It struck Agnes that perhaps it was about homosexuality. Did the old professor have a relationship with Wiik, perhaps exploit him? That could explain the Finnish woman’s hectoring—she loved to mercilessly swoop down on all forms of double standards and fear of deviant sexual behavior. Agnes had been astonished many times at her frankness.
But now Liisa too fell silent, surely out of consideration for Birgitta, who calmed down and wiped away the tears with the back of one hand. The other hand held Liisa’s.
Agnes got up from the table and started clearing. Experience told her that the two women would withdraw for a while. That was not something she had an opinion about any longer.
“We’re going to rest a little,” said Birgitta.
The two women left the kitchen. They could at least say thank you, thought Agnes, but more out of old habit than because she was actually displeased. Nor did the fact that they disappeared to “rest” right after breakfast surprise her.
She picked up and did the dishes at the same time as she kept an eye on whether the gardener would show up. Perhaps he was working on the front side of Lundquist’s lot? She had become more and more curious about the man, although the connection to Anna was too vague for words. A saying, a few words, no more than that. But still, the uncertainty about who he was and where he came from was there, and it worried her more than she wanted to admit to herself.
The house was silent. She recalled a time when there was life and movement. Birgitta and her friends especially could make a racket. And then Dagmar, “the professor’s wife,” as she was called by the employees, she could also live it up so that it resounded in the whole house. Above all when the drinking started getting more serious. At night Agnes could sometimes hear her tripping across the floor, the sound of the liquor cabinet being opened, then a short silence—when Agnes could imagine how Dagmar was bringing the bottle to her mouth and taking a few swallows—followed by a contented “ahh.” And then the tripping back to the bedroom. Sometimes she vomited early in the morning. Agnes was always the one who had to tidy up.
Strangely enough the professor never realized the extent of his wife’s boozing, but on the other hand there was a lot at that time that he didn’t notice. He lived for his research, showing his family and home only a preoccupied, duty-bound interest.
Everyone knew that he was unfaithful. There was talk of a younger woman who worked at the hospital whom he, like an old-fashioned benefactor, supported with an apartment and certainly other things too. Agnes suspected that his trips to Italy did not have that much to do with his work but instead were outings together with his mistress, or “the piece” as the cook called her.
Dagmar was deeply unhappy. Everyone in the household realized that, but no one actually showed any pity on her. The professor’s wife took out her frustration on the servants, she was spiteful and unfair. The professor could be obstinate and really mean.
Their quarrels poisoned existence for everyone. When Dagmar died after a heart attack, Palmér, who used to come and potter around in the garden, adjust the furnace, and take care of other practical tasks, summed up everyone’s opinion when he said, “It was probably all for the best that she was called home” and made a gesture with his hand to show in which direction he thought that Dagmar von Ohler’s new “home” was.
She was written out of the story with ease and with relief, but so many years later Agnes was prepared to partly reconsider her judgment of Dagmar. She was probably driven to drinking and ill temper. Agnes could also recall a considerably more obliging and friendly woman.
Why these mental outings back in time? It only made her depressed and slowed her down. But was it perhaps her own departure, her own “calling home” that was approaching, and which therefore evoked this review of memories? She needed to melt down all her recollections, all the fifty-five years in service, into a manageable clump, in order to be able to take bus 811.
She would get off at the state liquor store in Öregrund, buy a bottle of liqueur of the kind she knew Greta drank in secret, then go down the hill by the ICA grocery store, past the square and the loathsome snack bars that were housed in the old boathouses, to come at last to the ferry landing. From the ferry she would dump the black clump in the water and see how it disappeared in the depths.
This time there would be no Fredell that she could share the transit with, and at Lidbäck’s no old mare would be standing there to talk to. But everything would be the same. She would walk home at a calm pace, this time without getting pneumonia.
She was going home! Home to Gräsön! It was like a revelation. She smiled to herself and automatically ran the dishcloth over the already shining counter, while she looked out into the garden. The few apples that were still hanging in the trees rocked alarmingly vehemently in the strong wind. It was a pity if the fruit were to go to waste so she decided to pick the last ones and make a few more apple cakes. One they could have today and the rest could be frozen. Those the professor could chew on in his solitude, she thought, with a tingling sense of mischief.
Twenty-seven
The phone call came at the same time as before, right after the morning meeting. Edvard Risberg had learned when there was a point in calling if you wanted to get hold of her.
“Hi, I just wanted to say that Viola is dying,” were his introductory words.
He had never had the talent for softening his messages. Ann Lindell sank down on her chair but sat up just as quickly again.
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes,” answered Edvard.
His voice testified to great fatigue.
“I’m coming,” she said, and ended the call.
She went into Ottosson’s office and reported that she was going to drive to Gräsö. He looked up from some papers on the desk, mutely gave his approval by nodding and waving his hand. She had not expected any objections either and was already on her way out of the room.
Fortunately she had taken the car to work and was out on the street after only a couple of minutes. I don’t care if I get another ticket, she thought, and put on the gas as she turned out on Vaksalagatan and headed for the coast.
