What could he do?
If it had been in his power, he would have pulled the whole lot down immediately and put up a new framework before Erik came home, confronting him with a fait accompli. He did actually consider for a moment whether he could keep Erik away from home for a week on some wild pretext, get together every single person he knew and do just that. But it wasn’t that simple. Just to redo the foundations…
He teetered across the sparse floor joists and inspected the internal layout of the house. That was peculiar as well. A long, narrow hall ran through the house, with the incorrectly proportioned bedrooms and kitchen scattered along its edges. It was as if Erik had started with the living room, which did actually appear to be normal, then added each of the other rooms as they occurred to him, until he ran out of wood.
Torgny stood with his legs apart, balancing on two joists in the middle of what would be the living room. And he was ashamed. It wasn’t so much that it was his son who had built this, but more that he would have to spend the rest of his days with this monstrosity close by, on his property. That it would, so to speak, become a part of the family.
Torgny gathered up his things and left Erik’s house without looking back. Once he was home, he put a decent slug of spirits in his coffee and a great gloom settled over him as he sat out on his balcony in the autumn sunshine.
His wife Maja came out and sat beside him with a pail of apples to be peeled and puréed.
‘How was it?’ she asked, as she produced a serpentine curl of peel from the first apple.
‘How was what?’
‘The house. Erik’s house.’
‘Well, let’s hope it’ll keep the wind off them.’
Maja’s knife slipped and the serpent fell to the ground before she made it to the end. ‘Is it that bad?’
Torgny nodded and gazed into the dregs of his coffee. He thought he could see the Tower of Babel, crashing down on to the screaming crowd. You didn’t have to be clairvoyant to understand what that meant.
‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’
Torgny shook his cup so that the tower disappeared, and shrugged his shoulders.
‘I could go up there with a can of kerosene and a match, of course, but…he might take it the wrong way.’
Erik came home that evening in an excellent mood. He and Anna-Greta were agreed on plain, simple rings, so that matter had been more or less a formality. But they had had a lovely day in Norrtälje, sitting by the canal and professing their love for each other while planning their wedding.
Torgny was sitting at the kitchen table mending nets; he listened to his son’s unusual talkativeness, nodding and making the right noises as he agreed that Erik had got himself a fine girl there.
Maja stood at the stove stirring the apple purée, making little contribution to the conversation. After a while, Erik noticed that something was wrong. He looked from one to the other.
‘Has something happened?’
Torgny looped the yarn through a hole, pulled it tight and knotted it; he didn’t look up from his work as he asked, ‘What were you thinking of doing about the slates?’
‘What slates?’
‘For your…house.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m allowed to ask a question.’
Erik looked at his mother, who was stirring the apple with great concentration, keeping her back to both of them. His father still had his eyes entangled in the torn mesh of the net. After a short silence Erik asked, ‘Isn’t it right?’ When his father didn’t reply, he added, ‘So what’s wrong with it, then?’
Torgny cut off the loose ends with his penknife and rolled them into a little ball.
‘Well, if I can put it like this…you ought to consider using sheet metal. If you’re planning on having people actually living in that house.’ Erik just stared at him. He went on, ‘If we could just go through it together, there are a few things I think need taking care of, and perhaps we could…’
Erik interrupted him. ‘You think I ought to pull it down, don’t you? The whole thing?’ Torgny opened his mouth to reply, but Erik slammed his hand down on the table and yelled, ‘Fuck you!’
Maja spun around from the stove so quickly that a few drops of apple purée flew off the wooden spoon in her hand and landed on the front of Erik’s shirt as he got up from the table.
‘Erik!’ she said. ‘That’s no way to speak to your father!’
Erik glared at her as if he were thinking of hitting her, then his gaze dropped to the warm amber drops on his chest.
‘Two things,’ said Torgny as Erik stood there with his head down. ‘Two things. Then you can go wherever you want, and you can get as angry as you want. You are not putting slates on that roof. And you will put air vents in the foundations. After that you can do what you like.’
Torgny cut a piece of yarn to begin darning the next tear. But his hands were shaking and he cut his thumb. It wasn’t a deep gash, but a few drops of blood oozed out.
He looked at the blood. Erik looked at the blobs of apple purée on his shirt. Maja was still standing there with the wooden spoon half-raised. A couple of seconds went by and something that was not a house collapsed between them, there was the sound of splintering wood, the squeal of protest as nails were ripped out.
Then Erik walked out of the kitchen. They heard his footsteps thundering up the stairs, the door of his room slamming behind him. Torgny sucked the blood off his thumb. Maja stirred the pan a few times.
Something had collapsed.
After that evening Erik lost all his enthusiasm. He carried on with his carpentry during the autumn and had the panels finished before the winter came, and he fitted a metal roof. He drilled air vents that were misshapen and ugly, but at least they let some air into the foundations.
He did all of this, but he did it without pleasure, without energy. He ate his dinner in silence and gave monosyllabic answers to his parents’ questions. Sometimes he went to Nåten to meet Anna-Greta, and he must have made a bit of an effort on those occasions, because the wedding was still on.
