“Strange,” murmured the associate professor.
Then he caught sight of the bicycle that was leaned against Lundquist’s wall, which made him even more perplexed. Haller had said that he had finished the work but perhaps there was some task he had forgotten on the front side of the lot?
He looked at the clock. They had decided that Haller would come by for mid-morning coffee. Gregor was curious about the gardening books Haller was bringing. “Duplicates,” he had said, but the associate professor suspected that partly it was an excuse for a visit. There was something vague and introverted about Haller. It was obvious that there was something on his mind, perhaps it would come out today? He smiled to himself, satisfied over the sprouting friendship with the gardener.
Why did it feel as if the end was approaching? Not his own death, he did not want to imagine that, but something ominous—he smiled at the ridiculous word—rested over the house and the whole block. An endpoint was approaching. Perhaps it was something that Torben Bunde, quite certainly unconsciously, expressed in his article about Ohler and the Nobel Prize? The associate professor could not put his finger on what it was other than that it was about existence in the nature reserve that constituted the Kåbo district.
Perhaps it was only his customary dissatisfaction making itself known? He had become a recluse, somewhat of a misanthrope. It was not something he was proud of. But the lifelong feeling, since he left his parental home in Rasbo, of not feeling really at ease with his colleagues, his position, had developed over the years into a slightly contemptuous attitude toward his surroundings. He was no longer indulgent, but instead condescending, sometimes spiteful, when he thought back on his experiences. There was no reconciliation of old age.
With the publication of the article in Upsala Nya Tidning—only a month ago a completely unimaginable action—he had joined an academic quarrel, but also, through his conclusions about the inbred isolation and camaraderie of the research world, placed himself outside, distanced himself. It was as if he recounted his own private quarrel that had followed him his whole life. Nice to finally speak out, he might think now, if a trifle unpleasant to make himself known.
Now he was tagged, out of the game. Even if perhaps he won some people’s sympathy he had defined himself out, pooped in his own nest, as his uncle would have put it.
For that reason he looked forward to the gardener’s visit. Haller stood for something else.
What had originally caught his attention was not Lundquist’s flower bed but instead the big car that was parked on the street outside the professor’s house.
The associate professor could not figure it out. He did not recognize the young man who was lugging out sacks and suitcases from the house. At first he thought hired help had been brought in to do a big cleaning but when the housekeeper’s sister showed up on the sidewalk he realized that something else was up.
And now his suspicions were confirmed. The sister and Agnes came out together. They got into the car without ceremony. They drove off. It could be explained in many ways, but the associate professor was suddenly convinced that Agnes had resigned her long service with Ohler and now definitively taken off.
It pleased him. He liked the thought that the professor would live alone in that gigantic house.
Thirty-seven
During the first few days on Gräsö Agnes grappled with a sense of unreality. Her childhood and youth were there. The terrain, physical as well as emotional, was carved for all time into her awareness. Every stone in the hills around the house and every breeze that swept around the corners, the slightly raw aroma of the sea and the slightly musty smell in the corners of the house, everything was familiar, yet so foreign.
She had walked down to the sea. There was a westerly wind and it felt warm in the sunshine down by the pier. There was no boat there anymore, hadn’t been for many years, but the shore was still a natural destination for a stroll. Submerged in the tangled grass was the last rowboat the family owned.
She walked around and breathed, and every breath was like a slow, successive airing of the old life.
Agnes had not wanted to discuss or even comment on the strange, mournful parting from Ohler. Greta seemed to be of the same opinion. She seemed in a strange way unwilling to talk with her at all, beyond what was required so that they could function under the same roof. The change was tangible. In Uppsala she had been talkative, almost tenderhearted, and unexpectedly physical. Now she seemed pensive, hesitant in her movements and lost in her own house. But above all silent. Agnes had caught her crying but her sister would not say why, other than that she was tired and felt out of sorts, perhaps it was a cold coming on. Agnes did not believe that for a moment. It had been years since Greta had a cold. No, it was something else, that was clearly written on Greta’s tormented face.
There was so much Agnes wanted to ask about, not least what Greta meant when she said that she rescued the Ohler family from “disgrace,” but she decided to wait. Agnes understood that something had happened the night before while she was asleep, not least due to the frightened expression on Birgitta’s face and Liisa’s unexpectedly passive demeanor the next morning.
Even though she was the one who had been in Ohler’s household for so many years, Greta stood out as the most well informed. That especially applied to what concerned Anna. That the old professor would have gone out to Gräsö and “talked nonsense” to Aron about Anna was news to Agnes. She could not remember the visit. That was not really so strange; in 1944 she was only a child. But she suspected that Anna’s disappearance had to do with that visit, even if she did not really understand how. She really wanted to know, but there was no need to rush. Soon enough she would bring it up with Greta.
Why had Anna quit so suddenly? Greta had spit out something about her guessing what had happened. What could it be? Agnes could guess too. Perhaps Bertram had assaulted her sister? Just as he had done with her, thirty years later.
