The Quarry

by Johan Theorin

  Not every conversation died away, but several faces turned towards her. All she could do was nod. ‘I used to live here when I was little.’

  ‘Here in the village?’ said Marie Kurdin.

  ‘To the north-east … We had a little smallholding.’

  ‘That sounds lovely. With cows and geese and cats?’

  ‘Just hens … and a few cows,’ said Vendela. ‘I used to look after them.’

  ‘How lovely,’ Marie Kurdin reiterated. ‘The children of today ought to get the chance to look after animals in the country too.’

  Vendela nodded. She didn’t want to think about the three Rosas. Such frustration, such a longing to escape. Where had it come from?

  Rosa, Rosa and Rosa had been dead for many, many years. Everyone she had known here on the island was dead.

  She took another swig of her wine.

  Gerlof Davidsson was sitting motionless on the other side of the table, diagonally opposite her. He was smiling and seemed happy, and Vendela leaned a little closer and said quietly, ‘My father was a quarryman here, his name was Henry. Did you know him, Gerlof?’

  His expression was kind as he looked at her, but he didn’t appear to have heard what she said. She raised her voice. ‘Did you know Henry Fors, Gerlof?’

  He heard her this time. But the name made him stop smiling.

  ‘I did know Henry Fors … he was one of the last men working down in the quarry. He was very good at polishing the stone. Were you related?’

  ‘He was my father.’

  Gerlof looked grim, or perhaps sorrowful. ‘I see. I’m sorry …’

  Vendela understood what he was talking about, and lowered her eyes. ‘It’s a long time ago.’

  ‘I used to see Henry coming along on his bike in the mornings,’ said Gerlof. ‘Sometimes he would be singing so loudly it echoed out across the alvar.’

  Vendela nodded. ‘He used to sing at home as well.’

  ‘Henry was widowed quite early on, wasn’t he?’

  She nodded again. ‘My mother died just a few years after I was born. I don’t remember her … but I think my father missed her all his life.’

  ‘Did you ever go with him to the quarry?’

  ‘Only once. He said it was dangerous there – women and children shouldn’t be down in the quarry, it brought bad luck.’

  ‘They were a bit superstitious,’ said Gerlof. ‘They used to see different signs in the stone, and they believed in ghosts and trolls. The trolls in particular used to cause the quarry workers a lot of trouble. They used to steal their hammers and hide them underground, or make them disappear … but of course it was easier to blame mythical creatures than their workmates.’

  ‘They used to steal from each other, you mean?’

  ‘No,’ said Gerlof, smiling at her. ‘I’m sure it was the trolls.’

  ‘Trolls,’ said a voice beside them. It was the other old man at the table, Per Mörner’s father. Vendela couldn’t remember his name: Billy or Barry or Jerry? He had been lost in his own thoughts with a cigarette between his yellowing fingers, but now he looked up and gazed around, his expression full of anxiety.

  ‘Markus Lukas,’ he said. ‘Markus Lukas is sick.’

  23

  It was half past ten and Per was sitting in the shadows on the neighbours’ veranda listening to his father’s laboured breathing. He sounded worse than usual tonight – like a man who didn’t have long to live, but who intended to enjoy himself right to the very end.

  Jerry actually seemed to be quite happy at the party. Sometimes he disappeared into himself, staring down at his paralysed arm. Then he would come back to life and raise his glass. Sometimes he looked frightened, sometimes he would smile to himself. He seemed to have already forgotten that his business partner Hans Bremer was missing, and that their entire film studio – the whole of Morner Art, in fact – had gone up in smoke three days earlier.

  His father’s hacking cough had been heard across the table all evening, but the number of his smiles increased in direct proportion to the amount of wine he drank. Per thought he must have knocked back four or five glasses since they sat down to eat; he was drunk, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Jerry had been drunk before, usually in restaurants.

  It was pitch black beyond the veranda now, with thick clouds covering the night sky. Per felt something cold touch his cheek, and realized it had started to drizzle. Soon it would be time to go indoors, and for everyone to head home.

