jolted over cattle grids, through patches of woodland, and along expanses of shoreline. Several times flocks of sheep blocked the road, but they moved aside, bleating protests as their matchstick legs carried them in all directions. She continued on, even though by this time she had begun to have serious doubts that she was going the right way. Who cares if I’m lost, she thought. At least it’s beautiful here.

Suddenly the road split in two, and she ended up in front of a high gate with signs that said: ‘Private’, ‘Beware of the dog’, ‘Security’. Plus the name and phone number of the security company. Her mouth went dry. Was she in luck? Who else would have this kind of gate on Fårö?

Hesitantly she got off the bicycle, unsure what to do next. She looked around. There was no one in sight. The only sounds were a faint roar from the sea, a few chirping birds in the bushes and her own footsteps on the gravel.

Cautiously she pushed down on the gate’s handle. It gave a reluctant creak and seemed to resist, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. She stood on the gravel path, listening intently, but everything seemed calm. Slowly she moved forward, her steps uncertain. Someone might be here, since it was the Bergman festival week and all. But the place seemed completely dead. Desolate and abandoned. With each step, the roar from the sea grew louder.

Then she stopped. Several cars were visible between the trees. Damn it, she thought. Somebody’s here after all.

She glanced around, straining to distinguish other sounds besides the roar of the sea, the chirping of the birds, the rustling of the leaves in the trees and bushes. Her own breathing.

She didn’t know whether she dared go any further. Frantically she thought about what to say if she got caught. Maybe it would be a good idea to speak English, pretend to be a lost tourist who didn’t understand a thing. Or maybe it would be best to tell the truth. Put her cards on the table and confess. ‘Yes, I was curious. Who could blame me?’ But presumably what she was in the process of doing right now was a punishable offence. Illegal entry.

As she got closer, it became clear that the vehicles parked outside the house were anything but new. Red, dusty old Volvos that looked as if they were at least twenty years old. Probably cars that Bergman had used for his excursions around Fårö, she thought. They didn’t look as if they’d been driven in a long time. That gave her renewed courage, and she picked up her pace.

Finally she reached the house itself. A long, narrow wooden structure painted grey with blue window frames. Actually quite modest-looking. To prevent anyone from looking in, a high stone wall ran along both sides of the house. Now she began to feel certain that no one was here. The place looked as if it was locked up.

She paused for a moment to weigh up her next move. Should she make do with this and turn around? She had reached her goal; she had located the house and gone close enough to see it, although she couldn’t really make out many details of the property from here. The wall was in the way. It took another minute for her to make up her mind.

KNUTAS SAT IN
his office, thumbing through the photographs that had arrived from the Dominican police and that presumably showed the woman they were trying to find, along with her husband. But the photos were a big disappointment. They were too blurry to identify the people with any certainty. The techs at the lab had already done everything in their power to enhance the images. Damn it, he thought. Just when he was starting to feel a glimmer of hope. He doubted whether they would ever catch Vera Petrov, who, to the great embarrassment of the police, had managed to slip through their clutches a couple of years ago. With help from Karin, he thought bitterly. What a fine deputy superintendent she was. He gave a start when the object of his ill-humoured thoughts stuck her head in the door.

‘Hi. Are you working?’

‘Yes. Those photographs from the Dominican Republic came in. You know, the ones that supposedly show Petrov and her husband. But they’re totally worthless. See for yourself.’

He handed her the photos.

‘That’s too bad,’ said Karin. ‘You can’t really see anything.’

Her expression was inscrutable. Knutas couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.

‘It looks like we’re back at square one. By the way, what are you doing here on a Saturday?’

Karin sighed and sat down in the visitor’s chair.

‘I’m feeling so restless. I keep thinking about Lydia and what I should
do. I’m just too antsy to stay at home. I was thinking of tackling some of the piles of old paperwork that I’ve got lying around. Just to get my mind on to something else.’

‘Sure,’ said Knutas, nodding. ‘So what are you going to do? About Lydia?’

‘I want to find her, and I’ve done some investigating about how to proceed.’ Jacobsson bit her lip and fell silent for a moment. ‘It’s actually pretty simple. I talked to the Adoption Centre, and to social services here in Visby, and they all say the same thing. Since Lydia is over eighteen, there’s nothing to stop me from seeking her out. Actually, I could have done it sooner, but they usually recommend that biological parents wait to make contact until the child is no longer a minor. It can be a sensitive issue, and it’s not certain that her adoptive parents would have told her about the situation – I mean, that she was adopted. So essentially, I’m free to make my move, as they say. All I have to do is phone the tax authorities to find out what I need to know. Her name, where she lives, and who her adoptive parents are …’ Her voice faded away.

‘Why are you hesitating?’

‘To be quite honest, Anders, I’m scared out of my wits. What if she doesn’t want anything to do with me? And as I said, she might not have a clue that she was adopted. Even though the woman at the Adoption Centre and the person at social services said they recommend that adoptive parents do that. Tell the children, I mean. But of course it’s their decision. It’s different if the child is from China or somewhere like that; then it’s a lot more obvious. But Lydia is a hundred per cent Swedish. No one would be able to tell from her appearance, and maybe her parents wanted to protect her from the truth. I mean, she could have contacted me herself, but she never has, even though she’s nearly twenty-five. So I’m thinking that she doesn’t know. Don’t you agree?’

‘Maybe. There might be another reason. Maybe she hasn’t tried to find you out of concern for her adoptive parents. It’s possible that they would be upset.’

Knutas had put down the photos and was studying his colleague intently. He had complete sympathy for the anguish she was going through.

‘And I’m wondering what would happen afterwards,’ Karin went on. ‘If I do find out who she is, what’s the next step? Should I just call her up and say: “Hi, it’s your mother”? That won’t work. Should I write her a letter? Or should I just go over and ring the doorbell? When I think that far, I get terrified, panic-stricken. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she pushes me away? Asks me why I’ve turned up now after all these years, when I never cared about her before – at least in her eyes. At the moment I can at least dream about us meeting and having a good relationship.’ Karin buried her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know whether I dare, Anders. But what if I never see her again in my life? That would be the worst of all.’

THE FOREST OUT
here was more dense and impenetrable than he had thought. He had planned to take a short cut to avoid being seen, but it had turned out to be more difficult than he’d counted on. Annoyed, he fought his way through the thickets, pushing branches aside as best he could and trying not to stumble over the uneven ground, the tree roots, the old underbrush and the rabbit holes. He didn’t really know what he was expecting. Of course, he hoped to see her. Weeks and months had passed without him giving her a thought. He’d had other things on his mind. But then one day he’d been going through a box of photographs and found all the pictures he’d taken of her, most of them in secret. And everything had come back to him, overwhelming him like an avalanche. Memories crowded in on him, and long-slumbering floods of emotion awoke. He had no defences. It was as if she took over his life again, piece by piece. He hated her because he couldn’t help looking at the photos, over and over. He wished he could erase her from his life when she appeared to him in the night and roused him from his dreams, keeping him sleepless. For hours he would lie in bed, wide awake, staring into the dark and picturing her face, which made it impossible for him to drop back off. He couldn’t think about anything else. In the past he had been the stronger one; he held the power and could do whatever he liked with her. Then everything had changed. Suddenly she wanted nothing to do with him. Ice cold, she had locked him out, refused any further contact. Never answered his text messages or emails. He had been carrying around such anger.