by Håkan Nesser
He had had it in his head for over a month. The words, the formulations, the carefully weighed pauses. It was going to be a . . . a sort of pedagogical masterwork. The master reveals himself through his brevity. Robert would sit in silence. His father’s words would bore into him, with implacable resolve. Like ticks on a scabby hand, he had read somewhere. Robert would understand what he had done. He would regret it bitterly, but that would not help. He would look at his father and he would realize that for something like this, one could not ask pardon. One could only wait for the mist of silence and amnesia to settle over what had been. Mist and balm. I only had one son, Robert, he would say – pause for effect – and I still only have one son. That is my lot. This hasn’t been good for your mother, Robert, I’ve feared for her life, several times. No, reason was better. Feared for her reason. The shame should be yours and yours alone, Robert, but it also falls on your family. No, there’s no need to say anything. Words are mere air after actions like these. I want you to know that our head, Mr Askbergson, actually wanted to relieve Mum and me of our duties for the rest of the term – out of consideration for us – but we stayed on. We kept a stiff upper lip as we went to work, we kept a stiff upper lip as we looked our colleagues in the eye. I want you to remember that, Robert. We shall be leaving this country in the spring, but we shall do it with heads held high. I want you to remember that.
He sat there chewing over his words, although the dribble had finished a good while before. Then he got to his feet, pulled up his pyjama trousers and flushed the toilet. He washed his hands and looked in the mirror. Something had happened to his right eye, hadn’t it? He wasn’t sure what, but it didn’t look quite itself. The eyelid was drooping a millimetre lower than usual. Or was he just imagining it?
He splashed both eyes with cold water and checked again. It looked normal now.
There, see, just his imagination.
It was five to four. He returned to the bedroom and climbed back into bed beside his wife. The faint murmuring of the radiator was still audible. Örebro Castle hadn’t moved.
Must try to get back to sleep, he thought. I’ve got a long day ahead of me.
First to arrive, at about nine, was a small deputation of relatives. It comprised Karl-Erik’s two cousins from Gothenburg, one male and one female, with their respective other halves. They had just happened to be passing and had decided to look in for an hour on the big day.
They got through half a gateau and twelve cups of coffee. Neither Robert nor Leif nor the boys were up (or at any rate they had the presence of mind to stay upstairs); they all sat in the kitchen, the four passing travellers, the birthday boy and girl, Rosemarie and a boxer puppy named Silly who belonged to one of the cousins and left three puddles under the table.
The conversation went sluggishly and revolved mainly round another relative they had in common (Gunvald, 1947) who had emigrated to America, the current interest rate and all the lovely people you get to meet if you own a dog.
The TV programme Prisoners of Koh Fuk was accidentally mentioned en passant, but the subject was taken no further.
The family deputation, its mission accomplished, drove off in two almost identical little cars with metallic finishes, one white and one a silvery grey, at around quarter past ten. They left two presents behind them: one a largish framed work of art (100 x 70cm) comprising a seascape done in knotted wool, the other a smaller framed picture of a beach (70 x 40cm), also in knotted wool. The artist’s name was Ingelund Sägebrandt, and Rosemarie was not sure if it was a man or a woman. In consultation with Ebba, they decided to store both pictures in the garage until further notice.
Once they had been duly stowed away, she went out and lifted the lid of the empty mailbox; it had started snowing and she could already feel the characteristic signs of incipient heartburn. This day is never going to end, she thought.
At eleven, eight colleagues from Kymlingevik School arrived. Leif had come down from upstairs, but not Robert or the boys. Nor was there any word from Kristina, Jakob and Kelvin; Rosemarie assumed they were treating themselves to a nice lie-in at the hotel, and on reflection she thought it was just as well.
Amongst the school colleagues was that hilarious joker Rigmor Petrén, who was the same age as Rosemarie and had undergone a double mastectomy, but was still going strong. Twenty-five years ago or thereabouts, she had taught Ebba mathematics (and one term of physics), and she had now composed a new and utterly hilarious song for Karl-Erik and his splendid daughter.
