Dark Angel

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘That’s what happens,’ Andreas explained. ‘They panic as soon as they’re alone. They’re sensitive animals, highstrung, but smarter than most people think.’

  Feeling impatient, Knutas began the interview.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention that your mother might be at the summer house when we told you that we were looking for her?’

  ‘It never occurred to me. She never goes out there until the Whitsun holiday, because she’s terribly afraid of the dark. She hates being there unless other people are around.’

  Knutas cast a dubious glance at the farmer, who continued working unperturbed. For the moment he decided to accept the man’s explanation and went on: ‘What sort of relationship do you have with your mother?’

  ‘Parents are parents.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You don’t have a choice who your parents are, do you? So there’s really not much to think about.’

  ‘And your siblings?’

  ‘I hardly ever see them, and these days none of them spends much time with Mamma. Mats and Mikaela never see her at all, and Simon is depressed and has shut everyone out of his life. Including Mamma, as much as he’s been able to. Mats grew up with a foster family and never had any real contact with Mamma. My sister Mikaela broke off all communication with her years ago.’

  ‘That’s what we heard. But why?’

  ‘Hmm. I suppose she just couldn’t take it any more. My mother is… how should I put it? Extremely demanding.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She doesn’t really have a life of her own, so she expects her children to fill the void. She phones every five minutes, asking for help with all sorts of things. As if she constantly needs to be acknowledged. But the problem is that even if you do a lot for her, it’s never enough. She always wants more. She also interferes in our lives and has an opinion about absolutely everything, from what to name a child to which curtains are best suited to a kitchen. I think Mikaela finally had enough. It’s as simple as that. Mamma takes up a lot of room and sucks up too much energy. My sister couldn’t stand it any more. She has her own family to think about, her own children. She needs to spend her time and energy on them.’

  Knutas was surprised at how well the farmer was able to express himself. The next second he was ashamed for having such a stereotyped view of the man.

  ‘What about Simon?’

  ‘Well, he has his own story. A while back he split up with his live-in girlfriend Katrina, and after that he sank into a deep depression. He’s been living temporarily in a flat in Stockholm that belongs to a friend. I don’t think he’s capable of doing much of anything at the moment.’

  ‘Do you know where he is right now?’

  ‘I have no idea. Sometimes he disappears for a while. No one knows where he goes.’

  ‘So what about you? How do you deal with your mother if she’s so difficult?’

  ‘Who said that I deal with her? I don’t think anybody can handle that woman.’

  He shook his head as he leaned forward to check the tag on the ear of the next sheep to be weighed.

  ‘It’s nothing but constant trouble with Mamma, and it never ends. Whenever one problem is solved, the next one arrives like a letter in the post.’

  ‘How often do you see each other?’

  ‘Every once in a while, usually only if I stop by to have coffee with her. We talk about meaningless things for an hour, and then I leave. I just let all her drivel run off me like water off a duck’s back. Simon and Mikaela have had a harder time of it. They’re like sponges, soaking up all her complaints. They end up feeling annoyed and insulted. They have a symbiotic relationship with her. If she feels bad, they do too; if she’s happy, then they are too. It’s never been like that for me.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Maybe because I’m older and had time to get to know Pappa before my parents were divorced and he disappeared out of our lives. I managed to form my own impression of him, and of Mamma and their relationship. I’ve always known that things weren’t nearly as one-sided as Mamma tries to make them out to be.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t explain it. And I don’t really want to talk about it.’

  ‘Do you know whether your mother has ever received any threats, or whether someone would want to harm her?’

  ‘Threats? I’ve never heard about anything like that. And she would have mentioned it, because she always wants to get us involved in the smallest details of her daily life. Like telling us that she burned the soup or that she can’t find her slippers.’

  ‘What about someone who might want to harm her?’

  Andreas gave Knutas an inscrutable look.

  ‘A person may have the will, but that’s not always enough,’ he said tersely.

  Then he went back to his work. The next sheep was waiting to be weighed.

  WALPURGIS EVE WAS the most beautiful it had been in years. Usually the day was cold with a strong wind, but this time the sun was shining and it was so warm that it felt as if summer was just around the corner.

  Johan had worked all weekend putting together reports for both Regional News and the national news broadcasts, so he’d been given the day off. It had been hectic for both Johan and Pia after Alexander Almlöv died. The outcry about the assault case had overshadowed the murder of Viktor Algård. Big demonstrations were staged in Visby, protesting against violence and the politicians’ lack of interest in providing services for young people. Instead, they had voted to shut down recreation centres, lay off school counsellors and cut funding for education, after-school programmes and sports activities. The investment in the new conference centre had once again come under fire. How could anyone justify spending millions of kronor for that sort of building when the island’s young people had nowhere to go when they weren’t in school?

  Johan and Pia had compiled reports that were broadcast as part of the national news seen all over Sweden. The series they had planned was now put on the fast track; at the same time, it was given much more space in the news programmes than they could ever have imagined. Johan noted with satisfaction that so much attention was being focused on youth violence that now all the editorial pages and news programmes were concentrating on how to deal with the problem. But everything came at a price. This time it had cost a sixteen-year-old boy his life.

