Shadow Page 10

  It was during the final year before graduation that the conflict inside him had erupted in earnest. A consuming anxiety about having to tell his parents that their engineering dreams would remain nothing but dreams. But also about the other matter that was becoming stronger and stronger. He knew that he had a talent, and the years of study had confirmed his brilliance. His lack of aptitude for mathematics had left room for another quality: he was drawn irresistibly to language, like a moth to the light. The temptation was irresistible. He could feel the stories jostling about inside him, waiting to be given life. But writing was not a real profession, it was a dissolute hobby that one might take up in free moments. There was every reason to be suspicious of literature that did not lead to concrete knowledge. He knew that his parents would never understand, and with each day that brought him closer to the conversation he would have to have with them, his fear grew.

  It had been on the day of his final examination. They were sitting in the room next to the kitchen where in honour of the day they were going to have their coffee, watched over only by Hjalmar Branting. No guests had been invited; you shouldn’t believe that you were somebody even though your son against all odds had just passed his final exam. But real coffee would be served, not that substitute they’d got used to during the wartime rationing. They were all dressed up, his parents beaming with pride and his sister joining them, although in silent protest. With excruciating clarity he recalled how something in their eyes was extinguished when he told them about his decision. The fact that there would never be a civil engineer in the family, but rather a writer. His sister’s spontaneous guffaw. His father’s slap that silenced her. On that day he passed the fork in the road and went on to meet his calling.

  Sixty-three years later he still didn’t know whether he had done the right thing. He had followed his conviction, but with the years his perspective had changed. A nagging guilt had become his companion, constantly driving him forward. No matter how much fame he acquired, it would never sink in. He could stand and look at his books and all his fine prizes, but he had never been able to feel any pride. They were and remained mere mileposts that he needed to surpass.

  And all his life he had felt uneasy every time he was unlucky enough to meet an engineer.

  Young people believed there was a goal in life. He had believed it himself; on that particular day he had believed it, believed it blindly, when in spite of his parents’ annihilating disappointment he had set off to write his book. And he had written his book. And he had become an author. And he had realised that life was an infinite journey. The redemptive goal had always turned out to be a new starting point by the time he managed to get there. It wasn’t possible to reach any goal. Only an end. And when he finally arrived, much like before, so many things had forever been left too late.

  He woke up when it was suddenly silent and realised that he’d fallen asleep for a moment. With a rustling sound Jan-Erik was folding up the newspaper.

  ‘I have to get going now. I’ll swing by the house and see if I can find a picture of Gerda Persson. She died about a week ago and they want one for the funeral.’

  All of a sudden he was wide-awake. His eyes flew open. The name had taken him straight into the nooks and crannies of his mind.

  ‘I thought I’d see if I could find something. You probably know if there’s something in your office, don’t you? Maybe in the cupboard where you saved everything over the years?’

  He was having heart palpitations. Gerda was gone and he ought to feel grateful. Evidently she had remained loyal to the end. Now there was only one person left who could obliterate his life’s work. If he was still alive. As long as Axel had been able to talk it would have been both of them dragged through the mud if the truth had come out. But since the stroke not a day had passed without his thinking of that man’s name and what he might be capable of doing.

  And then there was the cupboard in his office, where things were kept that nobody must see. He had begun to clean it out shortly before he had the stroke, suddenly aware of the insanity of keeping those things. Perhaps his unconscious had been warning him that time was growing short. But he hadn’t finished. He wondered whether the rubbish bag was still there or whether Jan-Erik had thrown it out by now. He hoped so. Even more he hoped that Torgny Wennberg was dead. The Devil himself in human form. If only these two wishes were fulfilled, the name Axel Ragnerfeldt would for ever be allowed to retain its radiance.

  Then it would all have been worth the effort.

  10

  The Rector’s Sports Prize in the municipal school district, 1967. Silently he whispered the words to himself and felt an expansive, bright joy spread through his body. He, Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt, had won, and it would be announced in the school’s assembly hall in the presence of pupils, teachers and parents. The choir would sing and the rector would give a speech, and in the middle of the school’s spring concert he was the one who would be called up on stage to receive the cup and a diploma.

  Now only the hardest challenge remained, to make sure his father was in the hall when the solemn event took place.

  He sat at the kitchen table eating a salami sandwich.

  ‘Now eat so that you grow big and strong, and if you want more bread it’s in the tin.’

  Gerda stood at the worktop preparing meatballs for the following day. She cracked an egg on the edge of a stainless- steel bowl, and her hands began kneading the mincemeat. As so often before she hummed some melody that Jan-Erik didn’t recognise. But he had enough to do with working out a solution to the dilemma occupying his thoughts.

  ‘Where’s your sister? Doesn’t she want an evening snack?’

  ‘She’s probably in her room.’

  ‘I most certainly am not.’ A hand appeared in the corner behind the wood-stove that was no longer used, and the next moment Annika came creeping out.

  ‘I declare, so there you are. You fooled me again.’

  Gerda gave a long laugh as if she found it an extremely amusing trick, even though Annika was most often to be found in that space behind the stove, which she had fixed up as a little house.