It had twenty-four verses and while it was being performed by eight voices, Rosemarie devoted her thoughts to two things. First, she imagined a marathon, run underwater and in the dark, and found it to be in some sense a new and interesting image of life; second, she wondered if there was something wrong with Karl-Erik’s face. He didn’t look quite the same as usual as he sat there very upright on a kitchen chair, smiling until his jaws went white with the strain.
Though perhaps that was simply the way to view everything, she thought. As a question of endurance. Rigmor Petrén was one of those teachers who always covered every single thing on the syllabus of every single course. Year after year. Even the cancer didn’t dent her diligence. Her sense of humour turned everything in its path to ashes. Leif Grundt sneaked out to the toilet during verse seven and came back during verse nineteen.
When the song was over, they went into the living room and drank twenty-nine cups of coffee, polishing off the gateau the cousins had started on, plus two thirds of the next one. Co-op manager Grundt entertained them with an amusing comparative study of ham prices in the run-up to Christmas. Rosemarie’s heartburn burst into full bloom.
Then assistant master Arne Barkman made an emotionally charged speech to Karl-Erik. About halfway through he was obliged to stop and blow his nose clear of the powerful feelings inevitably besetting him at such a moment. He and Karl-Erik had shared the same teachers’ workroom for almost thirty years, and Arne was asking himself whether he would be able to return to his desk at Kymlingevik School in January at all. The vacuum left by Karl-Erik’s departure could not be expressed in words, he claimed. So he did not intend to try. Thank you, Karl-Erik, that was all he wanted to say. Thank you for everything. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
‘Thank you, Arne,’ responded Karl-Erik right on cue, and gave his old comrade a thump on the back that brought the handkerchief out again.
Two bunches of flowers, a big one in shades of yellow and another slightly smaller, redder-toned one, had been handed over on arrival, but now it was time for the presents. First a book by physician and comedian Rickard Fuchs for Ebba, who in her job must surely need a good laugh. Then seven gifts for Karl-Erik, the number symbolizing the muses or graces or virtues, or whatever set of seven one wanted to subscribe to, hah hah, and all with an unmistakable Iberian connection.
A bronze bull’s head weighing a good kilo. A Rioja Gran Reserva 1972. A six-hundred-page picture book about the Alhambra. A tapas cookery book. A Spanish travelogue by Cees Nooteboom. A pair of hardwood castanets. A CD featuring guitarist José Muñoz Coca.
‘I’m touched,’ admitted Karl-Erik Hermansson.
‘It’s all too much,’ said Rosemarie.
‘Of course, they’re a little bit for you as well, Rosemarie dear,’ explained Ruth Immerström, social studies, RE and history. ‘Yes, the two of you really will leave a gaping hole, just like Arne said.’
Their colleagues departed en masse, just before one o’clock. Rosemarie put all the presents on the oak sideboard, under the picture of the Battle of Gestilren (1210), and Ebba immediately went upstairs to get her two sons and brother moving.
‘Robert isn’t here,’ she reported when she came down to the kitchen ten minutes later to help her mother with the washing up.
‘Not here?’ said Rosemarie. ‘What do you mean, he’s not here?’
‘I mean he isn’t here, of course,’ said Ebba. ‘He’s made his bed, but he isn’t up there. Or down here, either.’
‘What a lovely dress you’re wearing,’ said Rosemarie. ‘Red’s always suited you. Strange the way Ebba’s so blue and you’re so red. One might almost think that—’
‘Thank you, Mother dear,’ said Kristina. ‘Who isn’t here?’
‘Robert, of course,’ said Ebba. ‘But he’s probably pushed off for a walk and a smoke again. He’s got a few things on his mind. Did you all sleep well at the hotel?’
‘Yes thanks, very well,’ Jakob assured her, with Kelvin hanging in his arms like a rag doll. There’s something seriously wrong with that child, thought Rosemarie automatically.
‘Actually, you look a bit tired Kristina,’ she said, with the same automatic response reflex. There was something about her daughter’s appearance that she could not but remark on. ‘I thought you’d all had a decent lie-in.’
‘I think I slept for too long,’ said Kristina. ‘Happy birthday, Dad. Happy birthday, Ebba. What did you do with the presents, Jakob?’
