by Håkan Nesser
And they are all writers of one kind or another. Or practitioners of the liberal arts, at least. Two women – he assumes they are a lesbian couple but never says what they are called – stand up on the hill every morning, painting. ‘Until the midday sun forces them down to the sea, or indoors. They are half-naked all the time.’
Eroticism? I think. A place like that must have reeked of eroticism.
But Martin prefers to comment on the conversations. ‘Sat and chatted to Hernot and Della for a few hours,’ he writes. ‘About hermeneutics and Sartre. Bons came and joined in: he must be the most cheerful Nietzschean I’ve ever come across, but he’d been smoking too much weed and fell asleep after a while.’
The most cheerful Nietzschean I’ve ever come across? It’s not difficult to get the impression that he’s writing to impress somebody. Himself, presumably; or maybe some woman who in future happens to glance at the book which he has left open in front of her on their first date, apparently by accident. I remembered that in the summer of 1977 I hadn’t yet met Martin at that garden party in Gamla Stan in Stockholm. The summer of 1977 was when Rolf fell over a cliff above Flüeli in Switzerland, and died.
At another point – it’s the fifteenth of July and he’s been on Samos for just over a week – he writes:
Two new members arrived at the collective today. A German and a Russian, remarkably enough. The German is a poet and is called Klinzenegger [I’m unsure about the spelling here, we’ll see if he’s mentioned again later on], the Russian is called Gusov but is careful to point out that this is only his pseudonym. We had lunch together at the taverna – Elly and Barbara as well – just the usual Greek salad and a few glasses of retsina, of course, and it transpired that Gusov has been living in Greece on and off for several years, and among other things has been active in the struggle against the military junta. Claimed he spent several months in prison on that account, but that he was released when it was all over in 1974. I think he regards himself as a sort of honorary Greek citizen on the basis of his efforts. He also speaks quite fluent Greek with Manolis as the meal is being served. But unfortunately he sounds rather cocksure of himself. Too much preaching. And a shaggy mass of beard as befits a revolutionary and resistance fighter. I tried to talk to him about Mayakovsky and Mandelstam, but he didn’t seem interested. Presumably didn’t have anything much to say about them.
I yawned and checked the time. It was a quarter to one. I registered that even if the overall total was only five hundred pages, I had so far read a mere three per cent. I felt tired out, put the book down and switched off the bedside lamp.
For some unknown reason Castor was lying on the floor beside the bed instead of in it. And before I fell asleep I could hear the rain beginning to drum on the roof as the wind grew stronger.
17
It was the twenty-fourth of January 1986.
In the morning I had dropped off the children and was getting ready to travel to the Monkeyhouse. I was due to read the early evening news and didn’t need to be in the studio until one o’clock.
The telephone rang. It was Martin.
‘We have a problem,’ he said.
‘Really?’ I said.
‘My sister. She’s made a mess of things again. She’ll be coming over this evening.’
‘I thought she was in Spain?’
‘So did I. But she’s evidently been at home here in Sweden since Christmas.’
‘I see. And what’s the problem this time?’
Vivianne was Martin’s only sibling, and if she had a problem now it certainly wasn’t anything new. She had been divorced three times – but no children, thank God – and she had lived her life so far on the periphery of the film world. In January 1986 she was thirty-eight, five years older than her brother. It had all begun quite early on, when she was involved in two Swedish films in the sixties while she was still a teenager: one of them was regarded as an excellent example of the new vogue of Swedish sex and was sold to several countries. In connection with that Vivianne had met a rich American producer, married him and moved to Hollywood. She made a few films, met an Italian director, got divorced, married him and moved to Rome. Made a few more films . . . And so on.
She had about five nervous breakdowns and five potential scandals behind her when she met the Spanish film mogul Eduard Castel round about 1980, and a sort of stability entered her life. That is what she claimed, in any case, and what we convinced ourselves. She even made a film that was featured at the Cannes festival, in which she played the role of a woman torn between love and sexual liberation. Martin and I saw it in Stockholm, and agreed afterwards that she had played the part brilliantly.
We had very little contact with Vivianne; it was really only when she was going through one of her crises that she remembered she had a brother. Martin used to sum her up as the triple m: a manipulative, manic-depressive mythomaniac.
And now it seemed to be a case of here we go again. I thought hard and concluded that I hadn’t seen her for over two years. She had stayed with us for a few days when she was in Sweden after her divorce from Castel. Synn had been born that year, and I was starting to recover from my post-natal depression – but my condition was a summer breeze compared with Vivianne’s state. Naturally, we had sat up three nights in a row, talking to her and drinking red wine.
‘I don’t really know what’s going on,’ said Martin now, on that freezing cold day in January 1986. ‘She was quite reticent. But she did say that it’s a delicate situation, and she’ll be coming round to us this evening. If I understood it rightly, she won’t be on her own.’
‘Not on her own?’
‘No, but I’m not certain. She asked if she could stay the night with us.’
‘What? Are you saying that Vivianne actually asked?’
