He passed a pile of old clothes and rags covered with a Swedish flag and went into the inner room. It was darker in here because the window was partly covered by an old table standing on end, and the smell of mould and age was more noticeable. He switched on the light.
The room was full of old nets, agricultural tools, spinning wheels and similar items. Someone from Antiques Roadshow would probably have been able to sniff out the valuable items amid all the rubbish. The thing he was looking for was straight ahead of him, propped up against a broken chair as if it were waiting for him.
He crouched down and picked up the double-barrelled shotgun, turned it over and broke it open. The chambers were empty. Anders lowered his head. The darkness pricked up its ears and crept closer to him, he could feel it as a pain in his stomach, growing stronger by the minute.
He placed the barrels in his mouth, closed his lips around them and curled his finger around the trigger. The darkness halted, moved back a little way. He had gained some respite.
His hands were trembling as he put down the gun and started looking for cartridges. He looked on the floor, on tables, behind nets. His fear of the darkness made his whole body shake as he swept aside piles of old newspapers, pushed his hands behind a chest of drawers and felt granules of dried mouse droppings slip through his fingers.
He sat up straight, pulled out the bottom drawer and there, among old whetstones and keys to locks that no longer existed, he found the box. An unassuming brown cardboard box containing seven cartridges. He breathed out, a panting sound, then took out one cartridge and studied it.
This little instrument of death was considerably newer than the gun. A cylinder of thick, red cardboard enclosed a densely packed clump of lead shot. Right at the bottom sat the gold-coloured detonator with its charge of primer.
Anders picked at the little circle in the centre of the cartridge’s base. One blow to that circle and the primer was ignited, exploded and hurled out the shot.
So simple, really.
He pulled the gun towards him, pushed the cartridge into the bore and snapped the barrels into place. He ran his finger over the hammer and pulled it back until it too clicked into place.
So simple.
The entire construction of the gun was nothing more than a loop around the thin hammer that would peck at the detonator with its beak and then…all over. In a few seconds it would all be over at last.
The best thing would probably be to prop the stock of the gun in one corner so that the recoil wouldn’t displace the gun, with the risk that the shot would tear him to pieces without actually finishing him off. He looked around the room, and just as he established that it would be easy to clear the corner behind the nets, he became aware of his own selfishness.
It’s their wedding day.
But he couldn’t wait. He carefully put down the gun and lifted up the first of the nets.
You can wait. You can wait one day.
He stopped with the net folded over his arm and shook his head.
You have to. However hard it might be. For their sake. You can’t do this to them.
He knew it was true. With the net pressed against his chest he waited for the darkness to pounce, to punish him for his hesitation. But it didn’t come. It trusted him. It could wait.
Tomorrow.
He knew that Simon and Anna-Greta were going on their little honeymoon to Finland the following day. He could do it then. And he could also show them the consideration of not doing it here, in their house. That would be inestimably selfish, and besides he knew exactly where it should be done, the perfect place for gifts and sacrifices.
Gently he moved the cock back and hid the loaded gun behind the nets, went back into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee while he waited for Simon.
Simon didn’t come.
It had been agreed that they would catch the one o’clock boat together, but it got to half-past twelve, quarter to one and there was no sign of Simon. Anders thought he must have misunderstood in his preoccupied state the previous evening, and that they were supposed to meet at the jetty.
He would pretend to be alive for one more day, for their sake. Then that would be an end to his consideration for others. It was bad enough that they would find out when they came back from their trip, but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t carry on living just to make them happy.
But he would pretend for one more day, so while he smoked a cigarette he checked his appearance in the hall mirror to see if he would pass muster for a wedding. The white shirt and trousers were slightly too big for him, but the shoes were a surprisingly good fit. On the coat hooks he found one of Simon’s old jackets and pulled it on.
When he closed the door behind him to be welcomed by yet another grey, overcast day, he thought he could probably get through this too. The gun was loaded and ready, it was only a matter of perhaps twenty hours before it would be put to use.
For the moment the darkness seemed satisfied that the preparations had been carried out, and it even took its eyes off him a couple of times as he made his way down to the steamboat jetty.
Simon wasn’t there either. There were about twenty people gathered on the jetty, all dressed up in their best clothes and all on their way to Nåten and the wedding, but the bridegroom was missing. Anders went over to Elof Lundberg. He was wearing a very grand overcoat, which didn’t go with the inevitable cap at all.
‘Have you seen Simon?’
‘No,’ said Elof. ‘Isn’t he already there, then?’
‘Yes. I suppose he is.’
Anders moved away and tried to remember what Simon had said.
He was going to look for water at Göran’s place, wasn’t he?
Anders looked around, but Göran wasn’t on the jetty either. He wasn’t proud of it, but a terrible little hope flickered into life within Anders: something had happened. Something that would mean the wedding had to be postponed. Something that would allow him to go back to the hidey-hole today, after all.
