‘That’s too bad,’ said Karin. ‘You can’t really see anything.’
Her expression was inscrutable. Knutas couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.
‘It looks like we’re back at square one. By the way, what are you doing here on a Saturday?’
Karin sighed and sat down in the visitor’s chair.
‘I’m feeling so restless. I keep thinking about Lydia and what I should do. I’m just too antsy to stay at home. I was thinking of tackling some of the piles of old paperwork that I’ve got lying around. Just to get my mind on to something else.’
‘Sure,’ said Knutas, nodding. ‘So what are you going to do? About Lydia?’
‘I want to find her, and I’ve done some investigating about how to proceed.’ Jacobsson bit her lip and fell silent for a moment. ‘It’s actually pretty simple. I talked to the Adoption Centre, and to social services here in Visby, and they all say the same thing. Since Lydia is over eighteen, there’s nothing to stop me from seeking her out. Actually, I could have done it sooner, but they usually recommend that biological parents wait to make contact until the child is no longer a minor. It can be a sensitive issue, and it’s not certain that her adoptive parents would have told her about the situation – I mean, that she was adopted. So essentially, I’m free to make my move, as they say. All I have to do is phone the tax authorities to find out what I need to know. Her name, where she lives, and who her adoptive parents are …’ Her voice faded away.
‘Why are you hesitating?’
‘To be quite honest, Anders, I’m scared out of my wits. What if she doesn’t want anything to do with me? And as I said, she might not have a clue that she was adopted. Even though the woman at the Adoption Centre and the person at social services said they recommend that adoptive parents do that. Tell the children, I mean. But of course it’s their decision. It’s different if the child is from China or somewhere like that; then it’s a lot more obvious. But Lydia is a hundred per cent Swedish. No one would be able to tell from her appearance, and maybe her parents wanted to protect her from the truth. I mean, she could have contacted me herself, but she never has, even though she’s nearly twenty-five. So I’m thinking that she doesn’t know. Don’t you agree?’
‘Maybe. There might be another reason. Maybe she hasn’t tried to find you out of concern for her adoptive parents. It’s possible that they would be upset.’
Knutas had put down the photos and was studying his colleague intently. He had complete sympathy for the anguish she was going through.
‘And I’m wondering what would happen afterwards,’ Karin went on. ‘If I do find out who she is, what’s the next step? Should I just call her up and say: “Hi, it’s your mother”? That won’t work. Should I write her a letter? Or should I just go over and ring the doorbell? When I think that far, I get terrified, panic-stricken. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she pushes me away? Asks me why I’ve turned up now after all these years, when I never cared about her before – at least in her eyes. At the moment I can at least dream about us meeting and having a good relationship.’ Karin buried her face in her hands. ‘I don’t know whether I dare, Anders. But what if I never see her again in my life? That would be the worst of all.’
THE FOREST OUT here was more dense and impenetrable than he had thought. He had planned to take a short cut to avoid being seen, but it had turned out to be more difficult than he’d counted on. Annoyed, he fought his way through the thickets, pushing branches aside as best he could and trying not to stumble over the uneven ground, the tree roots, the old underbrush and the rabbit holes. He didn’t really know what he was expecting. Of course, he hoped to see her. Weeks and months had passed without him giving her a thought. He’d had other things on his mind. But then one day he’d been going through a box of photographs and found all the pictures he’d taken of her, most of them in secret. And everything had come back to him, overwhelming him like an avalanche. Memories crowded in on him, and long-slumbering floods of emotion awoke. He had no defences. It was as if she took over his life again, piece by piece. He hated her because he couldn’t help looking at the photos, over and over. He wished he could erase her from his life when she appeared to him in the night and roused him from his dreams, keeping him sleepless. For hours he would lie in bed, wide awake, staring into the dark and picturing her face, which made it impossible for him to drop back off. He couldn’t think about anything else. In the past he had been the stronger one; he held the power and could do whatever he liked with her. Then everything had changed. Suddenly she wanted nothing to do with him. Ice cold, she had locked him out, refused any further contact. Never answered his text messages or emails. He had been carrying around such anger.