  Nilla was probably already asleep over in the cottage. Per turned his head, and could see only one isolated light in the living room. He had pushed her home in the wheelchair after she had been at the table for about an hour; she had whispered to Per that she couldn’t cope any longer. Had she eaten anything? He wasn’t sure.

  Jesper had stayed for another hour or so before he too headed back to Casa Mörner, hopefully to get an early night. Per was also intending to leave soon, taking Jerry with him. He had met the neighbours now; they seemed like decent, reliable people, but he had no desire to become friends with them. He only had to compare his own shack with their newly built luxury houses to see how different they were.

  Suddenly a question came across the table: ‘So what do you do, Jerry?’

  Max Larsson.

  Jerry put down his wine glass and shook his head. He could find only two words: ‘Not working.’

  ‘OK, but what is it you do when you’re not sitting here?’

  Jerry looked at his son in confusion. Per leaned forward: ‘Jerry’s retired … He ran his own business for many years, but he’s recently downsized.’

  Max nodded, but didn’t give up. ‘So what kind of business was it? Jerry Morner … I’ve been sitting here pondering, and I’m sure I recognize the name.’

  ‘Media,’ Per said quickly. ‘Jerry worked in the media. So do I.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Max, suddenly more interested. ‘Are you on television, then?’

  ‘No … I work in marketing surveys.’

  ‘Right,’ said Max, looking disappointed.

  ‘I do a fair amount of jogging too,’ said Per, glancing around the table, ‘although that’s more of a hobby. Does anyone else go jogging?’

  ‘I go running,’ said a voice in the darkness. ‘I’ve done it for years.’ It was Vendela, their hostess. She had large, beautiful eyes.

  ‘Good,’ said Per, smiling at her.

  He wanted to round off the evening now, to say thank you and leave this enormous house – but at that moment Jerry straightened up and looked at Max Larsson. His gaze was suddenly completely clear and focused. ‘Films!’ he said.

  Max turned his head. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Films and magazines.’

  Max laughed a little uncertainly, as if Jerry were teasing him, but Jerry looked annoyed at not being taken seriously. He raised his voice and went on, ‘Me and Bremer and Markus Lukas … films and magazines. Girls!’

  There was complete silence around the table now; the last word had made all the guests stop talking and turn to look at Jerry. Only Per kept his eyes downcast.

  Jerry himself seemed very happy with the attention, almost proud, and he pointed across the table with a steady finger; Per knew there was no escape.

  ‘Ask Pelle!’

  Per gazed into the distance and tried to give the impression that he wasn’t listening, as if there was no point in listening to Jerry. Eventually he did look at his father, but by that time it was too late.

  Jerry had already picked up his old briefcase; he had refused to leave it at home. He quickly undid the straps and pulled something out. It was a brightly coloured magazine, Per saw, made of thick, glossy paper.

  His father threw it into the middle of the table, smiling proudly.

  The title on the cover was written in red: BABYLON. Beneath the name a naked woman lay sprawled on a sofa, her legs spread wide apart.

  Per stood up. The magazine seemed to lie there for an eternity before he leaned over and picked it up. But of cour
se everyone had seen it by then; he noticed Vendela Larsson leaning forward to study the picture, her eyes wide with surprise.

  At the same time his father’s voice echoed across the entire veranda: ‘Girls! Naked girls!’

  24

  Per didn’t want to wake up the morning after the party, but it happened anyway. It was quarter to nine. He lay there blinking at the ceiling.

  It was Maundy Thursday. It was almost the Easter weekend, or had it already started? And how were they going to celebrate it, with the way things were?

  He supposed they would just have to celebrate as best they could, as he had promised Nilla. With eggs – fresh eggs and chocolate eggs.

  Then Per remembered that his father was in the house, and what had happened at the party the previous evening.

  Jerry’s hoarse laughter. Vendela Larsson, smiling nervously at her guests. And the porn magazine, lying there in the middle of the table.