Torgny never went to the house again while it was being built. When people asked how the lad was getting on with his house, he said he wasn’t interfering at all, it was Erik’s business. He had said his piece, had saved what could be saved. He could do no more.
Winter came late. Apart from the usual cold snap at the beginning of November, it was mild with no sign of snow until well into January. Erik had put the windows in and was now spending the afternoons and evenings in his house. A large kerosene lamp spread its light across the cliffs, and from a distance it looked really cosy.
In the middle of January, Erik moved his bed and basic household equipment down to the house. Torgny and Maja stood at the kitchen window secretly watching as he carried his bed on his back down the hill. Maja placed her hand on Torgny’s shoulder.
‘Our boy is leaving home.’
‘Yes,’ said Torgny, turning away as tears began to prick at his eyes. He sat down at the kitchen table and filled his pipe. Maja stayed at the window, watching Erik as he disappeared behind Seaview Cottage.
‘He’s got a mind of his own, anyway,’ she said. ‘Nobody can take that away from him.’
The house was finished at the beginning of May. The wedding took place two weeks later. The ceremony was to take place outdoors, on the cliffs at North Point, and afterwards everyone was invited to a combined wedding reception and topping-out ceremony in Erik’s house on the point.
It was a windy day. People had to hold on to their hats, and when the bride threw her bouquet it was swept out to sea before anyone had the chance to catch it. The party made its way to the couple’s house with their clothes flapping and tears in their eyes due to both the wind and the emotion of the occasion.
Anna-Greta thought Erik was holding her hand far too tightly as they passed the harbour and continued towards his home, leading the procession. He was probably just nervous and excited. She herself had butter
flies in her stomach, because Erik had yet to show her the house where they were to live together as a married couple, for better or worse, till death did them part. However, his grip was actually so tight that she couldn’t give his hand a consoling squeeze in return; she couldn’t move her hand at all.
Erik’s mother and her friends had set up the tables outside that morning, but when the wind got up an hour before the wedding, they had moved everything inside. The tables were already laid when the guests walked in, and Maja and her helpers immediately started setting out the food.
Erik let go of Anna-Greta’s hand and gave a short speech welcoming everyone. This gave her the opportunity to look around. It all looked lovely, but there was one detail she couldn’t help noticing: in spite of the fact that the windows were closed, the curtains were billowing out. And…
What is it? There’s something…
Her eyes moved from the hallway to the kitchen and living room. The windows, the doors, the ceiling. Something was making her feel slightly seasick, as if a weight were shifting in her stomach. There was no time to reflect on the matter. Erik had finished speaking, and the guests were taking their seats. She put the whole thing down to her own nervousness.
Erik grew more and more morose as the afternoon and evening progressed. There were discussions about fishing and summer visitors, about Hitler and the possible occupation of Åland, but in the corners and barely out of earshot people were tapping on the walls and pointing at corners and angles. Heads were shaken, and certain comments reached Erik’s ears.
Anna-Greta noticed that Erik was pouring himself generous measures of schnapps. She tried to distract his attention from the alcohol, but once Erik had passed a certain point, it was as if he became nothing more than a pair of listening ears and a drinking mouth. Later in the evening, when several of the guests were talking quite openly about things they had only whispered earlier, she found him sitting on a chair, staring at one of the walls.
Three of the children were playing a game. They had some hard-boiled eggs left over from the meal, and they were having a competition to see who could get their egg to roll the furthest, simply by putting it down on the floor and letting go of it.
Suddenly Erik stood up and cleared his throat loudly. There was a party atmosphere in the funny house, and only a few conversations were broken off. Erik didn’t seem to care. He leaned against the back of the chair so that he wouldn’t fall over, and said loudly, ‘There’s been a lot of talk one way and another, so I thought it was time I said what I think about this Hitler bloke.’
He gave a highly inflammatory speech, but a very strange one. His argument was muddled and vaguely incomprehensible. At any rate, the main thrust was that people like Hitler should be eradicated from the face of the earth, and why? Well, because they poked their noses into other people’s business and crushed the freedom of others with their authority. Hitler was one of those people who always thought he knew best, and therefore other people were crushed beneath his feet.
Erik ended by saying, ‘We can bloody well do without these know-alls. That’s what I think, anyway.’
It was only when Torgny stood up a little while later, made his excuses and took Maja with him, that Anna-Greta realised the speech had been about something else entirely.
No, it wasn’t exactly a successful wedding reception. Nor was the wedding night, for that matter. Erik was too drunk to do anything at all, and towards morning Anna-Greta went out and sought consolation with the gulls, who had begun to circle above the cliffs.
What kind of life was it going to be, here in this house?
Plastic beads
The pine tree was still standing by the porch, as tall and straight as ever. Anders put his case down beside it and contemplated the Shack. The sheet metal roof had been changed to corrugated tin, and its corrugations were full of pine needles. The gutters were probably blocked.