He looked at her now, between the trees. She was turned away from him, gazing out at the sea. Her hair hung down her back, gleaming in the sunlight. The underbrush rustled beneath his feet. He continued moving forward, not letting her out of his sight. She had kept her trim shape.
Soon it would be his turn again.
He was convinced of that.
WITH AN AWKWARD leap she landed on the other side of the wall. The ground was soft. The property on this side offered nothing more than a meagre amount of grass and a few pitifully stunted pines struggling to survive the wind in such an exposed location. But right now there was only a light breeze. The sea stretched out before her like a blue carpet, glittering in the sun. The road down to the water, a hundred or so metres from the house, was rocky and dry. The shore was strewn with stones, extending as far as the eye could see. Off in the distance a promontory stuck out, blocking the view. Wild and beautiful. It was easy to understand why Bergman had loved this remote spot. Enchanted, she stood there trying to take in the whole scene.
The house didn’t really look very impressive. The greyish-brown façade facing the sea bore clear traces of the weather. It was a single-storey structure that seemed to go on and on, with small windows. Typical sixties design. A veranda faced the sea. It was rather worn-looking, with several old deckchairs leaning against the wall. A table with a cement top was fastened to a low, knotty tree trunk growing out of the rocky ground. Amazing. The gusts must be fierce when the wind really started to blow. She could just imagine it whistling around the corners of the house during an autumn storm. And the darkness. It must be terribly dark out here in the autumn and winter when the daylight disappeared around four in the afternoon.
She wandered slowly along in front of the house; then she went up on to the veranda and peered in through a window. There she saw the kitchen, with simple wooden cupboards and an ordinary pine table. Nothing remarkable at all. A candlestick with a partially burnt candle stood on the table. The clock on the wall had stopped.
Suddenly she gave a start. A shadow danced across the floor. The next instant she relaxed when she realized that it was the sun playing through the crowns of the trees. It was just her imagination that someone had appeared. She sat down on the veranda and leaned against the wall with her face lifted towards the sun. The trees surrounding the house whispered in her ears; a seagull shrieked from the water. A man in a rowing boat was fishing out there. Again she closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her face. Here she sat, all alone on Ingmar Bergman’s veranda. Almost as if she belonged to the family and had a right to be here. In her mind she pictured him coming out of the house.
Then another thought slipped in. Slowly, as if it didn’t really want to announce its presence. No, she thought. That’s crazy. Her gaze swept over the warm wooden floor of the veranda, the sheltering trees, the silent house, the cloudless blue sky. Things really couldn’t get any better, but that would be the icing on the cake. She glanced at her watch. It was three thirty. There was still time. Eagerly she opened her shoulder bag and took out her mobile. Then she tapped in a text message.
JOHAN AND PIA had finished editing their report about the Bergman festival, and the Stockholm bureau was pleased with it. There were no regional news broadcasts on Sa
turday, so they had produced the story for Rapport, which was going to include it in their main programme. Pia Lilja was thrilled. She was young and ambitious and dreamed of getting a job at one of the big TV stations in Stockholm, so of course she was always eager to show off her talents. Since she was working away from the mainland, that was essential in order to draw the attention of the national news programmes. For some reason they didn’t really seem to value anyone who ‘only’ worked with the local news, treating her almost as if she were less intelligent. A lower-echelon creature in the rigid and inflexible hierarchy of television. Pia was well aware that she’d probably have to spend a number of years struggling before she could hope of getting even a temporary summer position in Stockholm.
The following day Johan’s replacement was due to arrive, so the report on the Bergman festival was going to be his last for quite a while. He had a sense of unreality as he gathered up his belongings in the editorial office. He had never been away from his job for such a long time. Pia sat there with her feet propped up on the desk and watched him from under her straggly black fringe. She had a different coloured gemstone in her nostril today. It was just as black as her hair and the heavy kohl eyeliner she favoured.
