The lights in the auditorium dimmed and Ragnerfeldt began to read from one of his father’s books. His voice was astonishingly similar to his father’s. Kristoffer leaned back and enjoyed the shimmering art that arose in the spaces between the words.
He felt strangely consoled.
Afterwards it was time for questions. The house lights came on and a roaming microphone was sent out into the audience. Ragnerfeldt gave the floor to someone in the stalls that Kristoffer couldn’t see. The voice was that of an elderly man.
‘First of all, I would like to thank you for a very, very fine and thought-provoking reading. I actually had the honour of introducing your father on this very stage many years ago. It must have been in the early seventies, because it was before he received the Nobel Prize. I remember the audience being just as enchanted then as we have been here tonight.’
Ragnerfeldt smiled and bowed.
‘Thank you very much. Yes, if I recall correctly, he did give occasional readings around that time.’
‘I would like to ask what your father’s doing today, whether he’s still writing?’
‘No, unfortunately he’s not.’
Ragnerfeldt hesitated before he went on.
‘He’s been stricken with the infirmities of old age that prevent him from writing anymore. But he sent his good wishes to everyone here tonight, and I see him almost daily. Are there any other questions?’
Kristoffer was reminded of why he had come here this evening but naturally he couldn’t ask him here and now. It would have to wait until later. All his nervousness was gone; the fact that he had ended up here tonight was a sign that he was on the right path. His questions about Gerda Persson had been transformed into an opportunity. A chance to get to know Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt.
He remained in his seat after Jan-Erik left the stage and the auditorium began to empty out. He was slightly hesitant now that the time was at hand. He would let Jan-Erik have a moment to himself at least before he went backstage; he knew that actors in the theatre usually appreciated being left undisturbed straight after a performance.
Finally he and a woman who’d been sitting in one of the front rows were the only people left. Kristoffer pretended to be searching for something he’d dropped. He glanced at the stage and saw the woman go up the stairs at the side of the stage and disappear into the wings. He sat back down and looked at his watch. He had an hour and a half before his train left. There was plenty of time.
He sat there for a good while. Then he realised that Jan-Erik might leave if he didn’t do something soon; yet he waited and let the minutes pass. What was easy to do in his mind was not always as easy to carry out. He tried to convince himself that his mission was important and that Gerda Persson was a sufficiently strong bond between them. It should be of some interest even to Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt. Just as he was about to get up, a man came out on stage. He walked over to the podium and suddenly noticed Kristoffer.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’
Kristoffer stood up. ‘I’d just like to have a word with Jan-Erik if possible.’
The man looked towards the wings and then back at Kristoffer.
‘Does he know you’re here?’
Kristoffer hesitated for a fraction of a second before the lie took shape on his tongue.
‘We’re good friends and I wanted to surprise him.’
The man relaxed and began unscrewing the reading lamp.
‘Well, go through the door at the back and then turn left. It’s the second door on the right.’
Kristoffer hurried to the stage and followed the route the woman had taken. He gave the man at the podium a friendly smile and felt his way behind the black curtains. The lie had been justified. Sometimes the boundaries of truth could be stretched in the service of a higher goal.
Outside the door he hesitated. He was standing in an empty corridor, but he could hear voices. He put his ear to the door but there was no sound behind it. He knocked cautiously. Nothing happened. Maybe Jan-Erik had already left. Cautiously he pushed down the handle and opened the door a crack. There was a light on and he saw a coat hanging on one wall.
‘Hello?’
He heard a sound and in the next moment Jan-Erik appeared. His shirt was untucked and he had red spots on his throat.
‘Yes?’
Kristoffer sensed impatience in his voice.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but my name is Kristoffer Sandeblom and I wonder whether you might have time to chat for a moment.’
Ragnerfeldt glanced at something hidden behind the door. Kristoffer suddenly felt uncomfortable in front of the great lecturer.
‘What’s it about?’
He tried to find a way to describe why he was there as quickly and concisely as he could.
‘It’s about Gerda Persson.’
Jan-Erik’s face changed. Once again he glanced behind the door.
‘I just want to ask a couple of questions, if possible.’
Jan-Erik seemed to have trouble making up his mind, but then he turned and went over to the coat on the hanger and took something out of the pocket.
‘Darling, just go on ahead and I’ll be there soon.’ When he turned round he had a perforated plastic card in his hand. ‘It’s room 403.’
Now Kristoffer understood what was hidden behind the door. The woman he had seen disappear into the wings emerged and took the card from Jan-Erik. Her finger stroked the back of his hand.
‘Just don’t be too long.’
Kristoffer looked the other way and felt even more un comfortable. The woman took her jacket and smiled at him as he took a step into the room to let her pass. She closed the door behind her.
‘I didn’t mean to bother you.’
‘It’s no problem. That’s my wife – we’ll see each other later. She comes with me sometimes when I’m out lecturing.’
Jan-Erik stuffed his shirt into his trousers and asked Kristoffer to have a seat. He opened two bottles of mineral water and offered him one. Kristoffer took a gulp and put the bottle down.
