This is what he thinks only seconds after his orgasm. That she could be with child. That he can become a father at the age of seventeen and have to live in a forced marriage for the rest of his life. Was it for this he was saved? His promises to God? Come to this? Terrified, he tears himself free, grabs his pyjama trousers, almost sobbing. “Well, where are you going in such a hurry?” she asks from where she’s lying. “Wasn’t it good?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he blurts out. In any case he can still move, to the attic stairs, up. His brothers sleep and snore. He can’t moan out loud, he can’t hang himself without waking them when he kicks away the chair. Powerless, he lies down on his bed, sticky and smelly. He has a math test at school in the morning and should be rested and alert, but what does that matter now, whether or not he succeeds at school, since he’ll have to leave when it becomes clear that she’s with child.
How did he survive the night? How did he get through the following year, when he came down to the kitchen as late as possible, snatched a slice of bread and grabbed a gulp of coffee without sitting down before rushing off to the station. Came home and ate with the others, left the table as soon as possible and studied, skipped evening tea so that he would never ever have to go to the outhouse at night. Peeked at her out of the corner of his eye to ascertain whether she’d grown heavier, an expert at avoiding her gaze. She, hurt and angry. Mama: “How have you managed to get on Hilda’s bad side?” Total terror for eight months. Meanwhile, he has started thinking that the possible child isn’t even necessarily his, that she had planned it in order to frame him instead of the actual father, who had taken to his heels. Then exhaustion mixed with relief when he realized that she wasn’t pregnant, that no one knew anything. At the same time, disgust and fear at the thought of how easily it happens, almost before you know it. Without the love he’d imagined was the basis of everything.
Now an exact parallel. The same merciless pressure in his bladder. He never should have drunk that big cup of tea. Where she’s sitting blocks the way to the WC in the corridor. He unhinged from discomfort and fear. She in tears. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Tell me what’s the matter.”
“I don’t know where to start. I’m so unhappy I just want to die.”
“Hilda, you said that your husband died. Was it recently?”
“Not exactly died. Ran off. I’m completely alone.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No. Or rather a girl who’s with my mother. I have to work.”
“What work do you do?”
“I clean for families in town. I can’t hardly manage.”
“I understand it must be hard. And badly paid. And when you’re depressed … Do you have friends you can talk to?”
“Who’d take the trouble?”
“Don’t say that. I remember that Hilda had a lot of friends. You were a whole group of girls who went out together on your free afternoons.” If his bladder bursts, he’ll be an invalid forever. He has to get up. “Excuse me. I just have to …” He sidles to the door, leaving it ajar. An endless distance to the end of the corridor, but at least the WC is free. Ah! The flush can be heard in the whole house, you might as well stand on the roof and shout what you’ve been doing.
He left the door ajar so she wouldn’t start going through his things, and maybe she hasn’t, either, but of course she’s searched the room with her eyes. He smiles benevolently, as relieved as that night he came into the kitchen from the outhouse. More relaxed, he sits back down on the bed. She has had time to think about the conversation they’ve had and doesn’t like his interrogation.
“I didn’t come here to talk about how I live and work. Everyone who works has the same life—drudgery and bad pay. What I need to talk about is where I’m to get the strength to bear it.”
“Yes.”
“When I had a man, I thought I had something to live for. He was no great shakes, but all the same he was a kind of protection or what should I call it. I had someone to wait for. It’s more fun to cook when there’s two of you. More clothes to wash, of course, big heavy men’s clothes, but it’s still better. Do you understand what I’m saying? That I don’t know how I’m going to live all alone. It’s dreadful. Nowadays there aren’t any live-in housemaids any more, like at your place. Back then I thought it was horrible, you didn’t have any life of your own. But it’s awful being alone. Do you know what I mean?”
“I’m trying. At least I think I understand. You miss your husband. So it’s lucky he’s not dead, just gone. Do you know where he is? Because then maybe you can repair the damage. Maybe you had a fight when he left. Maybe he doesn’t know that you feel the way you do. Tell him! The same way you’ve told me.”