‘Yes, she did. What’s so remarkable about that?’
‘Nothing, I suppose. But she doesn’t usually ask.’
It was silly of me, and Martin hated the role of protector of his sister. He disliked her just as much as I did, but we both found it hard to say no to her. He said nothing for a while, and I apologized.
‘Okay, it’ll work itself out, no doubt. When exactly is she coming?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Martin. ‘She’s supposed to be ringing again.’
I finished at the Monkeyhouse soon after half past eight, and as I hadn’t heard from Martin all day I rang home to find out what was going on.
‘I think she’s lost the plot,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen her like this before. But I’ve got the kids into bed at least.’
He sounded tired and worn out, and I couldn’t help but feel relieved that it hadn’t been my turn to do the domestic chores that evening. He must have done the shopping, collected the children, made a meal, read some stories and done the washing up . . . all the time with his mad sister at his heels. It was of course out of the question that Auntie would have helped out with anything. I asked what exactly was happening.
Martin sighed. ‘She’s waiting for her lover to appear. Yes, you could no doubt say that’s what it’s all about.’
‘And who’s her lover this time round? Why does she have to show him off to us, by the way?’
‘I don’t think she wants to show him off,’ said Martin. ‘It’s more like the other way round.’
‘The other way round?’
‘Yes. It’s precisely because he mustn’t be seen that he’s coming to our house.’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Well, God only knows,’ said Martin. ‘What she claims in any case is that he’s a national celebrity. A high-ranking politician – a minister, in fact. They’ve been having a relationship since Christmas. It’s absolutely top secret, and nobody must know about it. They couldn’t possibly meet in a hotel, for instance – that would be much too risky.’
I thought it over for a minute.
‘Do you believe all this?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Martin. ‘But she’s in a rig
ht flap, that’s for sure. He was supposed to appear at about eight o’clock, after a government meeting, but there’s been no sign of him yet.’
‘Does she remember that I’m a news presenter on the television?’ I asked.
‘She’s relying on our discretion,’ said Martin. ‘And I’ve promised her.’
‘But we’ll be meeting him, will we?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Martin again. ‘But I assume so.’
We didn’t, in fact. When the alleged lover and national celebrity finally arrived at our house in Nynäshamn – it was almost ten o’clock, I’d been at home for over half an hour – the security level had been raised to the ceiling, with red alert. Martin and I stood in our living room window and watched the proceedings: Vivianne had gone out to meet him when he parked his car a couple of blocks away, exactly as they had arranged on the telephone shortly beforehand. He was quite a slim man, slightly shorter than Vivianne, wearing smart dark clothes and ordinary shoes despite the fact that it was more than ten degrees below zero: but that was just about all we could make out as he was walking pressed up close to Vivianne, staring down at the ground, and with some kind of scarf or jacket hood over his head. It concealed all of his face, and it reminded me of when the police escort an accused into a courthouse so that photographers can’t get pictures of him.
A few metres from the front door Vivianne noticed that we were standing in the window, watching them. She stopped dead and waved at us in annoyance – it was obvious that we were supposed to keep out of the way. We looked at one another, shrugged and went to sit down in the kitchen. I recall thinking that it was among the most absurd situations I had ever experienced, and I was on the point of going out into the hall when I heard them hanging up their outdoor clothes. But Martin saw what I was intending to do, shook his head and placed his hand on my arm.
‘We’d better leave her alone. Things will only get worse if we start interfering.’
‘This is ridiculous, Martin.’
‘I know, but that’s life.’
We heard them walking up the stairs to the guest room, then closing the door and locking it.
Yes, they really did lock the door. When Martin and I tiptoed past soon afterwards, on our way to our own bedroom, we could hear them talking. Very faintly. It sounded like a serious, conspiratorial conversation.
He must have left at some time during the night, for Vivianne was alone when she came down for breakfast the next day. It was a Saturday, both Martin and I had the day off. Vivianne looked tired and shaken, and to begin with she had nothing to say about the previous evening. I at least hoped that we would be spared having to listen to her account of it all, and that she would leave everything shrouded in mystery. But after a cup of coffee she had evidently decided to lift the veil of secrecy somewhat.
‘It’s an incredibly delicate situation,’ she said. ‘There’s so much at stake, and lots of things could go wrong.’
That was not an unusual claim, coming from Vivianne Holinek. Her life had to be littered with drama and perilous situations, otherwise it was not a life worth living.
‘So you are having a relationship with a top politician, and you’re afraid his wife will get to know about it – is that it?’ I asked, and received a dirty look from my husband.
‘I can’t go into details,’ said Vivianne, ‘but it’s much more complicated than that. And I have to bear the responsibility myself. Perhaps it was unfair to involve you, but the situation was such that I didn’t have any choice.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Martin. ‘I thought he looked like—’
‘That’s enough!’ interrupted his sister. ‘No names. Don’t make the situation worse than it is already.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I hope you had a good time anyway.’
‘It’s not like you think,’ said Vivianne.