‘Damn and blast,’ Jakob let slip. ‘I left them in the car.’
‘I’ll get them later,’ said Kristina. ‘It’s not time for them yet, I don’t suppose. Do you want to go and put Kelvin down for a sleep upstairs?’
Jakob and Kelvin left the kitchen. Is she bossing him around? thought Rosemarie. How come I didn’t notice yesterday?
‘Have you done something to your face, Dad,’ asked Kristina. ‘You don’t look quite the same as usual.’
‘It’s his age,’ put in Leif Grundt.
‘Well, I don’t really know,’ said Karl-Erik, running his hands down his cheeks. ‘I woke up at half past three last night and couldn’t get back to sleep. Don’t know why, but I do feel a bit tired, actually.’
‘You need to trim your nose hair,’ said Rosemarie.
‘I think Dad should take a nap,’ announced Ebba. ‘There’s been an awful lot going on at home this morning, for those of you who weren’t here.’
It’s not just that I can’t locate my feelings for them, thought Rosemarie. They don’t like each other, either. If I don’t get a glass of Samarin for this heartburn soon, I shall self-combust.
The brothers Grundt appeared in the doorway, their hair tidy, and wearing collars and ties.
‘Good morning, you two shirkers,’ their father greeted them jovially. ‘Hey, just a minute, what are those tinker’s rags round your necks?’
‘Why don’t we have some coffee and a sandwich while we’re all here?’ said Rosemarie Wunderlich Hermansson.
11
In the course of the morning, the temperature fell by five degrees and the snow started coming down more heavily. Moreover, the south-westerly wind turned round to the northwest, and its speed increased from three to eight metres a second, but none of this did anything to prevent the next planned activity for the day: the walk round town.
For at least the past twenty-five years, Karl-Erik Hermansson had been doing this walk, which lasted a bare two hours, with the Year 8 pupils to whom he taught some of the more socially orientating subjects – to give the new generation at least some rudimentary knowledge of their own town and its sights – and there wasn’t really that much difference between May and December.
The town hall. The cobblers’ museum. The old water tower. The historical Hemmelberg House. Gahn Park and the well-preserved Rademacher Forge by the falls on the river Kymlinge. To name but a few of the sights.
Some of that day’s participants had heard most of it before, but the new library had been formally opened just eight months earlier, and none of them had yet had a chance to see the newly restored painting above the altar in the church.
And anyway, it was nice to get out. They were all going, except for Rosemarie, who, in consultation with her friend and assistant cook Ester Brälldin, would stay at home to organize the approaching dinner, and Robert, who had still not been seen.
‘It’s just typical that he can’t make an effort even today,’ Ebba said to her sister, once their father had finished his historical account and numerous rounds of the cobblers’ museum, and indicated to his troop that they could move on through the whirling snow up to Linnégatan.
‘What do you mean, typical?’ asked Kristina. ‘He has the freedom to do what he wants, surely, just like everyone else?’
‘Freedom?’ said Ebba, throwing up her hands as if she couldn’t really remember what this strange concept entailed. ‘What on earth are you taking about?’
‘I just mean we ought not to condemn him until we know his reasons,’ said Kristina.
‘I’d never dream of condemning anybody,’ said Ebba. ‘That’s offensive to me, Kristina.’
‘OK, I apologize,’ said Kristina, wiping her son’s snotty nose with a tissue. ‘It’s so easy to criticize Robert, that’s all.’
‘Hmph,’ said Ebba, tucking her arm under her husband’s.
‘Right then, boys,’ said Karl-Erik the Pedagogical Pine Tree to the brothers Grundt, ‘can either of you tell me why this year is engraved above this gateway?’
‘Eighteen forty-eight?’ said Henrik thoughtfully, coming to a stop. ‘The Communist Manifesto. Though I didn’t know it was here in Kymlinge they wrote it.’
‘Ho ho,’ chuckled Karl-Erik, who had been able to snatch a fifteen-minute nap despite his busy schedule, and seemed to be back on slightly better form. ‘Very good, lad. No, as far as I know, Marx and Engels never set foot in Kymlinge. But perhaps your mother can enlighten us?’