  ‘Well, I told you.’

  Jan-Erik smiled at Gerda. It was so odd such things amused her – things that nobody else ever laughed at. Both he and Annika loved being in the kitchen. Partly because it was far enough away from their father’s office that they didn’t have to keep their voices down, but also because there was something comforting about Gerda. As long as no other grown- up was in the vicinity. As soon as one of their parents was present she changed and laughed as little as all the others in the house.

  Someone rang the doorbell. Three short rings. It was Gerda’s task to answer it, but right now her hands were full of the sticky meat.

  ‘Go and get the door, Annika, if you would.’

  Annika vanished down the hall. Jan-Erik heard at once who it was, and all hope was extinguished. Now the evening would turn to night before he had a chance to ask his father.

  Annika came dashing back into the kitchen and crawled in behind the stove. In the next instant Torgny Wennberg appeared in the doorway with his overcoat on, hat in hand.

  ‘Hello, all, I see you’re cooking. What sort of delicacy is it this time?’

  ‘It’s just some meatballs. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  Gerda went to the sink with her gooey hands.

  ‘No, no, don’t let me interrupt. I can knock on the door myself.’

  And then he was gone. Jan-Erik wondered why a stranger who didn’t even live in the house was allowed to do something that nobody else could do. Knock on the door while his father was working. The next moment he realised that now was his chance, now that the door would be opened even if it wasn’t for him. As fast as he could he ran through the house to get there before it was too late. Torgny Wennberg was still standing at the door when he arrived.

  ‘Yes?’ came a voice from the other side of the door.

  Torgny opened it and went in. Jan-Erik snea
ked up and stood just outside the threshold.

  ‘Well, hello there, Torgny, so it’s you coming to bother me.’

  ‘I thought you might need a little inspiration on a Tuesday evening.’

  Smiles and handshakes, and then his father caught sight of him.

  ‘Did you want something, Jan-Erik?’

  ‘Yes, I just wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait, I have a visitor now, as you can see. Go and ask your mother or Gerda.’

  He closed the door firmly.

  Jan-Erik was sitting in the armchair in the living room. From there he had a view of the door to the office, and he hadn’t left the room in two hours. Three times his mother had passed by, each time asking what he was doing. Nothing special, he’d replied, and she’d looked at him as though she thought he was lying. Now it was almost bedtime and the door still hadn’t opened. Everything would be ruined if his father didn’t come. Now that he finally had something to show him.

  He heard her footsteps on the stairs and for the fourth time she appeared in the living room. This time she was silent. She simply went over to one of the bookshelves and ran her finger over the spines of the books as if searching for a certain volume.

  And then with her back to him she said, ‘Have you asked Axel if he’s coming with us tomorrow?’

  ‘No, I told him about it a couple of weeks ago, but he hasn’t said yet whether he’s coming.’

  ‘And how long were you planning to sit here?’

  ‘I’m just sitting and thinking a little. I have a geography test on Friday, so I’m trying to prepare.’

  She turned to him. ‘So where’s your geography book?’

  He could feel himself blush. ‘Well, I know almost everything by heart. I’m going over my European capitals.’

  That was all she said. But he noticed that she didn’t take a book with her when she left and went upstairs.

  Another hour passed. The ticking clock on the wall kept precise track of the time, and the soporific sound made him doze off. He woke up when somebody tugged at his sleeve. Annika had her nightgown on, and he could see that she’d been crying.

  ‘You have to come, there’s something wrong with Mamma.’

  He looked at the door, which was still closed.

  ‘Hurry up!’

  Despite her fear she was whispering, and he ran down the hall after her and up the stairs.

  Their mother was lying on the floor of her bedroom, in her dressing gown with her face to the floor. He was filled with a greater fear than he’d ever felt in his life. Annika began to sob. Jan-Erik hurried over and knelt down at his mother’s side. He pulled on her arm and brushed the hair out of her face.

  ‘Mamma! Mamma! Wake up, Mamma! Tell me what happened. Say something, Mamma, tell me what’s wrong with you.’

  She didn’t move. Her arm was limp as he tugged and yanked at it. He felt the tears come. He put his nose to her mouth, but she didn’t smell as sour as she did sometimes when she’d been drinking wine. This was something else.

  ‘Mamma. Please, Mamma, wake up.’

  He let go of her arm and pressed his hands to his face.

  ‘We have to get Pappa.’

  He was just about to jump up and rush off when she opened her eyes. She twisted round a bit and looked first at him and then at Annika.

  ‘Annika, could you fetch me a glass of water?’

  Annika ran off. His mother sat up. All at once she looked completely natural, as if she hadn’t just been lying like a dead woman on the floor.

  ‘So you do care a little bit after all.’

  Jan-Erik froze. At first he didn’t understand what she meant and just sat there. A tear was allowed to run down his cheek undisturbed.

  His mother got up but he remained on the floor; follow ing her with his gaze as she went over to the bed and sat down.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he finally managed to say.