But at Jälla she slowed down anyway, her associates were usually there, she knew that. She passed the towns one after another: Rasbo, Alunda, Gimo and Hökhuvud, at Börstil she turned left and passed the exit to Östhammar exactly thirty-two minutes after she had left the city behind her. Then it was six minutes to the turnoff toward Öregrund—she had always hated the speed limit at Norrskedika—and from there it was just as long to Öregrund and the ferry.
* * *
“That was quick,” Edvard noted when he opened the door.
In daylight he looked more worn-out. Keeping watch by Viola’s bed was probably a factor, she thought.
“She’s awake.”
Ann nodded and withstood the impulse to hug him. Like the time before he turned around without ceremony and disappeared into the corridor toward Viola’s bedroom. Ann followed in his wake, steeling herself for what was waiting. In the corner of her eye she glimpsed Greta in the kitchen.
Viola was now, if possible, even thinner. She raised one hand in welcome. Or else it was to shoo Edvard out, because he immediately left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Shaky,” she said in a hoarse voice, as Ann sat down by the edge of the bed.
Ann nodded and took Viola’s hand in hers. All that was heard was the wind that howled around the house and made the thin curtains slowly shake.
“I’m pleased and content,” said Viola suddenly, “and everything will be fine with the house.”
Ann nodded and thought she understood what Viola meant. She had lived a long life and Edvard would stay on in the house. Perhaps one of his two sons would take over after him, something the old woman had mentioned long ago. Ann knew that Viola loathed the thought that the house would be torn down or taken over by summer visitors.
“It was lucky that Edvard showed up,” said Ann.
“H
e has been a great joy to me. He and Viktor.”
For the first time ever Ann heard how Viola’s voice broke with emotion and she had a hard time holding back the tears.
“I’m the oldest person on the island, I’ve seen people come and go. Had my health. So I can’t complain.”
“But you have complained,” said Ann with a smile. “You’ve complained about the hens, about Stockholmers and the chimney-sweep, the weather, the shopkeeper in Öregrund, the Road Administration, and God knows what else.”
“You have to have a little fun,” said Viola. “Greta has promised to look after Edvard a little. He’s sensitive.”
“He’ll manage,” Ann assured her.
“Of course he’ll manage,” Viola hissed, “but it can be good to talk with someone sometimes.”
Ann understood that Viola had instructed Greta to go over to see Edvard occasionally. What he would think about that was uncertain.
“You can come and visit too. He needs company.”
Ann wondered about Viola’s comment, her words about Edvard’s “sensitivity”—did that mean he wasn’t doing well? Or was it a way to try to put her together with Edvard?
“Maybe I’ll do that,” she said.
“I think a little sea air will do you good.”
Ann simply nodded, disinclined to continue on the present track. And it was as if Viola understood that, because after a few moments of silence she changed subject.
“Another thing,” she said. “About Anna. I heard that Greta and you had talked. Anna Andersson came to me. It was at the end of the war, but I was doing pretty well. Perhaps you don’t know it, but at that time Viktor smuggled quite a bit and I kept the books, you might say. He was never good at numbers. And then he was too nice. So Anna was here, her parents didn’t want to hear about her. Shameful, but that’s the way it was.”
Now it was as if the old Viola had returned. The shaky voice was gone and her eyes shone like before.
“She was bleeding when she came. I wanted to bring Åkerman here, the doctor from the mainland, but that was not to be discussed. She bled for a week.”
Ann sensed where Anna Andersson was bleeding from but asked anyway to be a hundred-percent sure. Viola told that Anna was trying to hide the bloody sanitary napkins but it was futile for her to try to hide her miserable condition.
“The girl was scared to death. She knew nothing about life and her own body. And it’s clear, with those parents who believed in the immaculate conception, she was poorly prepared. I forced her to eat food made from animal blood. Viktor had to butcher. He did not ask but surely understood what the girl needed. That’s how it was then! Now you know how things were in those fine families.”
“What happened?”
“Anna never wanted to tell and when someone doesn’t want to talk of their own free will you shouldn’t force them. What has to come out will come out in time. The main thing then was that she got healthy and strong. Right?”
Ann nodded, but in her mind she could not keep from speculating about what had happened.
“What is so strange—”
“Yes!” exclaimed Viola, as if she had read Ann’s thoughts. “Greta went to town and that riffraff. And then Agnes. Anna was very unhappy when Greta left. Her sister was just a girl-child.”
The “girl-child” was now sitting in the kitchen. She must have turned on the coffeemaker, because it was starting to smell like coffee.
“What happened to Anna?”
Viola did not answer immediately but instead seemed submerged in thoughts about what had happened more than sixty years ago, or else she had simply used up the last of her strength. Ann was getting increasingly worried.
“How are you? Do you want to rest a little?”
“Rest,” the old woman hissed. “No, I don’t want to rest.”
“What happened to Anna?” Ann repeated.