  Johan had hardly even had time to miss Emma and Elin. But now that he was on his way out to Fårö, he could barely contain himself. He stood on the deck of the ferry with the sea wind blowing in his face, finally relaxed enough that he could stop thinking about work. He was going to devote himself to what was most important – namely, his family.

  Emma’s parents lived at the northernmost tip of the island, near the great sand dune called Norsta Auren. Their white limestone house stood all alone, with only a low wall separating the property from the beach. On one side was a bird promontory, which attracted ornithologists wanting to study the enormous number of seabirds that occupied the spit of land. On the other side of the house was the long, sandy beach, which extended for several kilometres. The light-coloured, fine-grained sand on the beach, which was several hundred metres wide in places, reminded visitors of sun-drenched July days in the Caribbean or South Pacific. The shoreline curved in a gentle arc, reaching all the way to the lighthouse, which was Fårö’s furthest outpost.

  When Johan turned his car on to the bumpy, narrow road leading to the house, Emma and Elin came walking towards him, hand in hand. He stopped the car and jumped out. He saw Elin’s joyous face and Emma’s warm eyes. He pulled both of them into his arms, giving them a big hug.

  After dinner with Emma’s parents, they took a bike ride out to Ekeviken, a lovely beach and summer-house area about a kilometre to the south. All the preparations for Walpurgis Eve had been carefully made, and the bonfire would be lit at eight o’clock. During the past month, people who lived in the vicinity had gathered wood for the pyre, which now lo
omed, tall and stately, in the middle of the beach. The entire island was involved in the celebration. Small booths set up along the shore were selling sausages, coffee and Gotland specialities such as leg of mutton, saffron pancakes, honey and blue raspberry jam. The vendors were also offering lambskins, ceramics and other handicrafts made on the island. Children dashed about, tossing as many branches as they could find on to the pyre before it was lit.

  A choir of young people wearing their white graduation caps was singing ‘Winter Spills Out of Our Mountains’. Not that there were any real mountains on Gotland. The highest point was Lojsta Heath, which was no more than 82 metres above sea level.

  Johan squeezed Emma’s hand. This holiday was something he sorely needed.

  The last notes of the song faded, and then a former cabinet minister, who lived on Fårö in the summertime, climbed up on the improvised stage. He was a tall, blond and athletic man in his forties who seemed to have everything going for him. He was youthful, charming and also terribly handsome, at least according to the ladies, including Emma. The hundred or so people who had gathered fell silent, turning their attention to the stage. Even the kids who had been romping around with their dogs stopped to listen. There was something magical about the man; with his golden locks and hand-knitted sweater, he seemed the very epitome of the healthy, sporty and confident Swede. As if he’d stepped right out of the pages of a Dressmann catalogue, thought Johan sourly.

  Of course his speech was a big hit, filled as it was with warmth and a sense of commitment. Johan was amused to see that Emma looked utterly enraptured as she applauded along with everyone else.

  The former cabinet minister concluded his performance by tossing the first burning torch on to the pyre while the choir sang another rendition of their springtime song. Everyone joined in, and an enchanted mood settled over the crowd. The fire rose up towards the sky, which had now grown dark, and the flames glittered in the reflection on the water’s surface. The words of the song drifted out over the sea, and Johan was again filled with the joy of being a family man. He hadn’t been to a Walpurgis Eve celebration since he was a boy. He put his arm around Emma and kissed the top of her head.

  Her hair smelled of shampoo and wood smoke.

  EARLY AFTERNOON. THE rain is beating against the windowpanes.

  I was woken a moment ago by the insistent beeping of a refuse lorry backing up. It was entering the ugly alleyway outside my bedroom window.

  I have a merciless encounter with my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face is mute and blank. I’m trying to spare myself. My eyes are two black stones, without intensity or life. My lips are dry and cracked from not speaking or having contact with anyone else. The pills I take dry out my body from the inside, and my skin feels more taut every day that passes. My hands are chapped. As my body dries up, my brain is also shrivelling. I’m finding it increasingly hard to keep my thoughts straight; they keep merging, creating incomprehensible patterns inside my head, impossible to dissect. In most cases, I just leave them there in a tangled heap, like a ball of yarn that has unrolled and then become hopelessly snarled. Impenetrable.

  I’ve been sitting in the kitchen, watching the refuse lorry and all the activity surrounding that rumbling behemoth that is now blocking the entire street. The kitchen window faces the same alley. Sometimes it’s liberating not to look at the view that’s visible from all the other windows in the flat.

  Two men in overalls come out of the back door of the restaurant. They fling big black bags into the maw of the lorry. Imagine if you could do the same thing with your own shit. Just dump it somewhere and then start over afresh. Shit you never asked for, which was simply foisted upon you. And there was nothing you could do to escape it.

