Harbour

by John Ajvide Lindqvist

  His father turned his head towards the broad strip of sunlight and said quietly, 'Why?'

  The question confused Anders and frightened him a little. He babbled, 'Because...because there's such a lot and you know that boat I'm saving up for, this is...and...it won't do any good if we leave it, will it?'

  His father turned to Anders once again, nodded slowly and said, 'No, I don't suppose it will. You're probably right.'

  He started hauling on the net again, the muscles in his jaw working as if he were chewing on something he was never going to be able to swallow. Anders didn't know what had happened, what he'd said, but he was relieved it had worked. The catch would be brought in.

  Apart from the problem that Anders didn't understand, it was very difficult for his father to lift such an enormous catch. Anders moved the boat as helpfully as he could, but the net his father was hauling into the prow was not a net full of individual fish, but rather a thick cable of silver enclosed in mesh.

  When the whole of the net was in the boat and the anchor had been raised, his father went over to the engine without a word and put his hands on the cylinder head gasket.

  'What are you doing?' asked Anders. If his father's behaviour during the later part of their trip had been strange, this was yet another new thing.

  His father gave a wan smile. 'Warming my hands.'

  Anders nodded. Of course. That was understandable, at least. The water was cold—his hands had got cold. He left the helm and went to have a look at the catch. He was no expert, but surely this was a good bit more than fifty kilos? Seventy? Eighty? When he looked at the massive pile of fish ensnared in the net, he noticed something else unusual.

  Herring did not have the endurance of perch or flounder, which could live for a long time after being pulled out of the sea, but they would normally move about and twitch in the net for a good while after the boat had set off for home. But not this time.

  The herring were lying completely motionless, with not a twitch to be seen. Anders crouched down and felt at a fish that had fallen out of the net. The little body was stiff, almost frozen, and the eyes were milky white. He held it out to his father, who was still standing with his hands resting on the engine. 'Why are they like this?'

  'I don't know.'

  'But...I mean...what's happened?'

  'I don't know.'

  'But how can the herring just—'

  'I don't know, I said!'

  It was very rare for his father to raise his voice. As he did so now a hot stabbing sensation went through Anders, making his cheeks flush bright red, and he closed his mouth on any further questions. He didn't know what he'd said that was so wrong, but it was something, and he was upset. Because he had destroyed the great atmosphere between them without knowing how.

  The herring had softened in the warmth of his hand. He dropped it on the deck and crept into the prow, squinting into the sun with a heavy feeling in his stomach. The big catch was no fun any more. As far as he was concerned, they could chuck the whole bloody lot back in the sea.

  He rested his cheek against the wood and lay still. Strange...

  He lay still for a while, listening. Then he raised his head and gazed out across the bay.

  Why hadn't he noticed until now? There wasn't a single gull in sight. Normally they would have been screaming and fighting over the fish that had fallen out of the net as it was being hauled up, flapping wings or white, dipping bodies waiting for Anders to throw them scraps or herring that were too small to sell.

  But now: Not a sound. Not one bird.

  Anders was still considering this when he felt his father's hand on his foot.

  'Listen, I'm sorry I...shouted like that. I didn't mean it.' 'OK.'

  Anders stayed where he was, lying on his stomach, and waited for more. When nothing was forthcoming, he said, 'Dad?'

  'Yes?'

  'Why aren't there any gulls?'

  A brief pause, then his father sighed and said without anger, 'Don't start again, Anders.'

  'OK. But it's odd, isn't it?'

  'Yes.'

  His father patted Anders on the calf, then went to start the engine. After a few minutes Anders sat up and gazed out over the sea. Not one gull anywhere in sight. And no other birds either. The sea was deserted. The only movement was the bow wave around the boat, the only sound the even chugging of the engine.

  During the trip home, Anders fantasised that he and his father were the only survivors of a disaster that had wiped out all life on earth. What would their lives be like from now on?

  Other creatures had evidently survived the disaster, since Simon's cat Dante was waiting for them on the jetty. Anders grabbed the stern rope and jumped up by the outermost capstan. As the cat wound around his legs, he carefully tied the half hitch he had learned the previous summer.

  When the boat was safely moored he stroked Dante's head, climbed down into the prow and threw a couple of herring on to the jetty. He was curious to see how the cat would react. At first everything seemed just the same as usual. Perhaps because his pride demanded it, Dante always pretended that he had caught the prey himself. He crouched down, crept towards the lifeless fish as if the utmost vigilance was essential to ensure that his food would not escape.

  Then he leapt forward and sank both paws into one of the herring, holding it firmly with his claws extended. When he was absolutely certain the fish was not going to get away, he would sink his teeth into it. What happened next looked so funny that Anders laughed out loud.