“Well of course he’s got someone else. Younger than me. And now they’ve got a kid together. I had my girl with another fellow. What would he want to come back to me for?”
“I see.” Suddenly he can’t repress a colossal yawn. “Excuse me. I got no sleep last night on the way to Åbo. My head is spinning.”
“I’ll be going,” she says, giving him hope. “But first I have to ask if as a priest you can’t give me some comfort. What would Jesus say?”
He knows very well what Jesus would say. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” But he can never, ever say to her, “Come unto me.” He smiles crookedly, feeling almost drunk. “Jesus says, ‘Follow me.’ He means that if we live as true Christians in prayer and faith, we can experience a different sort of joy and meaning in our lives. One way of approaching that kind of life is to go to church. There is a genuine fellowship in a congregation. There you’re not alone.”
He can hear how empty it sounds, and she objects, quite rightly, “That’s all very well. But I wonder. Just look at me. You can see I’m working class and not the kind of person who moves in refined circles. They don’t accept people like me at the drop of a hat.”
“Don’t think that far ahead. Just try to develop a spiritual life. Don’t forget to pray. We can bring everything that oppresses us to Jesus. Go to church. Sing the hymns. Listen to the priest. It may seem dry and irrelevant, but by and by it will all open up. The stories from Jesus’s life turn out to be about our own lives. The lessons and parables give us counsel and instruction if we’re open to them. We think not only about what we want ourselves but about what may be God’s will for our lives. In prayer, our thinking grows clearer and we can find solutions to problems that seemed insurmountable before.”
“You can certainly talk. Just like your father.”
“I take your question about Jesus seriously.”
“It’s hard to think about Jesus in heaven when what you need is a man here on earth.”
Slow steps in the corridor that almost stop outside the door. Someone is listening. Petter, self-controlled: “If we read the New Testament we see that Jesus was not so otherworldly. He was a carpenter, a worker. He knew what it meant to be poor. He sympathized with the sorrows of his fellow men not by pitying them but by showing them new paths to follow.” The steps move on. “When he saved the adulteress from being stoned, he showed that we are not put here to judge one another. But he also showed her how to change her life. ‘Go and sin no more.’”
“Do you think I’m an adulteress? Then what are you?”
“That’s easy to answer. A great sinner. No one is free of sin. That’s why Jesus came into the world, to save us from our sins.”
“I came here to get help and comfort, and you just talk about Jesus.”
“Hilda, you came here because I’m a priest. But if we leave that aside, what is it you want to talk about?”
“That life shouldn’t be so boring! That you ought to get to have some fun! That someone should like you. That you shouldn’t have to get old. That work shouldn’t be so hard. That you ought to get paid better. That you shouldn’t always have to skimp and save and borrow money. That you ought to be healthy and not have to go to the hospita
l. That you should have a husband who likes you. That people shouldn’t be so mean. That you shouldn’t ever have to cry.”
Against his will, he is touched, and he answers with warmth. “There are a lot of us who could subscribe to that. There’s much that every one of us has to do without.”
“No, I really don’t think you can compare yourself with me. Your mother writes about eminent postings and rectories and a fine wife and darling sweetie-pie kids. Money in your wallet and folks that bow and treat you to coffee. What do you know about it?”
There are many things he could reply to that, among them that there is truth in what she says. He counts himself fortunate at having come out of darkness into light. It means he owes everything to other people. He can’t show her the door because that would be the most comfortable thing to do, indeed the only sensible thing to do given tomorrow morning’s examination. His peace of mind is already deeply shaken, time is passing, and nothing can be repaired. By virtue of his ordination, he is put in a position to be the servant of his fellow men. She is unhappy and bitter and cries genuine tears. If his calling means anything, he must find the strength to sacrifice his convenience even in situations where his own future career is at risk. He can hear Mona’s furious objections, even the amused forbearance of the cathedral chapter, but here he sits. Nevertheless, he makes an effort.
“Not so much, I admit. But I’m trying to understand. But Hilda, it’s very late. Goodness, it’s eleven o’clock. And here we still sit. What are people going to think?”