‘I have to start by thanking you for an utterly phenomenal lecture. It was so illuminating, absolutely fantastic. It’s rare to hear anyone talk about anything important nowadays, it was really liberating.’
Jan-Erik looked down. ‘Thank you so much, it’s good to hear that you liked it, thanks.’
For a moment Kristoffer thought that Jan-Erik was blushing, but he decided it must be a trick of the light.
Kristoffer suddenly felt at a disadvantage. Something in him wanted to prove his own worth, that he just wasn’t any old audience member, but someone whose compliments carried more weight than the words of many others, for he knew what he was talking about. He wanted to impress Jan-Erik, make him feel a little like he had just felt.
‘I’m a playwright, so I found it all very inspiring. I’m writing for a theatre in Stockholm at the moment, and if you like I could see to it that you and your wife get an invitation to the première.’
Jan-Erik looked at his watch. ‘Oh, so you’re a dramatist?’
‘Yes, I wrote the play Find and Replace All. It was produced a couple of years ago, perhaps you’ve heard of it?’
Jan-Erik frowned pensively.
‘No, I don’t think I have. I’m afraid I don’t go to the theatre very often.’
There was a moment’s silence. Jan-Erik took a gulp of water.
‘Do you write too?’
‘No, no. I have enough to do with Pappa’s works. What did you say your name was? I didn’t catch it.’
‘Kristoffer Sandeblom.’
‘I think I recognise that name.’
‘Marianne Folkesson probably mentioned me. I got your name from her. I’m the one that Gerda Persson named as her heir.’
‘Quite right, that’s where I heard it.’
Kristoffer picked up the bottle and drank some more water to give him a moment to think. Where should he begin?
‘The thing is, I didn’t know who Gerda Persson is, a
nd as far as I know we’ve never even met. I have no idea how she even knew me.’
The frown on Jan-Erik’s face returned.
‘That’s odd.’
‘Yes, it is. Although I think she must have been the one who sent me money every month for years, at least since I was about eighteen. It wasn’t a huge amount, but still. So I don’t really know what I’m asking, but I thought you might know something about her that could explain things.’
Jan-Erik slowly shook his head.
‘I don’t have the slightest idea. You know, I haven’t had any contact with Gerda since about 1979, 1980. She worked at my parents’ house, but I’d already moved out by 1972. She stayed on another few years, but I was abroad most of the time.’
Kristoffer listened attentively. Nineteen seventy-two. Back then he’d still been living with his parents. The calm he had felt was now gone. As always when he got close to the truth.
Jan-Erik slapped his hands on his thighs as if to say that everything important had been said and it was time to call it a night. But Kristoffer still sat there wondering what exactly he should do. For the first time in his life he wanted to tell someone, reveal his secret to this man who tonight had proved himself worthy. He had finally found a link to what he’d always been searching for; it was almost as though he’d found part of his family.
Jan-Erik looked at his watch.
Kristoffer felt a pang of annoyance at his lack of interest, but he’d made up his mind. Everything was ready and could not be called back, yet he could hardly expect Jan-Erik to understand what was remarkable about the situation before he had explained it.
His heart was thumping.
‘It’s like this, I… This feels especially important for me because I…’
He fell silent; what he wanted to say was inexpressible. How could such a little word contain such great anguish?
Jan-Erik looked at him. He had an odd look on his face, and Kristoffer gathered his strength for the inevitable. He closed his eyes.
‘I’m a foundling.’
He opened his eyes. A sense of heaviness he’d never felt before spread through his body, and all at once it seemed difficult to move. Jan-Erik sat motionless, only his eyelids blinked occasionally. As if it would help him to take in the information. After a long while he finally spoke.
‘So you think this has something to do with Gerda?’
‘I don’t know.’
He inhaled deeply, trying to counteract the force of the weight that was dragging him down.
‘I know nothing about my origins, but of course it struck me when I heard she wanted me to inherit her estate. But, as I said, as far as I know I’ve never met her.’
‘So you think Gerda may have been your mother?’
‘No, she couldn’t have been – she would have been fifty-eight when I was born. But somehow she must have known that I’m a… a foundling. I lived with my adoptive parents from a very young age, so it’s not something that people know, and it’s nothing I’ve ever really talked about.’
He lowered his eyes.
‘This is actually the first time I’ve told anyone.’
Jan-Erik, who had been leaning back in his chair, abruptly shifted position.
‘What year were you born?’ His voice had taken on a new tone.
‘Seventy-one, I think. Possibly seventy-two.’
‘What do you mean, you think?’
‘No one really knows how old I was when they found me.’
‘But you couldn’t have been born as late as seventy-six?’
‘No, I went to my foster family in 1975.’
For some reason Jan-Erik looked relieved. He got up and found his briefcase, opened it and took out a bottle of Glenlivet.
‘This calls for a drink. Would you like one?’