‘The fire,’ Ebba replied instantly. ‘The whole of Kymlinge burnt down that year. Virtually all the buildings were wooden in those days, and this was the only one that survived. The story goes that there was a maidservant here on her own that night, and it was her piety and prayers that saved her and the house.’
‘Precisely,’ said Karl-Erik. ‘And from 1850 onwards, the new town started being built. The Kymlinge we know. The new grid layout of the streets rather than the old medieval one. Two new squares, south and north. The town hall, as I told you . . . the covered market and—’
‘Fair old snowstorm, this,’ said Leif Grundt. ‘Good job I fitted my winter soles. Did that whisky really run out yesterday?’
‘Leif, please,’ said Ebba, letting go of his arm.
‘It somehow got polished off, yes,’ observed Karl-Erik with a slightly worried expression. ‘One really wonders where Robert can have got to.’
As if it had suddenly struck him that the two factors could be linked in some way, thought Kristina, and for the first time she felt a stab of anxiety on her brother’s account. It was after four thirty and he hadn’t been seen all day, which was surely a bit odd? Even for Robert.
Though he could be at home in the warm kitchen in Allvädersgatan, having a tipple with his mother and Ester Brälldin.
‘Right, we’ll take a brisk walk to the church and then I think it might be time to go home and start on all that lovely food,’ continued Karl-Erik. He let down the ear flaps of the fur hat he had owned since the early sixties before he took command of his shivering troop.
‘Ugh, what weather,’ exclaimed Rosemarie Wunderlich Hermansson three quarters of an hour later, as everyone stamped their feet in the hall. ‘Are you all back in one piece? No, where are . . . ?’
‘Kristina and Henrik had to pop into the supermarket for something,’ explained Ebba. ‘Has Robert turned up?’
‘No,’ said Rosemarie, helping a comatose Kelvin out of the baby sling on his father’s stomach. ‘I can’t understand where he’s got to. But you must all be frozen through. Was it really necessary to drag them all out in this blizzard, Karl-Erik?’
‘What drivel,’ said Karl-Erik. ‘I happen to be the oldest member of this gathering. If I haven’t suffered any ill effects, I don’t see why anyone else should have done. Now let’s have some glögg in front of the living-room fire.’
‘Of course we will,’ hi
s wife agreed. ‘That will fit nicely, because we can take our seats at the table in about an hour. Els-Marie rang to wish you a happy birthday, by the way. Both of you, that is.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ebba.
‘Thanks,’ said Karl-Erik.
As it was not considered appropriate for young Kristoffer to drink glögg, it was not considered appropriate for Henrik either. Sibling solidarity was invoked. The brothers made the most of this and withdrew to their green-striped room for half an hour.
‘Before I forget, can I ask you something?’ said Henrik, once he had composed and sent a new text message.
‘Mhm?’ said Kristoffer with indifference from his bed.
‘I – I need your help.’
What? thought Kristoffer. My help? Christ, the world must be coming to an end. Armageddon, or whatever it was called.
‘Er . . . sure,’ he said.
‘Well not so much your help,’ said Henrik, ‘as your silence.’
‘Oh yes?’
He noted that his heart was suddenly galloping in his chest, and hoped to God his brother wouldn’t notice.
‘Just your agreement to keep quiet, that is.’
‘What about?’ said Kristoffer, pretending to yawn.
Henrik just lay there for a few seconds, saying nothing, and seemed to be weighing something up in his mind. Kristoffer started to whistle lazily.
‘I’m thinking of going out for a couple of hours tonight.’
‘What?’
‘I said I’m thinking of going out for a couple of hours tonight.’
‘What for?’
‘And I want you to keep quiet about it.’
‘Got it . . . but why are you going out?’
Henrik hesitated again.
‘I don’t think you need to know. I just don’t want you to let on to Mum . . . or anyone else.’
Kristoffer whistled a few more notes. ‘Stairway to Heaven’, it sounded like. ‘If I’m going to keep quiet, I think I’ve got the right to know what you’ll be doing.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