  On the other side of the alley I can see people in the windows. Office drones at their desks, staring at their computers. Every now and then they pick up the phone, lean back and stare listlessly out of the window. They drink endless cups of coffee, pick their noses, unaware that they’re being watched. One man has a habit of sticking his hand down his crotch while he talks on the phone. Inside the waistband of his dapper-looking suit trousers. Then he holds his hand up to his nose. People are disgusting.

  What sort of lives do they have, those people in that office? Who is loved or not loved? Are any of them happy? Do they like each other? I doubt it. People meet, have dinner together, go to various social functions, but how many of them really enjoy spending time with one another?

  Like Mamma and my siblings. Birthday parties, Christmas Eve celebrations, the obligatory flower bouquets, comments, compliments. I used to think they were fun, but now I see things much more clearly. Do my siblings share my view? When I was younger, I took that for granted. Now I see reality differently. There are too many obstacles. We were never encouraged to take care of each other, to support one another. Instead, Mamma split us apart, making us feel like three isolated islands without any connection to each other, which made us all the more dependent on her.

  Of course that was exactly what she wanted.

  I don’t know how many times she has told me how wonderful my sister is and how much she loves her. More than anyone else. ‘She’s the apple of my eye,’ she once said to me, giving me an intent look. Then what does that make me? How does she expect me to respond? What does she want me to say, feel, think?

  On the other hand, she doesn’t hesitate to complain, loud and clear. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how he could say something like that to me, his own mother. Can you understand it? When I went to visit him, at the dinner table I asked him for some pickles, and all he said was: They’re in the fridge. Can you imagine that? I was supposed to get up and go and look for them myself in the refrigerator! I would never have treated my own mother that way. Another time I asked your sister to return the rug that I gave her because I decided it would look so nice in the living room now that I’ve had it repainted. But she got furious and told me it was hers to keep. Good Lord, after all I’ve done for her, and that’s the thanks I get?’

  One day I have to listen to how adorable my siblings are; the next day I’m expected to comfort my mother because they’ve treated her so badly. And worst of all, they show her no gratitude. The same story, year in and year out. It never ends.

  On top of everything else, we’re expected to put up with her constant reminders of what she has done for us. We’re supposed to be so bloody grateful, because of all the sacrifices she has made.

  Mamma has always made it perfectly clear that she could have been a big star if it weren’t for us. She once sang on the radio, after all. If she hadn’t given up her career for her children, she could have been another Birgitta Andersson or Lill Lindfors. She was so gifted when she was young. A great dramatic talent. And she could really sing. She was simply amazing – none of her siblings could measure up to her. She was special. But no one saw her greatness, and no one discovered her glory. She received no encouragement at home. And we felt sorry for her, of course. How awful that nobody realized what a promising artist Mamma was. What an awful fate to give birth to us and then be forced to live on a desolate island in the Baltic, far from all the glamour and opportunities in the capital. The fact that things had gone relatively well for all of us – meaning that we had jobs and hadn’t ended up as drug addicts – was solely due to her efforts. If she hadn’t sacrificed herself like a lamb on the altar and squandered her unique talents on three snot-nosed kids, well…

  In spite of how self-absorbed my mother was, for years I felt a great admiration for her. I hate duplicity. Even today, it’s not something I’ve been able to master.

  I picture her in my mind. My beautiful mother who would hug me and kiss me and love me. And in the next second crush me. A remark, a glance, an expression of disapproval. She had dreams; she encouraged me to travel, to experience things and enjoy life. She was ill but she still helped me with my homework. Stroked my hair. Made me hot cocoa. What happened to all that?

  We enjoying
clowning around as we cleaned, and Mamma would laugh so hard that she had to double over when I teased her with the hose of the vacuum cleaner. I loved to play the buffoon for her. The best thing I knew was making her laugh.

  She used to dance in the living room to Miriam Makeba’s song ‘Pata Pata’. Turning and spinning, her eyes closed as she twirled the skirt of her dress. She loved Mikis Theodorakis, Lill Lindfors and Gösta Linderholm. She sang loudly as she did the cleaning. And she looked so cute with a chic scarf wrapped around her blond hair, with those dark eyebrows of hers, and those pink lips.

  She was always short of cash, but she liked to set the table with nice things and make it cosy with lighted candles. She made pizza capricciosa, she baked rolls, and she booked a holiday in the mountains even though we really couldn’t afford it. She wanted us to learn to ski, she said.

  On Saturdays we would go into town to shop for groceries and buy a treat at the pastry shop. Mamma would buy fancy clothes for herself in the boutiques. We were allowed to drink Cokes through a straw and eat coconut buns. She laughed loudly, she always sang in the car, and she made delicious ham sandwiches to take to the beach. I loved to place my ear against her flat stomach, which always gurgled merrily. And she smelled so good. The skin under her chin was soft and smooth, and I felt so warm when she hugged me.

  Her sobbing was heartbreaking. It split me apart.

  When I was little, I thought she was perfect – an ideal human being. I was never ashamed of her. And everyone thought she looked so young. In my eyes, she was the most magnificent person in the whole world.