  Dante stopped with his teeth on the way to the herring, then raised his head and sneezed twice. He looked at Anders as if to ask: Is this some kind of joke?, and poked at the herring with his paw, rolling it around the jetty a couple of times.

  His father was sitting on his haunches, watching the cat's movements with tense interest. When Dante felt he had spent enough time rolling the fish around, he settled down and sank his teeth into the herring, and this time they could hear the crunch of breaking bones. The cat polished off the herring in a minute, then picked the other one up in his mouth and left the jetty with his tail pointing straight up in the air.

  His father stood up and rubbed his hands together. 'We'd better make a start, then.' Before Anders had time to set off ashore to fetch the necessary equipment, his father glanced down into the boat and added, 'You know, that's quite a catch.'

  Oh, so now you've noticed, have you? thought Anders, but all he said was, 'How much do you think there is?'

  His father pursed his lips. 'About ninety kilos. That'll keep us busy for a while.'

  Ninety...two hundred and seventy kronor. But I won't be able to sell that much. If I drop the price...

  Anders went ashore and fetched the rinsing net and the boxes. Meanwhile his father swung out the beam, hoisted up the net and started to shake it. The herring flew out of the net into the bottom of the boat. A few landed in the water, but still there wasn't a single gull there to snap them up. However, a couple of crows had arrived at the bottom of the jetty. They stood there moving their feet up and down, unsure how to behave now they didn't have to compete with the gulls.

  Anders jumped into the boat with the rinsing net and threw a couple of herring to the crows. They swallowed them whole, croaked excitedly, and after a couple of minutes three more crows had arrived.

  The herring whirled around Anders' head and it was all he could do to pour them into the rinsing net, sluice them in the sea and tip them into the boxes. It was more difficult than usual because the herring were still stiff, and kept slipping out of his hands. When he looked up from his work after filling one box, he saw a couple of gulls bobbing on the water just off the jetty.

  When he bent down to his task again he heard the sound of flapping, and a splash next to the boat. The gulls had started to help themselves to the fish that had sunk to the bottom, and everything was back to normal.

  It took his father a good hour to shake out all the fish, and then they worked together rinsing them and tipping the
m into boxes. When they had finished they each sat down on a capstan and contemplated the pile of five full twenty-kilo boxes on the jetty.

  Anders took off his cap and scratched his sweaty scalp. Are we going to be able to sell this much?'

  His father pulled a face. 'I doubt it. I'll have to take a box with me to work, and.. .well, I suppose we can smoke whatever's left over.'

  Anders nodded gloomily, but inside he was jubilant. Although selling herring could be a bit slow, buckling was snapped up in no time on those rare occasions when his father decided to fire up the smoker. The tourists went mad for buckling, and his father's considered opinion was that they regarded it as quaint.

  Anders took the wheelbarrow and went down to the steamboat jetty to fetch some ice from the store that was run by the village committee since the fishing industry had come to an end. When he got back, his father had carried the boxes ashore and hung the net up to dry. They packed the boxes with ice and placed a thick tarpaulin over the whole lot.

  Anders went down to the shore and rubbed his hands with sand to get rid of the fish scales, then he squatted down on a rock for a while and warmed his face in the sun, which had now climbed high above the pine trees on North Point.

  When they got home, Anders went to bed to sleep for a couple of hours more. To him, this was the best part of their fishing days. Lying there in the fiery yellow light pressing against the blind as his hands thawed out under the covers, sleepily listening to the cries of the gulls from the sea. If he didn't fall asleep straight away he would lie there for a while, satisfied with a job well done, picking individual scales off his hands. Then he would drop off as the summer day came to life around him.

  Weight

  But we're not there yet...

  Anders had been so far away in his memories that he didn't realise why the engine had been cut, why the boat was slowing down when they were only halfway to the inlet. The net wasn't here, right in the middle of the bay.

  Then he noticed that the deck he was lying on was made of fibre- glass, and that he was so big there wasn't really room for him. He was a grown man, his father was dead and everything that had happened later that day had nothing to do with the task in hand.

  Although it does. Everything is connected to everything else here. I'm the only one who doesn't see it.

  The engine died and silence fell. Simon was sitting in the prow looking around. There wasn't a boat in sight, no eyes that might spy on them. Anders stepped back into the present, although he wished he could have stayed in the past. The black sacks at Simon's feet were real, and demanded an act of which he would never have believed himself capable.

  It's all my fault. I have to. ..contribute.

  He gathered up the chain and hauled it forward, letting it coil down on top of the black bundle. Simon smiled sadly. 'Do you know where that chain comes from?'

  'Is it the one you used when you... ?'

  'Mmm. It's been in the sea before.' Simon nodded to himself, and neither of them spoke for a while. Simon stroked the plastic covering Elin's head.

  'She's dead. Nothing we do now will make any difference. To her. She drowned. Somebody drowned her. And now she's going into the sea. There's nothing strange about that. It isn't wrong. We just have to do it. Because we need to go on living.' Simon looked Anders in the eye. 'Don't you agree?'