Just as every time she remembered that June evening in 1973 she felt embarrassed. Not so much for his fumbling hands and sweaty excitement, but rather because she actually liked it. She could not lie to herself. After the first awkward, slightly rough treatment Bertram had been tender, caressed her across her back, whispered about how long he had wanted her and in that way managed to excite her.
She knew that all the things he was saying were lies but they were neatly packaged and she let herself be deceived, grasped at his assurances as if they were famine food, starved for love as she was. The memory of what played out that June evening always made her face beet red. So too this time.
Afterward both of them acted as if nothing had happened. Without saying so she was grateful to him in a way. She had experienced the closeness of a man, and to start with she waited—with mixed emotions and feeling very guilty—for it to be repeated. But Bertram took no further initiatives.
Had he been after Greta too? It was not impossible. Was that perhaps the origin of her sister’s anger? But who would really want to talk about it so long afterward? Definitely not her and surely not Greta either.
The Andersson family had always functioned that way: What was unpleasant was repressed, possibly to be resolved later. But the right time usually never appeared. Either it was too close, the wounds too fresh and sensitive, or else it was too long ago to start rooting around in.
Greta had spoken about skeletons in the closet in the Ohler household, that there were so many they could fill a whole cemetery, and that was surely correct. On the other hand there were plenty of skeletons in the Andersson family’s closets too. The two families had been intertwined for so many years that there were probably quite a few skeletons in common.
But why pull them out of the corners? Was it necessary, or even desirable? Agnes did not think so. She was happy to have gotten away from Uppsala and Bertram. Now she wanted to enjoy life. She probably did not have that many years left and did not want to let old unresolved grudges poison that time. She had had enough during her yea
rs in Kåbo. Now she wanted to live.
She approached the rowboat and its leaky belly. She carefully set her foot against the planking, pressed a little, and the wood gave way. It was the boat Aron used to row out in to catch a little herring in the spring, or perhaps put out a few nets. Mostly out of old habit. Soon the boat would disappear completely, become one with the grass.
There was something very desolate about the old dock. Autumn had taken hold. Everything collapsed, turned gray. Agnes longed for ice and snow, the winter resting period.
She walked carefully out on the pier, though it rocked and creaked alarmingly, and remained standing a good while surrounded by water. It splashed below her feet. Far off in the distance the islets Jankobben and Änglaskäret could be glimpsed. She repeated silently to herself one of the prayers from her childhood.
“Amen!” she concluded, raising her head and looking toward the sky.
A great calm came over her, now she was quite convinced that it was right to move home to the island. Best that I go up, she thought, before Greta gets worried.
There was a car in the farmyard. She recognized it immediately. The calm she had achieved was immediately changed to worry that in turn quickly turned to anger. She felt that she had abandoned Greta—a ridiculous thought, as her sister could very well take care of herself, but ever since the showdown at Ohler’s Agnes felt more strongly than ever that she and Greta were connected. They had no one else they could rely on completely.
She hurried inside. In the kitchen Birgitta and Liisa were sitting on either side of the table. Greta was standing by the counter. They gave each other a quick look. Agnes wanted to laugh. Greta was in a fighting mood. No one could get the better of her.
“They think we’re short of money,” said Greta.
Liisa sighed. Agnes listened to Birgitta’s protests, a stream of words. She was very nervous, Agnes understood that immediately, she was talking constantly and had a hunted expression on her face. She made a gesture with her hand toward the table.
Only then did Agnes see the money that was piled in front of Birgitta. It was a thick bundle of five-hundred-kronor notes held together by a rubber band. She realized that it must be tens of thousands of kronor. Something burst. She went over to the table and leaned over the woman she had seen grow up, took hold of her ears and pulled. Birgitta was forced to get up. She shrieked.
“Shame on you! How dare you come here with money!”
It took a second or two for Liisa to react, but once she did it all happened very quickly. She threw her arms around Agnes and basically lifted her up completely off the floor. Agnes was forced to let go of Birgitta’s ears.
Greta started laughing loudly and uncontrollably. Everyone stared at her. Suddenly she fell silent and covered her face with her hands.
“I only meant well,” said Birgitta.
Liisa reached over, took the bundle of money, and tossed it down into her bag that was on the floor.
“You didn’t at all,” said Agnes, who was still furious. “You want to create dependence, gratitude, and guilt. That’s your tune.”
Liisa put her arm around her partner. Otherwise she had been strangely quiet and not said a word. That surprised Agnes, because otherwise the Finnish woman would be in control, inciting Birgitta with acid comments.
“Whores!” Greta screamed suddenly. “Get out! I know what you go in for.”
“Greta, calm down. They’ll go now.”
But Agnes was speaking to deaf ears, because her sister went on.
“I’ve heard enough! You’re going to protect Bertram for … and now you’re going to buy silence but—”
“I think you should keep quiet about whoredom,” Liisa interrupted in her iciest voice. “And silence is good for all of us. Isn’t it?”
Agnes did not understand a thing, other than there was something ugly and dreadful here. There was a wild animal lying in wait here. Here was Greta’s worry.
“Go now,” she said.