‘I’m going to miss you, you know,’ she muttered.
‘Same here.’ Johan glanced up from the boxes he was packing and smiled. ‘You might not even be here when I get back.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’m ever going to escape this place. I’ll probably be shooting pictures of herds of sheep, flags on the municipal building and the ring wall until the day I die.’
‘Right. If there’s anyone who’s going to be hanging around here until retirement, it’s me. The difference is that I actually wouldn’t mind.’
‘I know. You silly Mr Mum. We used to be able to go out partying together. But not any more. In that respect, Madeleine Haga is going to be a lot more fun.’
Madeleine had been hired as Johan’s replacement. He had worked with her in Stockholm and knew her well. They’d even had a bit of a fling a long time ago. That had happened, too, with several other women who had come and gone at the news bureau over the years. Before he met Emma, he’d lived a very different sort of life.
‘By the way, I’m getting hungry. Isn’t it about time for our little farewell dinner?’
‘Absolutely,’ Johan said with a grin. ‘The sooner I get out of here, the better.’
Pia had booked a table at a newly opened place on Adelsgatan. The Élite was a first-class restaurant that also had a popular outdoor bar. They walked over there and, as usual, Pia attracted a lot of attention. She was almost six feet tall and slender, with piercings in her nose and navel, which she liked to show off by wearing tops that were much too short. She had unusually large breasts and the biggest eyes that Johan had ever seen. And she used a sooty-coloured eye shadow to enhance the effect. The result was that people stared – both men and women. And Pia enjoyed the attention.
Normally she had a new boyfriend every week, especially during the summer season, but a year ago she had changed completely when it came to that aspect of her life. And her choice of lover was unexpected, to say the least. She had met a sheep farmer on Sudret – a taciturn and morose sort of man, in Johan’s opinion. But Pia was more in love than she’d ever been before. When Johan asked her how she was planning to combine a TV career in Stockholm with the life of a sheep farmer, she had merely shrugged, telling him that plenty of people commuted between Stockholm and Gotland.
‘I can come home at the weekends. For me, that would be enough, because then we’d have even more fun when we were together. And I wouldn’t have to feed those dumb sheep every morning,’ she’d said, giving a whoop of laughter.
Johan would never fully understand Pia, but she was the best cameraperson he’d ever worked with, and he enjoyed her company. He really meant it when he said that he would miss her.
They sat down at the table and ordered white wine and seafood pasta.
‘Skål,’ said Johan after filling their glasses. ‘This is going to be bloody great. I won’t have to work for almost a year.’
‘Skål.’ Pia raised her glass. ‘Let’s just hope that nothing dramatic happens while you’re staying at home and taking care of the kids. How do you think you’ll manage?’
‘No problem. Once you have children, the world somehow shrinks, and everything starts to revolve around them. Changing nappies, deciding what to have for dinner, what groceries to buy, tending to a sick child, taking his temperature and pampering him, and all sorts of other things. When you’re involved in taking care of young children, everything else seems so unimportant.’
‘It sounds fucking wonderful,’ said Pia drily as she took another sip of her wine and lit a cigarette. ‘But can I ring you if I need help?’
‘Of course. But Madeleine is a professional, so I don’t think you’ll have any problems with her.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Pia without much enthusiasm. ‘We might be scratching out each other’s eyes before the first week is over.’
‘Well, that’s not my problem,’ replied Johan, grinning. ‘But I hope you’ll still be here when I get back.’
‘I’m not promising anything.’
THE CINEMA IN the northern part of Fårö had its premises in a red-painted barn with white trim, located amidst the summer cottages in the holiday community of Sudersand, which had sprouted up around the popular sandy beach. The assembled spectators helped themselves to sparkling wine and hors d’oeuvres as they waited for the evening’s programme to begin. They were going to see the film masterpiece Fanny and Alexander, with an introduction by the actors Jan Malmsjö and Ewa Fröling, who had played two of the leading roles in the movie.