  The cottage was silent, but inside his pounding head he could hear echoing voices and shouts. He had drunk too much red wine yesterday, he wasn’t used to it.

  ‘Markus Lukas,’ Jerry had said several times.

  That name and the memory of Vendela’s smile made Per think of Regina, the girl he had met one warm, sunny spring day many years ago. She too had had a quick, slightly nervous smile and a pair of big blue eyes framed by short brown hair, and high cheekbones dusted with freckles.

  Had Regina been the first real love of his life? She had certainly seemed much more exciting than the girls at his school. Older, more worldly-wise. They had sat next to each other for several hours in a car one day when he was thirteen years old.

  An outing in the car in springtime with a pretty girl should have been straightforward, but not for Per. Regina had been sitting in the back doing her make-up when Jerry and a friend turned up at Anita’s in the Cadillac to pick him up. For once Jerry was on time. They were going to hang out together for the whole of the Easter weekend, father and son.

  And how old had Regina been? Several years older than Per, maybe sixteen or seventeen. She had laughed and patted him on the head when he sat down beside her on the leather seat, as if he were just a little boy.

  It was Jerry’s fault; as soon as they got in the car he started referring to Per as ‘my lad’.

  ‘Regina,’ said Jerry, exhaling cigarette smoke as he turned his big black sunglasses towards the back seat and touched the girl’s cheek, ‘this is my lad … Pelle.’

  Per wanted to touch the girl’s cheek as well, in the same confident way as his father.

  ‘My name is Per,’ he said.

  Regina laughed and ruffled his hair with her slender white fingers. ‘So how old are you, Per?’

  ‘Fifteen,’ he lied.

  He felt quite grown up, sitting there in Jerry’s car, and he grew bolder and bolder; he ventured a smile at Regina, and realized she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Her quick smile was beautiful, and he became more and more smitten. He kept on stealing glances at her, admiring the sunburnt legs disappearing under her short skirt, the slender hands protruding from her leather jacket. Her fingers fluttered like eager butterflies as she talked to Jerry and the man who was driving. Per could see only the back of the man’s head; he had broad shoulders and thick, black hair, but he was bound to be a friend of Jerry’s. His father had a lot of friends.

  They set off, and Per sat next to Regina, feeling his legs and back grow; he didn’t look back to see whether Anita was waving to him, or whether she had gone indoors. He had already forgotten his mother; he was sitting next to Regina, and they were smiling at one another.

  The car smelled of cigarettes, as Jerry’s cars always did.

  They drove out into the country, and afterwards Per had no idea where they had been – just that they had driven and driven and eventually reached a gravel track surrounded by dense fir trees. A southern Swedish forest.

  ‘This all right?’ asked the man behind the wheel.

  ‘Sure,’ said Jerry, coughing. ‘Fantastic, Markus.’

  The car pulled up among the trees.

  ‘Pelle,’ said Jerry when they had all got out, ‘Regina, Markus Lukas and I are going off into the forest for a while.’ He gripped Per firmly by the shoulder, his expression serious. ‘But I have an important job for you here by the car. I want you to keep guard, and I’m going to pay you. That’s the most important thing about jobs – getting paid for them.’

  Per nodded – this was his first job. ‘And what if anyone comes?’

  Jerry lit a fresh cigarette. He went over and opened the boot. ‘Tell them it’s a military exercise,’ he said with a smile. ‘Tell them we’re shooting here, so nobody is allowed in.’

  Per nodded as Jerry and Markus Lukas looped several bags over their shoulders and set off into the trees with Regina. His father waved to him. ‘See you soon. Then it’ll be time for a picnic.’

  Per was suddenly alone next to the car. The spring sunshine made the red bodywork gleam, and flies buzzed across the grass.

  He took a few steps along the track and looked around. There was no sign of anyone, and not a sound to be heard. When he listened carefully he thought he could hear Regina laughing in the distance, just once. Or was it a scream?

  Time passed more and more slowly. The forest surrounding Per felt dark and dense. He thought he heard Regina crying out, several times.