She gives him an ugly smile. “Tomorrow you’ll leave. What difference does it make?”
“I’m also thinking of my examination tomorrow.”
“You’ll come through with flying colours. You’re so smart.”
“I’ve never said I was. It’s Mama who brags. It embarrasses me to think of it. The truth is, I haven’t had time to prepare the way I should have.”
“I’ll go. But I also came here in order to see you. I hope you haven’t become so sanctimonious that you’ve forgotten how I slept in the kitchen.”
“No, Hilda, you’ll have to forgive me. That was twelve, thirteen years ago. A half-grown boy isn’t really responsible for his actions.”
She snorts. “Grown up enough when it came right down to it.”
“Please, Hilda. We did wrong, both of us. But we never did again. Nothing further happened. Now let’s change the subject.” He is sweating under his shirt and exhausted. In his bag he has his cassock and collar, which he can never again wear with honour.
She snorts again. Her behaviour is equal parts genuine despair and a desire to wound and torment. She is not only spiteful. It’s rather that cruelty and envy are parts of her misery—people grow malicious when everything goes against them. “Easy for you to say, with a wife and children, nothing wrong with your married life. But I have nothing. Utterly alone.”
“Yes,” he says. “I know.” And thinks that if he is silent and lets her talk, she will eventually get it all out. Then he can go with her to the front door and say goodbye in the presence of the desk clerk and wish her good luck.
But he’s not to get off so easy. She has a great deal to say, and she has to say it several times because he doesn’t react in the wonderfully comforting way she wants. He sits there like a block of wood, nods occasionally, is cross-eyed with exhaustion, bleats, “I’m trying to understand. It must be hard.” She weeps, almost shouts, and he hushes her. “Think of the other guests, who’ve already gone to bed. Please, Hilda, it’s late.” Sometimes he sneaks a look at the clock. It’s twelve. It’s twelve-thirty. Thinks of Mona, who wouldn’t be as angry with Hilda as with him. “How can you be such a milksop! There’s no one on earth let’s himself be used the way you do. You should be in an institution!” And then finally he stands up, three hours too late.
“I know it’s hard. But it’s when we’ve come through such despair that we reach clarity and can leave some of the pain behind. Then the worst is soon over. But now I have to say good night. I’ll see you out.”
She leaves, indignant and disappointed. He remains, devastated. No point in even thinking about his notes, the important thing now is to get a few hours sleep so he’ll know his own name in the morning at least. He takes out his pyjamas and is suddenly freezing, lies shivering uncontrollably, his teeth chattering, beneath the thin blanket and the flimsy bedspread. A tremendous headache hovers behind his brow. A little sleep is all he needs, but at four o’clock he is still awake and remembers that he hasn’t set his alarm clock. Gets out of bed and sets it. Thinks that now he dares to fall asleep and still has time to get three hours. But he’s as wakeful as if he were paralysed and taken for dead, full of horror, unable to move, unable to do anything to keep the coffin lid from being nailed into place.
He is still awake at five, five-thirty, thinks he might just as well get up and try to read a little, but falls asleep as he thinks the thought. Flies out of bed when the alarm goes off, stumbles to the floor with a violent headache, doesn’t think he can stand up if he tries. Remembers that Mona has packed a tube of aspirin just in case. Climbs arduously to his feet and, moaning, swallows three. Forces himself to get moving, washes in the sink, shaves laboriously and naturally cuts himself and has to stop the bleeding with a piece of newspaper. Takes out clean underclothes, a clean shirt, his cassock that Mona has folded so carefully that it looks fine even without being hung on a hanger all night, fastens his collar at his neck with difficulty. Good morning, Pastor Kummel, slept well? Well prepared, to all appearances.
Rakes everything else into his suitcase. Makes an ineffective sweep of the room to see if he’s forgotten anything. Shamefacedly checks that his wallet is still in the inside pocket of his coat—yes, his money is safe. Checks his watch, checks his watch, checks his watch, the face of which is blurred and the numbers drifting. His headache has entrenched itself in his left temple and feels as if it were pushing out his eye. Its tentacles have a grip on his skull and are squeezing. He doesn’t know how he’s going to deal with the desk clerk but takes his things and locks the door and goes down, heavy steps like an old man. “Good morning.”