  Anders nodded mechanically. That wasn't really the problem. The problem was actually starting to touch the dead body, feeling muscles and bones through the black plastic without knowing for certain... that she was really dead.

  'What's the plastic for?' asked Anders.

  'I don't know,' said Simon. 'I thought...it would be better.'

  'It isn't.'

  'No.'

  Anders understood the thought behind it, the idea of hiding what they were doing from themselves. And yet it was a relief when they pulled off the sacks and had Elin's corpse at their feet. Her skin had lost all its lustre, and the colour had faded from her wide-open eyes. It was a horrible sight, and yet it was better.

  As Simon bent down and grabbed hold of the chain, he caught sight of the scars on her face and body, glowing white in the morning light. 'What are these? Scars?'

  'I'll tell you all about it,' said Anders. 'But not now.'

  They worked together to lift the body, turn it, wrap the chain around and secure it with a couple of locking pawls. However tightly they pulled the chain, there was no response from Elin's skin, no reddening or swelling. Her eyes stared up at the sky without blinking, and Simon was caught in her empty gaze.

  'Who was she?' he asked.

  That was the question that needed to be asked, the final question. Unfortunately, Anders didn't know the answer.

  'I don't know,' he said. 'I think she was someone who...was looking for approval. Someone who tried, in a lot of...roundabout ways...to get the whole world to think she was wonderful. But...'

  The memory of Elin's smile when Henrik and Björn were being humiliated by the boathouse flashed through his mind, and Anders lowered his head.

  'In that case, we will remember someone who wanted to be wonderful,' said Simon, taking hold of the chain around her thighs and stomach.

  They heaved Elin over the rail. Her legs hooked over the edge and she hung there for a few seconds with her head and upper body in the water. Then Simon gently lifted her feet. The body came free and slipped into the water with a faint splash.

  Anders leaned over and watched her sink. A few air bubbles escaped from her mouth and rose to the surface like transparent beads. Her hair floated outwards and hid her face as she was dragged down into the depths. After a few seconds she had sunk so far that she was nothing more than a blurred, pale patch in the great darkness. Anders kept on staring until he was no longer sure he could see her, until she was replaced by the shifting pattern of the light on the surface of the water.

  The black water. He was so dreadfully tired, he could sleep for a year. He leaned his head against the rail, closed his eyes and whispered, 'I'm so tired, Simon. I just can't cope any more.'

  His head was expanding and shrinking, his brain was a lung. Expanding and contracting quickly, panting. His consciousness was gasping for air as if it was drowning, the lung close to bursting point.

  There was a creaking sound as Simon got up and came to sit beside him, eased him away from the rail and placed his head on his knee. Anders curled up and put his arms around Simon's waist, resting his head on Simon's thighs. Simon's cold hand caressed his hair.

  'There now, little Anders,' said Simon. 'Everything will be all right. Everything's fine. It'll all work out, Anders.'

  Simon's hand went on gently stroking his hair, and it was like oxygen. He stopped panting inside, the panic subsided and he relaxed. He might have fallen asleep for a few seconds. If he did fall asleep, the worst was over when he woke up. Simon's hand was resting on the back of his head.

  'Simon,' said Anders, without raising his head.

  'Yes?'

  'Do you remember saying...that we can never become another person, do you remember that? That however close we get, we can never become the other person.'

  'Yes, I did say that. But it seems as if I was wrong.'

  'It isn't just Elin. It's me as well. I'm turning into Maja.'

  'What do you mean?'

  There was in fact a word for what was happening to him. It wasn't the right word, it had the wrong kind of associations. Demons and devils. And yet it was the only word there was.

  'I'm possessed. I'm turning into someone else. I'm turning into Maja.'

  Anders pulled himself up into a sitting position and moved over to sit opposite Simon. Then he told the story again, in the light of his new insight. How he could sometimes hear her voice inside his head, his fear of the GB-man, the Bamse comics, her bed, the writing on the table and the bead tile.

  Simon didn't ask any questions, didn't raise any objections. He simply listened and said 'Hmm' from time to time, and it was as if the strong hand that had b
een squeezing Anders' mind more and more tightly loosened its grip a little more.

  'So I think...I know,' said Anders eventually, 'that she's doing all this through me. She's the one who's making a picture with the beads and reading about Bamse, but she's using my fingers and my eyes to do it and I don't know.. .1 don't understand what I ought to do.'

  The sun had now risen so high that it had some heat. During his long narrative Anders had started to sweat in his warm clothes. He took off his hat and dipped his hand in the water, scooped up a handful and bathed his eyes. Simon was gazing towards Nåten, where the first tender of the morning was just setting off from the jetty. He asked, 'So what does she want?'