The tender glided alongside and there was chattering and laughter as the wedding guests climbed aboard. As it reversed out Anders stood in the prow, looking over towards Simon’s jetty. Perhaps he had taken his own boat over to Nåten?
But the boat was by the jetty, and there was no sign of the bridegroom anywhere.
Proof of eligibility
Anders stayed in the prow for the whole crossing and didn’t speak to anyone; when they hove to he was the first one off, and walked quickly towards the church. Behind him came the wedding guests, chattering noisily.
Nåten church was in a beautiful spot on a small hill close to the sea, and the churchyard covered the entire slope down to the shore, where the emblematic anchor that adorned every written communication from the church lay like a brake, as if to stop the headstones and crosses from tumbling down into the sea.
The wedding ceremony wasn’t due to start for half an hour. Anders guessed that those who were about to be married would usually wait for the exact moment in the community centre beyond the churchyard gate. He went up the steps and knocked on the door. When no one answered, he stepped inside.
Two long tables were laid for the guests, and an extravagantly decorated buffet was displayed on a smaller table in the middle of the room. He could hear women’s voices from behind a door at the far end.
She has to be told.
The sound of the guests’ voices was getting closer. Anders walked to the other end of the room, tapped on the door and opened it.
Despite the fact that he was committed to death and that nothing mattered any more, he couldn’t help but be taken aback at the sight of his grandmother in her wedding finery.
Anna-Greta’s long, grey hair had been arranged in a wave-like style that caught the pale light from the window, so that it poured down over her in cascades of silver. The white flowers on her beige dress reinforced the impression of a borrowed starlit glow that reached all the way up to her forehead. Her face had been skilfully made up to
bring out the sparkle in her eyes.
Next to her, two women of the same age sat fiddling with something on her dress. Anders looked quickly around the room. No Simon.
‘How do I look?’ asked Anna-Greta.
‘Wonderful,’ said Anders honestly. ‘Has Simon been here?’
‘No.’ The sparkle in Anna-Greta’s eyes dulled a little. ‘Hasn’t he arrived?’
Anders shook his head and Anna-Greta made a move to go out and check for herself, but one of the women held her back and said, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll come. Now stand still.’
Anna-Greta flung her arms wide in a helpless gesture as if to show that she was a captive. ‘Go and wait with the others,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here.’
Anders backed out of the room and left her in the hands of her guards. He had done what he could. It was no longer his problem. And yet he felt sorry for Anna-Greta. So pretty, so dressed up, so full of anticipation. His little grandma.
Because he knew that Simon would not come. That somehow or other he had been captured by the forces that were on the move. End of story. Simon was gone, and Anders intended to catch the three o’clock boat back and put an end to all his sorrows.
It was quarter to two when Anders walked up to the church and looked in through the open door. Some thirty people were seated in the pews. The guests who had come over on the tender had been supplemented by people from Nåten and those who had come in their own boats. Up by the altar the priest was adjusting a bunch of white roses in a vase.
The slope drew Anders down to the churchyard, and he wandered among the gravestones. He stood for a long time in front of the family grave where both his father and his grandfather stood alone with their names beneath Torgny and Maja. Presumably Anna-Greta would make sure that his own name was added at the bottom of the column of lone men.
And Simon? Where will Simon end up?
At just after two, people started coming out of the church to see what was happening, or rather to see why nothing was happening. Anders carried on down to the water’s edge to avoid being spoken to. He stopped in front of the huge anchor and read the plaque.
IN MEMORY OF THOSE LOST AT SEA
Anders ran his hand over the rusty cast iron, over the treated wood. It would be more fitting for him to be buried here, beneath the anchor, because he had been lost at sea and then wandered around pointlessly on dry land for a couple of years. He followed the chain that ran from the top of the anchor down into the ground.
Where does that go?
He saw the chain disappearing deep underground or out across the bottom of the sea; in his mind he hurled his body in the direction of the chain and followed it downwards…
…burrowing down into the slime on the seabed, down into the mud and the blue clay, down to the point where nothing can live, where there is complete silence…
His thoughts were interrupted by shouts from the direction of the church. People were pointing out to sea, and when Anders turned around, his lips curved into a smile in spite of everything. A boat was heading towards them from out in the bay. A rickety fibreglass boat with a twenty-horsepower Evinrude engine. Simon’s boat.
The wedding guests poured down the slope like a flock of eager sheep and gathered on the shoreline as the boat approached. There were two people on board, and when the boat was about a hundred metres from land, Anders could see that it was Simon and Göran. Göran was driving, and Simon was sitting up in the prow with his hair blowing around his ears. People clapped and cheered.
The magician’s final entrance.
The boat didn’t head for the harbour, but made straight for the incline below the anchor. Göran put the engine into neutral and floated the last few metres into the shore. Simon climbed out, and the guests combined their efforts to haul the boat safely ashore.