“Well, good morning, good morning. Yes?”
“I’d like to pay for my room, but I’m hoping I can leave my suitcase here until I’m finished at the cathedral chapter sometime this afternoon.”
“That will be fine. Yes, of course. You had a late night.”
“I must apologize if we disturbed anyone. It turned into quite a lengthy pastoral session. One of the drawbacks to my calling, to put it crassly.”
“Pastoral session?”
“Yes. When someone seeking help speaks to a priest.”
The desk clerk laughs right in his face. “That’s good. First time I’ve heard that one.”
The pastor sees this as the first station in today’s Via Dolorosa. Receives the ignominy graciously, lays his bills on the desk, thanks the man, and goes.
Straight out into the autumn morning’s stinging sunshine. His eyes ache and throb. Half blind, he walks to the restaurant and orders coffee, a glass of milk, and a cinnamon roll, in hopes that the sugar will give him a little energy. Compares his watch with the clock on the wall. “Is your clock right?”
“A little fast, but not much. If you’re starting at nine, you ought to make it.”
“Thank you.” But the chicory coffee tastes awful, the milk is tepid, and the roll expands in his mouth and catches in his teeth. He runs his tongue around his mouth, no chance to brush now. Leaves most of the food behind, takes his briefcase and leaves. He was ordained in this cathedral, received his appointment from this cathedral chapter. Neither the place nor the people are unfamiliar. He has met them all before—the dean, the priest assessor, the bishop himself, who personally congratulated Fredrik on his exam. He himself is a known face and name for them too, that’s what’s so awful. Once called promising, now about to be exposed as an utter mediocrity. He who’d thought to walk in with the stout heart and openne
ss given him by the people of the Örlands, a priceless gift.
He has an open and unaffected face that he cannot hide. The secretary at the front desk greets him with an encouraging, comforting smile. “Pastor Kummel? Welcome. You’ve had a long journey from the Örlands. Has everything gone well?”
“Yes, thank you,” the pastor says.
She smiles maternally. “How nice. The dean is a little late, but he’ll be here, he always comes. Maybe you’d like to sit down and wait for a moment.”
He sits down in a chair with his briefcase like a baby in his arms. The nice secretary brings him a cup of coffee. “We have some real coffee from Sweden,” she says. “Have some, you’ll feel better.” There are two cubes of sugar on the saucer. He stirs them in and drinks the coffee leaning forward, afraid of dripping on his collar. His hand is shaking. The dean doesn’t come and then does come, noisily, through the door and up the steps. “Good morning, good morning,” to the secretary, “not terribly late am I? And this is Pastor Kummel? Hello, how are you. Yes, I remember you. I’ve found your dissertation very edifying. Come in, come in, we have a great deal to talk about.”
The priest assessor sits on his bench as if carved in wood, but he stands up and shakes hands. Both men are cordial, prepared for all to go well. They begin gently with some small talk about Örlands parish to put him more at ease. They ask him how he likes it there, and he answers honestly, “I love my congregation. I loved the work right from the start and have been hugely well received.”
At least he gets the words out of his mouth without slurring them and can form whole sentences. If he’s had a brain haemorrhage, it must be very small. The priest assessor asks him what aspects of parish life he would classify as particularly important.
“My first thought is High Mass, which is well attended on the Örlands, but there are also the other offices, paper work, and my work on committees and boards, where I have good people to work with. Then there’s the instruction of confirmation candidates, Bible readings and study in the villages, which brings us to the unofficial part of my work, in other words, a priest’s unscheduled activities in day-to-day encounters with members of the congregation. But if I’m to prioritize, then it’s Divine service that I consider most important. You gentlemen have certainly heard that Örland is a singing congregation, and consequently the liturgy is dear to their hearts. Sermons are no simple matter and require a lot of work, but they are gratifying because the congregation actually listens, and if I say anything they think is cockeyed, they let me know.”
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