The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

by Mari Jungstedt

  Karin closed her eyes, summoning up memories from that brief time right after giving birth. The baby at her breast, that warm, sticky creature who was her own flesh and blood. Her little girl. Sometimes she regretted the fact that the midwife had allowed her to hold the baby for those few minutes; it had haunted her ever since. Her parents had decided that the baby would be given up for adoption. There had been no question of doing anything else, and initially Karin had offered no objections. She’d simply wanted to be rid of the evil, to forget that the rape had ever happened.

  But the moment she felt the baby’s body against her own, she had changed her mind. She had loved her from the first second. In secret she had named the child Lydia.

  Karin had no idea what her daughter’s real name was. She didn’t know where she lived or what sort of work she did or anything else about her. All her life, Karin had kept the secret to herself, refusing to share it with anyone. Her parents never mentioned the subject after that day in the maternity ward when the child was born. And she never saw the baby again. The yearning she had felt since then was like a hole in her heart.

  The years had passed, and Karin had moved on with her life. She tried to convince herself that memories of those moments in the dimly lit delivery room would fade with time. She moved to Stockholm, entered secondary school, and made new friends. For many years she had no contact with her parents. What they had done seemed to her a terrible betrayal. They had refused to listen to her. They hadn’t told her that she was entitled to take six months to make up her mind, or that she wasn’t required to decide before giving birth. They had kept her out of the entire process and got away with it. She would never forgive them.

  Then had come the police academy. When she was offered a trainee position in Visby, her first impulse had been to turn it down. She didn’t want to return to Gotland or all those memories. But eventually she changed her mind. She decided that it would be better to confront the trauma she’d been through. That was the only way to get beyond it. For the first time in many years she had visited her parents at their house in Tingstäde.

  But the memory of Lydia had come back to her even more strongly. Whenever she walked around in Östercentrum, she was reminded of how she had felt when she went there with her ever-expanding stomach. How she’d had coffee with a friend, and how her friend had discovered that she was pregnant. They had been sitting in the Siesta pastry shop. Afterwards Karin had realized that the situation was untenable, that she could no longer conceal her condition. She stopped trying to hide her stomach, but she didn’t tell anyone except her parents about being raped. The shame was too much to bear.

  At least now she’d made a decision, even though she was filled with dread. She would look for her daughter. Lydia was no longer a minor; she was a grown woman. Karin could find out who she was without revealing their connection.

  Maybe she should speak to the young woman’s parents first, find out their view of the matter? One step at a time, she thought.

  One step at a time.

  IT WAS AN unusually warm evening with no wind. After the opening ceremonies, there was a party at Kuten, Fårö’s most legendary restaurant, a simple but acclaimed establishment right across from the inn.

  The setting for Kuten was unique, to say the least, with a largely fifties feel to it. Originally it had been a petrol station, as evidenced by the red-painted pump that still stood on the forecourt. A Volvo PV was squeezed in between a Chevy Nova and a Cadillac from the same time period. A sign that said ‘Kuten’s Petrol’ hung above the entrance to the rather faded limestone building in which the restaurant was housed. Outside stood a row of rusty oil drums along with an old refrigerator reminiscent of the era when the Swedish welfare state was established. On the building’s façade were enamel advertising signs for Esso, Juicy Fruit, and Cuba Cola. The crowning jewel was a sickly green neon sign that said ‘Elvis’.

  An outdoor bar with a Caribbean theme, decorated with coloured lights, provided a welcome break in style, along with the hard-rock music blaring from the stage. An American band had been hired for the evening’s entertainment.

  The group of friends from Terra Nova found seats at a big table outdoors. The enticing aroma of grilled lamb drifted over the crowded restaurant.

  ‘Great,’ exclaimed Sam as he sat down. ‘What a perfect evening. Don’t you think so, sweetheart?’ He poked Andrea in the side. No one could avoid hearing the sarcasm in his voice, but Andrea pretended not to notice.