The rickety jetty extended out into the water from the wormwood meadow on the shoreline. Anders’ grandmother had brought a plant with her from Stora Korset many years earlier, and it had spread, very slowly, until the swaying blanket of leaves and naked stems surrounded the old plastic-hulled boat lying upturned on a couple of blocks of wood.
He took a walk around the outside of the house. On the side facing inland it looked OK, but on the side facing out to sea the red paint had faded, and some of the planks of wood in the walls had split. The TV aerial had disappeared. When he went up on to the patio he could see the antenna lying there like an injured spider.
He was in pain all the time. All the time there was a weight on his chest and pain that felt like a scream. As he made his way around the corner of the house he caught sight of something red among the dog roses. Maja’s little boat. A cheap inflatable thing they had played with together that last summer. He and Maja and Cecilia.
Now it was lying there, torn and deflated among the rose bushes. He remembered telling Maja not to drag it across any sharp stones, not to…now it was impaled on hundreds of thorns and everything was gone and it was too late.
It was because of the boat he hadn’t come back to Domarö for almost three years. Because of the boat and other memories like it, other traces of the past. Things that contemptuously continued to exist, despite the fact that they should no longer be here because the significance they’d held was gone.
He had expected this. He had steeled himself. He didn’t cry. He could see the red glow of the boat from the corner of his eye as he carried on around the house on legs that were moving only because he told them to move. He turned the corner and found his way to the table in the garden, slumped down on the bench. He was finding it difficult to breathe, small hands were squeezing his windpipe and black dots danced before his eyes.
What the hell did I come here for?
When the worst of the cramps in his throat had passed, he got up and kicked away the stone by the gooseberry bush. A few woodlice scuttled over the plastic bag containing the door key. He waited until they had gone, then bent down and picked up the bag. As he straightened up he suddenly felt dizzy. He went over to the front door as if he were drunk, unlocked it, dragged himself to the bathroom and drank several gulps of rusty-tasting water straight from the tap. Breathed, took a few more gulps. The dizziness was still there.
The door from the hallway into the living room was open, and the light from the sea and sky cast a white lustre over the sofa under the window. He saw it through a tunnel, staggered over and collapsed on to it.
Time passed.
He lay on the sofa with his eyes open or his eyes closed, and realised he was freezing. But it was merely a fact, it was unimportant. He looked at the blank television screen, the soot-covered doors of the Roslagen stove.
He recognised everything, and everything was unfamiliar to him. He had thought there would be some sense of homecoming, a sense of returning to something that still belonged to him. There wasn’t. He felt like a burglar in someone else’s memories. All this belonged to a stranger, someone he had been a long time ago and no longer knew.
It had grown darker outside the window and the sea was lapping against the rocks. He crawled off the sofa and fetched a tin, which he filled with chimney-cleaning fluid; he placed it in the open hearth and lit it to get rid of the cold air in the chimney. Then he lit a fire and went to open the bedroom door, to spread the warmth through the house. He stopped halfway.
The door.
The door was closed.
Someone had closed the door.
Anders stood still, breathing through his nose. Faster and faster, like an animal scenting danger. He stared at the door. It was an ordinary door. Pale pine, the cheapest kind. He had bought it himself from the sawmill in Nåten and spent a day taking out the old, crooked frame and fitting the new door. A perfectly ordinary door. But it was closed.
He was absolutely certain it had not been closed when he and Cecilia left here for the last time, exhausted, empty, all cried out.
Calm down. Simon
has closed it.
But why would he have done that? There were no other signs that anyone had been in the house. Why would Simon have come in just to close the bedroom door?
So the door must have been closed when they left. He must have got it wrong.
But I haven’t.
He remembered all too clearly. How Cecilia had gone out to the car with the last thing, a case containing Maja’s summer clothes. How he had stood there looking back into the house for one last time before he closed and locked the front door. He had known he was saying goodbye, that none of the things they had imagined were ever going to happen, that he might never see this place again. The image had been seared into his brain.
And the door to the bedroom had been open.
He reached out for the handle. It was cold. His heart was pounding in his chest. Carefully he pushed down the handle and pulled. The door swung open. Despite the chill pouring out from the bedroom, he felt a drop of sweat trickle from his armpit.
Nothing.
There was nothing, of course. The beam of the lighthouse flashed across the double bed opposite the door. Everything was as it should be. And yet he groped for the switch and put the light on before he went in.
The double bed was made, the white satin quilt cover shone and spread light across the pale blue wood-panelled walls, the cheap painting of a ship in danger on a stormy sea above the bed.
He walked over to the window. The lighthouse at North Point was flashing out across the bay. A single floodlight in the harbour illuminated the steamboat jetty and the boats bobbing by the jetties. There wasn’t a soul out there. In the brief intervals of darkness he could see short flashes from Gåvasten, the hated lighthouse at Gåvasten.
He could see the opposite wall reflected in the dark window pane. The wardrobe, Maja’s bed. It was unmade, the way they had left it. Neither he nor Cecilia could bring themselves to smooth out the quilt and eradicate the last traces of the child who used to lie there. Anders shuddered. The chaotic covers looked as if they might be hiding a body. He turned around.
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