The group of friends walked around, mingling with the other audience members and enjoying the warm summer evening. Now and then Håkan would look around for Stina. She hadn’t turned up yet.
‘Where’s Stina?’ asked Beata, as if she could read his thoughts.
‘Apparently she met an old friend while she was out on her bike ride, so she’ll be here later. She phoned from Kuten. If I know her, they’re probably sitting there talking about childhood memories and drinking wine and have forgotten all about the time,’ said Håkan with a smile. ‘Apparently the guy she ran into was one of her best friends for several years. He was in her class in middle school, and they haven’t seen each other for at least twenty years.’
‘Oh. So it’s a guy? Maybe you should be worried,’ John teased him.
‘Ha. Jealousy has never been my thing,’ said Håkan, still grinning. ‘You of all people should know that.’
‘I hope she gets here soon,’ said Andrea quickly. ‘It’d be a shame for her to miss the introduction.’ She turned to look towards the driveway leading up to the cinema.
‘It’s amazing how you can meet people from all over at this kind of event,’ Sam interjected. ‘I’ve run into colleagues that I haven’t seen in ages – and Andrea also met an old friend that she hadn’t seen in … how many years?’
‘More than thirty. We were in primary school together,’ Andrea laughed. ‘Over at the Bergman Centre this afternoon. And the funniest part was that she recognized me at once, even though she hadn’t seen me since I was nine.’
‘Well, you haven’t changed a bit since then,’ said Sam drily. ‘Skål.’
He raised his glass but didn’t smile. At the same moment they heard the gong ring.
The show was about to start.
WHEN THEY CAME out of the cinema four hours later, Stina still hadn’t appeared. Håkan switched on his mobile and discovered that he’d missed several calls as well as a text message. Hi, Sweetheart. Big crisis at work, have to fly to Bangkok 23.05. If we don’t catch each other, I’ll call tomorrow. Love you. Kisses, Stina. Håkan sighed in resignation and turned to the others.
‘Stina was called in to work.’ He looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen. ‘Right now she’s probably demonstrating the emergency procedures on bo
ard the plane to Bangkok.’
‘Oh, how disappointing,’ exclaimed Andrea. ‘I was hoping that she’d slipped in during the film. Now she’s going to miss the party.’
‘That’s really too bad,’ Sam agreed sympathetically.
‘She’s on call, so it’s not exactly unexpected,’ Håkan replied. ‘I’m used to it. We’ll just have to have fun without her.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,’ Beata consoled him as she came up behind them and took his arm. ‘Come on.’
They headed for the chartered buses that were taking everyone to Kuten. There a light dinner would be served, followed by dancing to the Bo Kasper band.
They were all thirsty and eager to talk after the long film. Sam immediately started waxing poetic about the editing techniques, the acting, the script and the lighting. He talked about the parallels between the film and Bergman’s own life, and about how the film ought to be interpreted.
John and Håkan exchanged glances and drank a toast. Sam wore them out with his long monologues about Bergman. Håkan looked worried and picked up his mobile. No answer from Stina. She was probably fully occupied on board the plane, so they wouldn’t be able to talk until the next day.
Beata was the only one at the table who showed any interest in what Sam was saying.
‘But there’s one thing that fascinates me about Bergman,’ she managed to say when Sam paused to catch his breath. ‘He was so damned insightful when it came to women, their feelings and reactions. Take for example A Lesson in Love. I think it must be from sometime in the fifties, but there are lines of dialogue that could just as well have been spoken today – half a century later.’
‘Like what?’ Sam was looking at her with interest.
‘Well, like when she talks about her view of women’s sexuality.’
‘Really? What does she say?’
The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7) Page 7