  ‘It certainly is,’ she replied, smiling at Sam. ‘Absolutely wonderful. And it’s so warm.’

  ‘It feels as if we’re in Greece or somewhere like that,’ said Beata, taking off her shawl, which offered only minimal coverage of her plunging neckline.

  She always has to show off, thought Andrea. She just can’t help it.

  Beata stretched her arms in the air and uttered a little chirping sound.

  ‘Oh, how lovely. But now I want some wine.’

  They ordered several bottles and then went to get food from the chef, who stood next to the grill, serving lamb and vegetable gratin and working so hard that he was dripping with sweat.

  Soon they were all seated with plates of food in front of them, their glasses filled with red wine. The discussion immediately turned to Bergman.

  ‘Which of his films are your favourites?’ asked Sam eagerly, glancing around at everyone.

  ‘I like The Magician best,’ Beata told him.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Sam raised his eyebrows in surprise. The Magician was one of Bergman’s earlier films, a suggestive drama that was not among his more accessible works. ‘Why do you think it’s so special?’

  Andrea gave Beata a look of distaste. She probably just wanted to draw attention to herself. Beata took another big sip of her wine.

  ‘The eroticism,’ she said, casting a mischievous glance at Sam. ‘There’s so much repressed lust in that movie, and such an erotic undercurrent. And the love scene between Lars Ekborg and Bibi Andersson, in the hamper with the freshly washed linen … don’t even mention it!’

  She laughed with pleasure. Stina and Andrea exchanged looks. John joined the discussion.

  ‘Personally, I like Summer with Monica the best, but I’m sure that’s mostly because I love the Stockholm archipelago, and I think Harriet Andersson is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Well, except for Beata, of course.’

  ‘I thought as much,’ laughed Beata, unconcerned. ‘You little rascal. Didn’t she show her breasts in that movie? Was that what you fell for?’ Then she let loose such a peal of laughter that the glasses on the table clattered. Beata was always referring to sex in one way or another. Andrea didn’t know why.

  An embarrassed silence ensued. Everyone made a show of drinking more wine and praising the food, then talking about the weather and the music.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve never really understood why Bergman is considered so great,’ said Håkan. ‘I think he’s overrated. He’s so strange and difficult. To me, the movies are mostly a hotchpotch, a bunch of disconnected scenes of fear, dark looks, screams and hysterical people.’

  His remarks were met with boos.

  ‘You’re out of your mind,’ exclaimed Beata indignantly. ‘Bergman is world famous, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘So what?’ countered Håkan. ‘He wouldn’t be the first person to become famous because of his eccentricities.’

  ‘You’re hopeless,’ said Stina with a sigh. ‘Everybody here should realize that they’re listening to a man whose role model is Arnold Schwarzenegger.’ She shook her head. ‘My favourite, at any rate, is Persona. In any category. It beats them all.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ asked Sam with interest.

  Stina leaned forward with an intent expression.

  ‘You remember Persona, don’t you? With Liv Ullmann as the celebrated actress Elisabeth Vogler who runs away from the spotlight and escapes into silence? She simply stops talking. And Bibi Andersson as her nurse, Alma, who accompanies h
er to the remote house where she seeks refuge? Alma thinks she’s found a soulmate in Elisabeth, even though she doesn’t say a single word. Alma gradually opens up more and more to Elisabeth – in fact, she bares herself completely, stripping herself naked, revealing her innermost thoughts and darkest secrets. But in the end it turns out that Elisabeth has just been toying with Alma, that she means nothing to her. Elisabeth utterly betrays her. I don’t know, but I think the whole film is one big desperate scream. A cry for help.’

  ‘Exactly,’ muttered Håkan. ‘That’s just what I was saying. They’re all about nothing but screaming.’

  Sam, on the other hand, seemed impressed by what Stina had said. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind.