  Eventually he left the car. He followed Jerry and the others, without really knowing where they had gone.

  A little path wound its way through the trees. He followed it up a steep slope, over a little rise among moss-covered rocks, and down a small hill. He increased his speed, took a few more steps, then suddenly heard male voices, and Regina’s cries. She was screaming deep in the forest – loud, long-drawn-out screams.

  Per started to run.

  The trees thinned out and he hurtled into a sunlit glade.

  The sun was shining down like a spotlight into the middle of the glade. Regina was lying there naked on a blanket on the grass; she was wearing a long blonde wig. She was sunburnt, Per noticed, but her breasts were chalk-white.

  Markus Lukas, the man who had been driving the car, was also naked. He was lying on top of her.

  And Jerry, who was standing next to them holding a big camera, didn’t have any clothes on either. He was snapping away all the time, click click click.

  Regina gave a start as Per cried out; she looked at him, then quickly turned her head away.

  Jerry lowered the camera and glared at Per. ‘Pelle, what the hell are you doing?’ he shouted. ‘Go back and keep a lookout – stick to the job I gave you!’

  Per turned and fled through the forest.

  Twenty minutes later his father and the other two came back to the car, with their clothes on. Regina had taken off the wig.

  Jerry laughed at his son all the way home.

  ‘He thought we were going to kill her.’ Jerry had turned to face the back seat. ‘Regina, he thought we were murdering you out there in the forest! He was coming to your rescue!’

  Per wasn’t laughing.

  He looked at Regina, but she refused to meet his eye.

  Regina and Markus Lukas.

  Per could still remember those two names. His head was full of old memories, and felt very heavy this morning. He lifted it and looked out of the bedroom window towards the two new houses. Nothing was moving over there, but the Larssons’ veranda looked empty. No trace of the party remained.

  It had ended fairly soon after Jerry had thrown the magazine on the table. The Kurdins had gone home with their baby, Gerlof Davidsson and John Hagman had also left, and Vendela Larsson had started gathering up the remains of the food. It might have been his imagination, but Per had the feeling his neighbours wanted to see the back of him and Jerry as soon as possible.

  He knew more or less what to expect from now on. The neighbours hadn’t said anything yesterday as he thanked them and took his leave, but he knew the questions would come.r />
  The curiosity, the constant curiosity. And the meaningful smiles each time some new acquaintance found out he was the son of the notorious Jerry Morner.

  ‘So have you ever been in a porn film then, Per?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even one?’

  ‘I’ve never had anything to do with Jerry’s activities.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  He had become adept at it as an adult, distancing himself and swearing that he was nothing like his father. But why had he kept in touch with Jerry? And why had he been stupid enough to bring him to Öland?

  Per would have preferred to stay in bed, but he got up anyway. He wished the sun wasn’t shining quite so brightly this morning. He didn’t want to think about Regina any more.

  He didn’t want to think about the neighbours either.

  Nobody else in the cottage seemed to be awake. The doors to the twins’ rooms were closed, and when he went into the kitchen he could hear his father’s long-drawn-out breathing from the spare room. It was a mixture of snoring and wheezing.

  Per had heard the same sound each time he visited his father in the small apartment Jerry had rented in Malmö in the mid-sixties, before the really big money started pouring in.

  The sound was particularly noticeable when he brought women home. Per would lie on his mattress in front of the TV listening to Jerry wheezing in the room next door, interspersed with regular groans and irregular cries or bouts of weeping from the women. He could never sleep on those nights when Jerry was taking photographs or filming, but he didn’t dare get up and knock on the door. If he disturbed his father, Jerry would shout at him, just like that day in the forest.

  The bedroom had been Jerry’s workplace during the autumn and winter months when it was too cold to work outside. That was where he took photographs and did his filming, and it also served as his office. He had bought a water bed that filled half the room, and kept the company’s money in a fat envelope underneath it. The bed was both his office and his playroom; he had two telephones next to it, plus a Facit calculator, a drinks cabinet and a projector that he could use to show films on the white walls.