She left us an hour later, warning that she might well come back. She said she was in a very precarious situation, but given the circumstances her own safety was not the most important consideration. There were much more important things at stake than that. People’s lives could be under threat.
We didn’t hear from her again until a month later. Or rather, it was Martin who heard from her. She telephoned from a hotel in Copenhagen and according to Martin she was totally hysterical. He spoke to her for ten minutes, but I couldn’t hear what was said as I was in another room; however, I could hear that he was doing his best to calm her down. When the call was over, I asked what it was all about this time.
‘She’s mad,’ said Martin. ‘I reckon she’s ripe for the loony bin. She claims that somebody is going to be killed.’
‘Killed?’
‘Yes, and that she can’t do anything about it. I really do think she’s gone off the rails this time.’
Four days later Olof Palme was murdered in Sveavägen in Stockholm. That same day I asked Martin if we ought to contact the police.
‘Not on your life,’ said Martin. ‘Don’t you think there’ll be enough loonies ringing the police with tips? Surely you don’t seriously think that my sister would have anything to do with the assassination of the Swedish Prime Minister?’
I didn’t think so, of course, and as we said nothing from the start, we didn’t say anything later either. And it was over a year before we heard anything from Vivianne again. She was now living in Austria with a professional skiing instructor, and I think I’m right in saying that we only met her twice more before she died.
The fact that she died on the anniversary of Palme’s death was something we discussed briefly, Martin and I. We agreed that it was a coincidence. If it had been ten years later, we might have regarded that as being of some significance: but in fact twelve years had passed.
Nevertheless, I do occasionally think about that mysterious man walking up our drive with the hood concealing his face, I have to admit that.
18
The eighth of November. Clear but windy and cold. Only plus three degrees at eight in the morning.
We had spent the whole of the previous day indoors, due to appalling weather. Rain and gale-force winds non-stop – or perhaps it wasn’t in fact rain, but the upper layer of the sea that was being blown in over the land. It seemed suspiciously as if that really was the case, and was coming from that direction. Castor was restricted to three short runs around the garden. It was a difficult day in every respect – the worst one since I came here. I understand that I need to get out briefly every day, irrespective of the weather and the wind: spending thirty-six hours at a stretch in a house like Darne Lodge is not something to look forward to, most certainly not.
Perhaps I had convinced myself that Martin’s notes would keep me occupied, but after only a few pages I found myself overwhelmed by a degree of resistance that I neither want nor am able to explain. I put the whole lot of material away, and spent the day reading Dickens and playing patience instead. I hadn’t played patience since I was a teenager, but I found two almost unused packs of cards in a drawer, and after a while had remembered four different variations. Idiot Patience, of course, and Spider Harp – I can’t remember the names of the other two. I’m sure I learned all four from my father, probably even before I started school: and once I had realized this I simply couldn’t get him out of my mind. He was a person who wanted the best for everybody, and did whatever he could to make that happen; but in the last years of his life, after Gunsan had died and my mother had entered a twilight world, well . . . How was he able to sum up his journey through life? As he lay there in hospital and died of a broken heart. What was left for him?
I thought about Gudrun Ewerts, and how she went on about the importance of weeping. If she was gazing down on me yesterday from the heavens above, she would have had every reason to nod approvingly. I cried my eyes out.
But that was yesterday. Today is another day, and having learned our lesson we set off on foot immediately after breakfast and Dickens. We headed southwards to start with, towards Dulverton, and after a while
we came to that simple signpost pointing the way into the village. After eyeing one another up and down and thinking it over for a few moments, we set off along that path. It was muddy and difficult to follow at first, but after a few hundred metres we came to a narrow road along which one could stroll without too much difficulty. It wasn’t wide enough for a four-wheeled vehicle – I didn’t really understand how it had come to exist, or what purpose it could possibly have: but there is a lot about the moor that I don’t understand. It was downhill all the way, and the vegetation was abundant: deciduous trees in full leaf even though we were well into November; moss and ivy, holly and brambles. The road followed a fast-flowing stream, pheasants and all kinds of other birds twittered and hopped around in the bushes, and here and there, on the other side of the thick undergrowth, we could hear the bleating of sheep. It seemed to me that the ground must be enormously fertile – if you lay down and slept for twelve hours, you were bound to be covered in creepers when you woke up: it seemed a bit like a cautionary fairy-tale. A little girl and her dog go for a walk in the woods, and never return to their village. I tried to shake such thoughts off me.
We eventually came to a house. We had been under way for about half an hour, and its sudden appearance was about as likely as the chances of meeting a lawyer in heaven. That was another of my father’s expressions, incidentally, and I assume it was a hangover from the previous day’s games of patience. Anyway, it was a dark-coloured stone-built house so embedded in the vegetation that it was almost invisible – it was on the other side of the stream we had been following all the way, which at this point changed from being fast-flowing into a stretch of more or less still-standing water. A moss-covered stone bridge ran over the water to the house. We paused and contemplated the building: it was two storeys high, and the walls were covered in ivy and other climbing plants – some of the windows were almost completely overgrown.