  THE DAY STARTED off fine. The grey skies had cleared and the sun was shining through the thin curtains. Andrea had slept well all night long, except that just after 3 a.m. she was awakened by the young girls in the next room who giggled as they came stumbling up the stairs in the small inn. The wooden floorboards creaked; there was a thud as one of them dropped something, followed by stifled laughter. In addition to film showings, discussions and lectures about the master director, the Bergman festival included a lot of late-night partying.

  She had fallen asleep quickly, only to be awakened this morning by Sam’s snoring. He lay in bed with his mouth open, sound asleep. With every inhalation, a gurgling sound issued from deep in his throat and then rose up to his mouth, where it was transformed into a low growl before exploding into a roar that made his chin tremble. She turned over to study his face. With his eyes closed his dark lashes looked even thicker under his heavy brows. Although he was over forty, his hair was just as thick and dark as when they met twenty years ago. In fact, she thought, he looks even more handsome after all these years. The few wrinkles that he had at the corners of his eyes gave his face character. His nose had a strong curve and sensitive nostrils that quivered whenever he was nervous or upset. At the moment his full lips were open to allow the snoring sounds to escape with a regularity reminiscent of the lapping of the waves outside.

  She woke Sam and a short time later they went down to breakfast, which was served in the dining room on the floor below. As soon as Andrea stepped in the door she was struck by the hushed atmosphere of the room. It was like entering a different century, far from the modern world. And the silence seemed to be affecting everyone. They automatically lowered their voices, breathed more calmly, moved slower. The pace was languid.

  Their chairs scraped a bit on the floor as Sam and Andrea sat down.

  Although the long room had big windows facing the garden, it seemed dimly lit. Heavy drapes and great quantities of knick-knacks on the window ledges also contributed to keeping out the light. The centre of the room was dominated by a rectangular table made of dark-stained oak, with an assortment of mismatched chairs: one with a high back, another with a plush seat, a third with beautifully curved legs.

  Various objects had been placed along the walls: a tiled stove, an Indian elephant made of cloth, an old wind-up gramophone, a shop mannequin draped in a floral-printed dress with a black bowler on its head, a glittery theatre mask, an old sewing machine, a vinyl LP by Maurice Chevalier. The table had been set with care, covered with bowls, platters, and plates – all made of different materials and colours. Next to each place setting was a lovely ornate, stemmed crystal bowl, filled to the brim with vanilla yoghurt, topped with fresh raspberries and a little sprig of mint. There was also a glass plate shaped like a leaf which held fruit salad, a coffee cup decorated with blue flowers, and a silver spoon. In the centre of the table bowls and platters had been lined up, holding bread, cheese, ham, salami, caviar and marmalade. There were eggs in a basket, milk in a silver pitcher, and orange juice in a glass carafe. Almost every centimetre of the table surface was occupied.

  From the gramophone came the gentle tones of Bob Dylan as Andrea reached for a piece of freshly baked bread. The inn was so original and so different from the settings she was used to that she found herself letting go of her need to control everything and actually started to relax. While she filled her plate, she glanced around at the others seated at the table.

  Across from her sat Håkan, Stina’s husband, for whom she’d always harboured particularly warm feelings. He was so endearing, in a subdued sort of way, and his love for Stina was plain to see.

  Stina looked small next to her imposing husband. She was so feminine with her petite figure, and her black shiny hair was pulled into a topknot with a girlish pink ribbon. She was dressed in a blouse and skirt. Always attired in ladylike way; always pretty even without make-up. Stina didn’t have to make much of an effort to look good. At the same time she seemed so fragile, like a tiny delicate bird. She was eating slowly, with discreet little movements. She generally ate only meagre portions, and she had a habit of moving the food around on her plate before putting anything in her mouth. The various items would change places with each other several times as she poked and stirred the bits of food every which way before finally deciding to take a bite. And then she would study the food on her fork from different angles before she cautiously put it in her mouth.

  Sam used to complain about how odd she was. Her finicky eating habits drove him crazy, but Andrea had persuaded him not to say anything. He could just look the other way.