Simon’s eyes sought out Anders and he started to say something, but the guests grabbed him by the arms and pulled him up towards the church, where Anna-Greta was now waiting for him, her arms folded across her chest. Without doubt the entrance was effective, but Anna-Greta could be forgiven for wishing that on this particular day there had been slightly less spectacle and slightly more solemnity.
Anders followed a couple of steps behind and waited until everyone else had disappeared into the church before he walked in and took a seat at the back.
Let love come
The description of the wedding has been omitted.
Strangely enough, descriptions of weddings aren’t all that interesting. I mean, two people promising each other eternal commitment and fidelity before God really ought to be something enjoyable, but actually it isn’t.
It’s like a horror story, but in reverse. When the monster shows its ugly mug at the end, it’s always a disappointment. It can never match up to our expectations. It’s the same with a wedding. The journey along the winding paths of love is spine tingling, the lead-up in some cases is a real battleground and the basic idea behind the whole thing is beautiful and mind blowing.
But the ritual itself?
You would have to call in Marc Chagall, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and David Copperfield’s tech team to do the idea justice. People would hover above the ground, there would be flashes of lightning, waterfalls and a symphony that would make the plaster fall off the walls and swirl in flakes around the conjoined couple like confetti spiralling up to the ceiling.
Nothing like that occurred in the church at Nåten.
Suffice to say that Simon and Anna-Greta exchanged vows, that some appropriate music was played on the organ, and that many people were moved. However, there was one beautiful thing that happened. Anna-Greta was a radiant bride, and Simon was rather a mess. Despite the fact that he had managed to get into his wedding outfit, it looked as if he had done so in rather a hurry. His tie was crooked, his socks didn’t match his trousers and his hair was tousled.
But let joy be unconfined nevertheless! Let love come! Let it be victorious!
Let the couple walk out on to the church steps and let Anna-Greta’s two friends, who know how these things should be done, shower them with confetti, and let us hear the choirs of angels in the background and see the cascades of eider feathers that have been collected from the islands for months, let them fall from the heavens like snowy apple blossom strewn from the hands of God the Father as he opens his warm embrace.
Yes!
Yes, yes, yes!
And then let us go together to the community centre and help ourselves to the buffet. This day is not over yet. Not by a long way. Let us go.
The water
People spread themselves out around the tables and, to Anders’ relief, Anna-Greta took him by the arm so that he ended up next to her, with no one on his other side. Opposite him sat Anna-Greta’s two friends, and after Anna-Greta had introduced them as Gerda and Lisa, the two ladies concentrated on each other.
The guests filled their plates and helped themselves to beer or soft drinks. It certainly wasn’t a showy affair, and it was almost fortunate that Simon’s entrance had made it something to remember.
But Simon wasn’t done yet.
After Anders had congratulated his grandmother and told her once again how lovely she looked, he leaned over to pass on his good wishes to Simon too, but Simon was preoccupied with something going on inside himself. He was staring down at the table with concentration etched on his face, his lips moving slightly.
Anders was about to say something to bring him back to reality when Simon suddenly got to his feet and tapped on his neighbour’s bottle with a fork.
‘Dear friends!’ he said. ‘There are certain things that…’ He stopped and looked at Anna-Greta, who was looking at him questioningly. He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘First of all I would like to say how happy I am. That you have come here today, that I have been given…the blessing of marrying the most wonderful woman ever to have sat in a boat. Or not sat in a boat.’
A few people laughed and scattered applause broke out. Anna-Greta
lowered her eyes becomingly.
‘And there was another matter…and I don’t know how to…there’s something I have to tell you, and I don’t really know…there are so many…’
Simon looked around the room. There was total silence now. One person had their fork halfway to their mouth, and lowered it slowly as Simon groped for the right words.
‘What I wanted to say,’ said Simon, ‘is that since so many people from Domarö are gathered here together…and perhaps this isn’t the most suitable occasion and I don’t really know how to put it, but…’
Simon stopped speaking again and Anders heard Gerda whisper to Lisa, ‘Is he drunk?’ Lisa nodded and clamped her lips together thinly as, under the table, Anna-Greta gave a hesitant tug at Simon’s trouser leg in an attempt to get him to sit down.
Simon made a decision and straightened up, speaking more clearly, ‘There is no sensible way of putting this, so I’m just going to say it and you must take it as you wish.’
Lisa and Gerda had leaned back in their seats, folded their arms, and were looking at Simon with distaste. Other guests were looking at each other and wondering what was to come. Eyebrows were raised when Simon seemed to be starting on a completely different tack.
‘The wells on Domarö,’ he said. ‘I know that several people have had problems with salt water getting in, that the drinking water is contaminated by the sea seeping in.’
There were nods here and there. Even if it was impossible to understand why Simon had brought up this issue, at least what he said was a well-known fact. When Simon started to speak again, his eyes flickered over towards Anders from time to time.
Harbor Page 42