  ‘You’re so anxious for Axel to come tomorrow, but you’ve hardly asked me.’

  ‘But I want you to come too. You told me you would. I’m sure I asked you.’

  ‘Are you quite sure you want me to come?’

  He felt the tears again.

  ‘Of course I want you to be there.’

  Suddenly she covered her face with her hands and her shoulders began to shake the way they did when she was crying. Jan-Erik’s tears ceased abruptly. He got up from the floor hurriedly and went over and patted her on the arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mamma, I’m sorry. I do want you to come, much more than I want Pappa, I promise. I’m sorry.’

  Annika came back with a glass of water. Their mother wiped her eyes and put the glass on the nightstand.

  ‘All right then. We’ll say that. I’ll talk to Axel and make sure he comes too.’

  11

  ‘There has been no improvement at all, rather the opposite. Axel is actually too ill to remain here. Our beds are intended for patients who can be rehabilitated. But since he is Axel Ragnerfeldt, we’ve decided to let him stay. It’s not definite that he’d be able to get a private room anywhere else, and considering his celebrity and what it means for his integrity, we’ve decided to make an exception.’

  That’s what the doctor had told them during the meeting, and Jan-Erik had expressed his gratitude. Then he had spent an hour with his father and confirmed that the medical diagnosis was correct. It was becoming harder and harder to make contact. Jan-Erik had tried to update him on both the news and what was going on culturally, but the question was how much he actually understood.

  He found the visits grim. For so long he had dreamt of gaining the upper hand, but when he finally did any sense of satisfaction failed to appear. Instead he was plagued by what would now never happen. He wondered how it would be the day Axel actually died and was gone, how the grief would feel. Because how could he let go of what he’d never had?

  He let the motor run and got out to open the gates, noticing that it was time to call the head gardener. The verges were brown with withered perennials, and everything was covered with leaves. One of the supports on the covered patio, built when he was in the States and which nobody had ever used, had blown over and was lying in the grass. The gravel path, the constant bane of his youth, had been infiltrated by grass, and he was thankful that his mother wasn’t with him. She had kept an eye on the gravel and its border with the lawn as if keeping them separate were a matter of life and death, and it had been his task to maintain it – his and Gerda’s and Annika’s.

  He returned to his car, drove in and parked in front of the house. There he sat for a while, feeling no hurry to go inside.

  It had been a long journey. Perhaps not geographically speaking, but it felt as though life had gone through an endless number of twists and turns since he’d moved out of this house. Over thirty years had passed, and yet it was as if everything led him back here, no matter how he tried to escape its grip. Sometimes he was even homesick, though he didn’t know why. But he only felt that way as long as he was somewhere else. Once he arrived he immediately wanted to leave.

  He got out of the car and fished out his house keys. The steps to the front door were covered with leaves, and he swept them off with the broom that had stood guard by the entrance since time immemorial. The ends were worn down from years of use and reminded him of a cheese that had been sliced crooked. Once again Louise appeared in his mind; cheeses cut like a toboggan-run always irritated her, and he had learned to use the cheese-cutter with precision. He sighed. He had placed the business card she’d given him in his wallet, but naturally he hadn’t rung the number. He knew she would ask as soon as he stepped in the door at home.

  He unlocked the front door and turned off the burglar alarm, wiping his shoes carefully on the doormat but keeping them on because the floors of the uninhabited house were cold. The heat was kept down to a minimum and was turned up only in the wintertime to keep the water pipes from freezing.

  He went into the kitchen and placed
the house keys on the wood-stove, looking about to make sure that everything was as it should be. Everything was unchanged and looked the same as always. Only a lamp by the window clashed with his memory, the one he had put there himself and hooked up to a timer. The refrigerator door was ajar with a kitchen towel in the gap, and all work surfaces were bare and clean. Everything lay fallow.

  He knew the house inside out, except for the blank spot that made up Axel’s office, an unknown world in all this familiar space. He left the kitchen and went through the silent house. Every nook was inhabited by memories: each door handle, each creaky floorboard, each tiny object. Except for the switches for the ceiling lights, which had been replaced in the eighties when the house was rewired. Every time his hand trailed along the wall and met the unfamiliar shape it was surprised, expecting a different one.

  Most things had been left in place after Axel’s stroke, when his mother felt that she could leave the house at last and move into the city. Some of the paintings and most of Axel’s literary prizes, the ones he had received from near and far and which had stood on all the window niches and bookshelves, were now in storage somewhere safe until it was decided what to do with the house. The items that had been removed had left empty spaces behind, giving the house a desolate feeling. The walls were full of mournful borders, left by pictures that had been removed.

  He lingered in what they called the library. Dark brown, built-in bookshelves teeming with literature. And yet they were insufficient; the books had escaped from the room and spread like a plague throughout the house with constant demands for new shelves. He hadn’t read a fraction of them, and to be honest he hadn’t even been particularly interested. Or else his indifference may have been a cautious protest, he didn’t know. But he did know that each book represented sacrifices demanded from the family and friends of the author so that it could be written. And nothing else had mattered.