  Soon after they met, Andrea and Stina had started going for walks together to get some exercise, and eventually the walks had become an essential part of their daily routines. That was when they talked about their problems, gossiped about the neighbours, exchanged advice and tips about everything from home decorating to child rearing. But lately Stina had cancelled or declined to come along when invited, offering all sorts of excuses. Andrea couldn’t help feeling a bit disappointed. Something was different about her friend, but she didn’t know what was wrong. She was hoping they’d have a chance to talk during this holiday trip. She missed their long, intimate conversations.

  Next to Stina sat John. He was ten years younger than Beata. They had been the last of the group to move into the development. John was originally from San Diego in California. He and Beata had met in New York when she was working there as a model. John had come into the bar where she and her colleagues hung out every night, and they had started up a romance that ended with him following her back to Sweden. They now had three children, and everything had gone well for them. John had quickly adapted to life in Sweden. He ran a bar in Visby, and he spoke good Swedish, although with a strong American accent. Sometimes he just didn’t feel like making the effort and would switch to English. He was nice in a slightly affected way, bordering on pretentious, in Andrea’s opinion. It was hard to figure him out. They spent a good deal of time together, of course, and talked about all sorts of things, but it was difficult to know where he stood on many issues.

  Beata, on the other hand, was very easy to read – frequently too easy. She suffered from a constant need for attention, which could be terribly annoying. And she was always talking about sex, which was also tiresome. But there were plenty of good sides to her, so Andrea tried to be tolerant. Beata just needed to be seen, as Sam said every time Andrea complained about her friend’s behaviour. He ignored Beata’s innuendos. Everyone in the group was used to them. It was a different matter when they had big parties with new arrivals who weren’t aware of Beata’s idiosyncrasies. She often ended up sitting on the lap of some new neighbour’s poor husband, her peals of laughter louder than anyone else’s. She was always touching people, especially men, massaging their shoulders, dancing too close. She seemed to lack any sense of boundaries between what was considered decent behaviour and what was inappropriate.

  Over the years Andrea had discussed this with Sam many times, but he claimed that Beata was harmless; no one took her seriously. Andrea shouldn’t be bad-mouthing their friends. And Beata was a good friend, she really was. She was forthright and honest, always saying what she meant, even if that wasn’t the wisest thing to do.
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br />   Andrea sipped her coffee and looked out of the window at the apple trees in the garden. A lone man with a beard and straw hat was sitting at a table in the shade, reading. The scene looked so peaceful.

  He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who that might be. There was just something familiar about him. Maybe she was thinking of an actor or someone else in the film business whom she ought to recognize. She would ask Sam later.

  Suddenly the man looked up from his book and stared straight at her. Oddly enough, she felt as if she’d been caught out, as if she’d been surreptitiously studying him. She smiled with embarrassment, stirred her coffee, and turned her gaze to her friends seated around the table.

  They all knew that she wasn’t particularly talkative first thing in the morning. She preferred silence, at least for her own part. She never wanted to talk to anyone until after breakfast. That was why no one had tried to draw her into the conversation; they left her alone.

  Sam, on the other hand, was eagerly conversing as he helped himself liberally to everything on the breakfast table. He kept making the others laugh. He seemed to be in an unusually good mood.

  THEY WERE SITTING across from each other at the kitchen table. On the radio Lisa Syrén was chatting about various topics with people at home all over Sweden. They were having breakfast indoors, in spite of the splendid weather. The children were still asleep. Knutas stole glances at his wife as she read the newspaper. Lina was wearing her reading glasses. Even though she couldn’t read anything without her glasses, she was always losing them. Each time she would rope the whole family into looking for them, and by now everyone had grown tired of it. Knutas had suggested that she fasten them to a cord that she could hang around her neck. That would make things easier for all of them. But Lina had retorted: ‘Not on your life. That will really make me look like an old lady.’