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.
‘She sent the manuscript to me and said I could do whatever I liked with it.’
Torgny erupted.
‘She was ill, damn it! You knew that! Do you know how long she struggled over this novel?’
‘She didn’t want to have anything to do with it, she said. She was going back to Poland to start a new life. She wanted to forget everything that had happened, she said, and…’
Axel’s shoulders drooped and he looked down at his lap. With the fingers of his right hand he began twisting his wedding ring.
‘I hadn’t been able to write anything for several years, not a thing, and I was completely desperate. My publisher was hassling me, the bank was putting on the pressure, I had no money to pay the mortgage, I scarcely had enough left to put food on the table. I couldn’t wring a single line out of myself, I simply couldn’t write at all any more, it was all gone. I had just decided to tell Alice that we would have to sell the house. I was going round here preparing myself, and just then my parents rang and told me that my sister had died, that she’d had a heart attack. I hadn’t seen her in almost thirty years. I could hear what a hard time they were having trying to ask me, but at last they managed to get it out. They wondered whether I could take care of the funeral expenses, and I… I couldn’t tell them the truth, admit that I was broke. Admit that I had failed.’
He hid his face in his hands and for a moment Torgny thought he was crying.
‘I began searching through the cupboard to see whether I could find some old pieces I’d written, and that’s when I found it. It was just lying there and I… She’d told me I could do whatever I wanted with it. I know it was wrong, but just then I couldn’t see any other way out.’
‘Nobel fucking Prize winner Axel Ragnerfeldt! Jesus Christ! How the hell can you live with yourself?’
Torgny spat out the words, the contempt searing his tongue.
Axel sat huddled on the chair staring into space. The man Torgny saw was someone he had never met before.
‘You must have known that you’d be exposed, that I would read it eventually.’
‘She said you hadn’t read it. That nobody had read it.’
Torgny was speechless. For years he had sat at her side and encouraged her, persuading her to fight on when she wanted to give up. He had commented on every sentence; with eyes wide he had been amazed at her talent and tried to convince her of the greatness of what she’d written.
Hadn’t read it!
‘I took a chance. Just then I thought that nothing could get any worse. If I’d known that there would be such a fuss about it… Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would be like this. I just wanted to buy a little time so I could finish writing what I was working on.’
He looked at Torgny but turned away when he didn’t find the sympathy he sought.
‘Don’t you think that I’ve regretted it? How do you think it feels to me? You know me that well at least. The whole thing has been like one long nightmare.’
Axel got up and walked over to the window.
‘I wish I could undo it, Torgny. More than anything I wish that I could, but I can’t.’
There was silence in the room. A sound from the hall outside made Axel turn round. He went to the door and opened it, but no one was there. When he assured himself that nobody was listening he went back and sat down.
‘I know that I don’t have the right to ask you to keep quiet about this, Torgny, but I’d do anything.’
Torgny snorted.
‘I’ll give you half the prize money.’
The proposal amazed Torgny. A little boy who was caught cheating on a test. With a little more skulduggery he thought he would be released. Torgny’s temples were throbbing. The blood wanted to
burst out of his veins. The man he had reluctantly admired, whom he had always looked up to, despite his antipathy, was now grovelling before him like the little worm he was. His moral integrity, his strength of character. The whole time the opposite had been kept hidden underneath, eclipsed by his exceptional achievements.
‘She told me I could use it.’
Quietly, a final attempt to persuade him.
Torgny looked at Axel. The person he saw was the man who had won Halina’s love, who with his dazzling reputation had driven a wedge between Torgny and Halina.
‘When did she say that?’
Axel gave him a furtive glance.
‘It was in the letter she sent with the manuscript.’
‘Come on, Axel. You said you never saw her.’
‘She sent it in the mail.’
‘So where’s the letter now? Can I see it?’
‘I threw it away.’
‘Right. Why the hell would you think that I’d ever believe a word you say? What happened in Västerås, anyway? Suddenly Halina’s version sounds a lot more believable than yours.’
Axel didn’t answer.
Torgny closed his eyes.
Axel and Halina. Fucking in secret behind his back. His hands lying there on the desk, hands that had greedily explored her body. And Halina had willingly let it happen.
Axel had cheated him out of everything that had been his. Everything that had belonged to him and Halina, that had taken them years to nurture and polish, that they had learnt from each other’s pleasure. The man who now sat there behind the desk, lying, had stripped them of their most intimate secrets.
He saw Halina’s face, her lips parted, the tip of her tongue, her mouth closing around Axel’s swollen cock; the glint in her eyes, the way she moved her hips, the sound she made when he thrust inside her.
If that had happened he would have to kill him.
‘Take off your trousers.’
Axel stared at him.
‘What?’
‘Take off your trousers, I said!’
‘Are you crazy?’
‘You have a birthmark there somewhere, don’t you?’
Axel closed his eyes.
‘Halina described it to me to make me believe her. She even drew it on a piece of paper to convince me.’
Shadow Page 25