They left. The sound of their car faded away. Greta left the kitchen. The clock in the parlor struck four. Agnes sank down on a chair. She heard her sister’s desperate weeping but was not able to get up, could not manage any more stress. It felt as if everything was her fault.
Thirty-eight
Ann Lindell was standing in front of an open grave, a pit down into the darkness, where the lid of the casket had just disappeared. It was raining, which is as it should be. There was a cold wind from Öresundsgrepen.
The cemetery was very close to the ferry landing and there was scraping and creaking as the clumsy ferry docked. She heard the heavy thud as the steel plate clattered against the abutment on land and how the cars drove off. Somehow she thought it was wrong. Shouldn’t the island have stopped for a while when its oldest inhabitant was being buried?
Ann could not feel any sorrow that paralyzed her inside. Viola had lived almost a century. On the other hand she felt very melancholy. She was taking leave of a person she had liked very much, almost revered, for her great wisdom and warmth.
* * *
Edvard Risberg took a step back and placed himself beside her. He had been one of the pallbearers. It was strange to see him in a dark suit. He looked official in a way that was unlike him. He was aware of that. He seemed ill at ease. His face was closed.
It felt as if she was also burying her old life. After this she would never return to the island. He surely sensed that, which explained the weight in his face. He wanted her back, she knew that. His wordless, austere attitude, which in the beginning of their acquaintance she was attracted by, now stood out as only gloomy and oppressive.
The last lines in the story about Ann and Edvard were written in lower-case letters. There was no showdown, no harsh words were exchanged. Before, she would have feared his anger and been lost in shame. She had overcome that. Not completely, and definitely not when she was on the island, but enough to be able to reason with herself and not wallow in destructive self-contempt.
She sneaked a glance at him. He had aged, the wrinkles in his face had deepened, but he still had an energy that radiated. Even in a black suit in a cemetery. She did not understand why he wasn’t living with a woman. Perhaps there would be a change now when Viola had departed this life.
The ceremony at the grave was blessedly brief. Ann was so cold she was shaking. The group of funeral attendees, perhaps a hundred, slowly broke up. Ann nodded at Agnes and Greta Andersson. They had exchanged a few words earlier. Ann felt how they were keeping an eye on her and Edvard, certainly curious whether they could spot a somewhat more intimate contact between them.
“I wish she had been my mother,” Ann said suddenly.
Edvard did not say anything, perhaps due to the fact that his two sons were approaching. Ann placed herself in front of Edvard, pushed her arms around his body, and gave him a hug. He responded by putting his arms around her and squeezing. They stood like that a couple of seconds. Ann closed her eyes.
When she released her hold tears were running down her cheeks. God how I loved that man, she thought, and felt an impulse to strike at him, throw herself forward and pound on his chest.
She turned around and headed for the parking area. Never again Gräsö. She would make it to the ferry that was waiting.
Thirty-nine
Ten days passed before worrying made him call. There was something wrong. Not only in the flower bed and the fact that the bicycle still stood leaning against Lundquist’s wall. A planting can be unsuccessful or sloppily done and a bicycle can be left behind, but that Haller should wait so long to be in touch was not likely.
It was not just the books that the gardener promised to stop by with but more the hope the associate professor had seen in Haller’s eyes.
Haller had radiated loneliness, expressed in a kind of resigned nonchalance and evasive insinuations. He himself had taken his share, but hit back. But the associate professor had also glimpsed something else entirely, a kind of eagerness to be friendly and accomm
odating, which surely stemmed from the joy of having found someone like-minded.
They were two lonely men with a common interest. Chance had brought them together. Both had seen the possibilities of a friendship. Would Haller frustrate that now by staying away, break his promise about “the duplicates”? The associate professor did not think so. That was why he called the police.
The woman who took his report was very polite, asked questions, and little by little as he explained what had happened she acquired a sympathetic tone in her voice. It sounded as if she shared his worry. The associate professor, who to start with expressed himself cautiously, careful not to stand out as a senile and curious old man, became more forthcoming.
He told how he perceived Haller as an extremely lonely person. Sympathetic and social, but lonely. He put great weight on the flower bed, that a professional would never plant that way. To the question of why the plants were planted so amateurishly the associate professor could not give an answer, other than that Haller must have been very confused.
They talked for perhaps twenty minutes. Then he went up to his tower, satisfied with himself, happy about the conversation. The police had encouraged him to contact the neighbor to find out if he had had any contact with the gardener. But the associate professor was doubtful. Perhaps that was too obviously sticking his nose into other people’s business.
The bicycle was still there. He had only caught a glimpse of Lundquist once since then. He probably did not care that the wintergreen had been planted wrong. But the bicycle, didn’t he wonder about that? That made him decide to contact Lundquist.
Just as he took out the phone book it struck him that he had not thought about calling Haller himself. The policewoman had not said anything about that either, perhaps she assumed that he had tried to reach him by phone but failed. He looked up his name. There were not many Hallers. Karsten lived not far away, on Artillerigatan. Within walking distance, thought the associate professor.
Open Grave: A Mystery Page 25