“She went to Stockholm, got work as a housekeeper, and later she started working at a soap factory. She managed well, got married to a Haller, he came from Germany but he was no Nazi because of that.”
Ann laughed and Viola glared furiously at her.
“But she could never have any more children.”
Viola’s words confirmed what Ann had guessed: that Ann had gotten pregnant, had a miscarriage, and then fled to the island.
“But the German had a child from before. A cute little thing, but so skinny, Anna came here and showed him when he was four or five years old. She took on the little guy as if he was her own. She made it through. Now she’s gone. Even so she was younger than me. Where the boy went I don’t know. To Africa, I think.”
Ann sniffled. Viola’s brief, almost brusque account of a woman’s life and fate touched something inside Ann that she did not want to be reminded of. The story had created images that emerged and overlapped each other. There was the picture of Anna and her despair, the skinny little boy, but also Ann and Erik. And then this island. This house, this Edvard.
The sea, she thought, the sea that Edvard always talked about, maybe that’s what I miss? Sea air, as Viola put it. Away with all these idiotic thoughts. My life is working. I don’t need a sea to stare out over like Edvard. I don’t need him. She gasped for breath, filled by a bubbling anxiety but also by determination that she too would “make it through.”
“Now you know,” said Viola, “you who are so curious by nature.”
Ann tried to smile. Once again it struck her with what finesse Viola could manage things. And what strength she showed, even now, when according to Edvard she was at death’s door, which Ann doubted, however. Even if Viola was worn-out she was not exactly tottering on the edge of the grave.
As if to contradict this Viola hiccoughed and for a moment opened her eyes wide as if she had something in her throat.
“Help me up a little,” she said in a cawing voice.
Ann got up, took hold under her arms, and raised Viola up so that she was sitting almost upright in bed.
“Now we’ll say good-bye,” Viola decided.
Ann leaned over, pressing her cheek against Viola’s. The old woman definitely did not smell of sickness and death, but rather soap and perhaps a splash of perfume. Ann felt great warmth for Greta, she was surely the one who provided for Viola, keeping her clean and nice-smelling to the end. Ann felt the skinny arms about her body and could not stop the tears any longer.
The old woman hiccoughed again and Ann released herself from her grasp. They looked at each other.
“Good-bye now,” said Viola.
“Good-bye,” said Ann, squeezing Viola’s cool, skinny hand.
* * *
She stood in the farmyard staring upward where a few scattered clouds glided along in an otherwise blue sky. This was how it could be to say farewell, she thought. Without torment and only a pinch of anxiety, otherwise great gratitude for how magnificent life could be, for being part of it, getting to share and then separate, with death like a considerate relative.
Ann was no longer crying, but knew that more tears would come later. She stood submerged in memories when she heard the veranda door open behind her. She turned around and in a strange way she was expecting it to be Viola standing there with her scarf around her head, her worn coat, and cut-off rubber boots on her feet.
But of course it was Edvard. He looked searchingly at her, as if he wanted to check how she was feeling.
“What a woman she is,” said Ann.
Edvard nodded. Only now did Ann see how tense he was.
“I guess I’ll be leaving,” she said.
“Ann,” he got out, stepping down from the stairs.
Don’t come closer, she thought. But he did. She could not flee when he had that expression on his face. He stood before her. Don’t touch me, she thought. But he did, took hold of her and pulled her to him.
“Ann,” he whispered, “it’s you.”
He felt like before. Smelled like before. She felt how something was loosening. An inner valve was opened and ou
t streamed everything that had accumulated since their breakup: all the thoughts about a reunion, hopes and disappointments; all the glasses of wine she drank just to be able to sleep; all the tears she had shed, and like a stinking stream now this mess rushed through and out of her body. Only resolve and anger remained.
She pushed him away from her.
“No, Edvard, it’s not that way anymore.”
He shrank a little, like a surprised animal who is unexpectedly struck by a projectile, if not directly fatal, then still one that made him shake with the insight that this was the beginning of the end.
“You know that too,” she continued quickly, because she didn’t want to hear his assurances and explanations. “You’re sad now and need someone. But I’m not the one you need.”
“Yes,” he whispered doggedly. “It’s been that way since you left the island.”
She wanted to let out her anger that he had waited so many damn years before he came out with this but she held back so as not to worsen his obvious suffering. He had enough with his despair that Viola had decided to die.
“I’m leaving now,” she said, suddenly struck by the thought that behind her anger perhaps love was lurking.
True, that was not very likely. The feeling that they had come to a definitive end was strong. But stranger things had happened in the history of the world, so she decided to shut down everything and make herself inaccessible. She simply didn’t want to be there anymore. She wanted to leave the island and go home to Erik and Anders.
She stroked him across the cheek—a gesture that she regretted afterwards—and then walked quickly to her car, jumped in and drove off, leaving the farm and Edvard behind her. In the rearview mirror Edvard could be seen for a moment before his figure was blocked by stones and juniper shrubs.
Open Grave: A Mystery (Ann Lindell Mysteries) Page 20