Kristoffer looked at the bottle. Jan-Erik set out a little tray with two glasses and poured whisky into them, took one and handed it to Kristoffer.
‘Well, it’s a strange story. I don’t really see how I can help you, though. I haven’t the slightest idea how it’s all connected.’
The fumes from the glass in Kristoffer’s hand crept into his nostrils. His whole body was ready to accept the longed-for drink – the one thing that was missing for him to feel complete. Just a little, just a single drink, now that he’d told someone for the first time.
‘There aren’t many people you could ask, either. As far as I know, Gerda didn’t have many friends. She always stayed in, even when she wasn’t working.’
Kristoffer looked at the glass. The liquid shimmered, as bright as amber. He was desperate to take a sip; he deserved to be viewed as an equal. He couldn’t tell him the truth, couldn’t reveal yet another shame to Jan-Erik. That besides being a foundling, he was also an alcoholic.
A sudden fury came to his rescue. Who did he think he was, anyway, this man before him? Sitting there with his whisky puzzling over Kristoffer’s background, when he’d soon forget all about it and go to his hotel and have a fancy dinner with his wife. This man who because of his sophisticated family tree could travel about basking in the glow of his surname. And he couldn’t even write; he was only mimicking what his father had once created. So simple, so fucking privileged.
The glass in Kristoffer’s hand was so tempting soon he wouldn’t be able to resist.
‘What time is it?’
‘10.35.’
He put down the whisky and stood up.
‘My train is leaving soon, so I’ll have to be going.’
Jan-Erik knocked back the last drops, stood up and offered his hand.
‘Best of luck, then.’
‘Same to you.’
Kristoffer couldn’t get out into the fresh air fast enough. At the same time he felt a weariness so overpowering his legs would hardly carry him. He went out the way he’d come in, across the stage and through the auditorium to the foyer. Outside the doors he stopped and filled his lungs with air, trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing. Because now he regretted it. He had placed his secret in someone else’s hands, but instead of feeling unburdened he felt exposed. He wanted to go inside and take it all back, tell him that what he’d said was a lie. He didn’t want Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt to know he was a person who had been discarded like old rubbish.
He fished out his mobile, wanting to ring Jesper and hear his voice, to experience something ordinary, something that belonged to the time before his confession. Four rings. The voicemail picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
Across the street was the park he had to walk across to get to the station. Full of shadows and hidden secrets, it felt threatening. He made it halfway across the street before his fear of the dark took over. But he had to get to the train. He wanted nothing more than to get home. He stood on the pavement and lowered his head. On the street in front of his feet there was a dark spot on the tarmac, an oval shape that he suddenly imagined looked like an eye. Without knowing why he stood on the spot and closed his eyes. In the next moment he realised to his astonishment that he had begun to sing.
‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.’
He opened his eyes and looked towards the park.
The dark didn’t scare him any more.
He was no longer afraid.
18
When Axel woke up he was alone. Some time during the night she’d had the good taste to avoid a farewell that would detract from their experience. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t been said already. He felt gratitude over what had happened, yet right now it felt hard to believe. With his hands clasped behind his head he recalled the experience. It was so extraordinary that during the night he’d been the object of a woman’s desire, that his presence had aroused her lust. Now it aroused only disgust with Alice. He did not wish anything undone. On the contrary, he felt exhilarated by what had happened. He’d thought that desire had left him, that it had gone after all those years spent in sexual deprivation. He hadn’t even been aware that he’
d missed it; he’d directed his passion towards his writing, which became his surrogate lover. He already knew that it was only this one time, and he felt no wish for a repeat performance. They had met by accident and taken advantage of the occasion, there wasn’t anything more to it. Now he would return home and continue working on his book in the hope that what happened would give him inspiration.
He got up and went into the bathroom. Filled a glass with water and drank. Despite a slight headache he felt in excellent spirits.
He skipped breakfast, deciding to have a coffee at the train station. He wanted to retain the memory of the night as it was, pure and unspoiled. Like when he was a boy and had experienced something special that only he knew about, and then could safely carry his treasure about in his heart.
It was walking distance to the station, and he said goodbye to no one before he left.
He strolled through the park towards the station. The night had been cold, and in the shadows a thin layer of frost covered the ground. For weeks it had been grey and dark, but today the autumn sun peeked out from its hiding place. The air was so clear his eyes watered. He wanted to go home to his work. He had waited so long for the spark to be ignited. Now it was back, he could feel it, longed for and welcome.
The train was just about to depart. He was sitting alone in a compartment for eight and had gratefully pulled shut the door to the corridor. He looked at the glass carafe in its holder on the wall and wondered when the water had last been changed. On the table before him lay his pad and pen, but he hadn’t written a word. Then the door was shoved open and Torgny and Halina stepped in.
‘There you are!’ exclaimed Torgny. ‘Where did you go off to last night?’
He heaved the bags onto the luggage rack, and Axel’s and Halina’s eyes met. He couldn’t say a word. Torgny threw himself down on one of the seats and took off his scarf. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of stale alcohol.
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