Kaj whispered excitedly as he stood peering out behind the curtain. 'Now two guys are coming out of the house and getting in the police car. Just you wait, now they're going to come knock on our door any minute. Well, whatever it's about, I'm going to tell them the facts. And Lilian Florin isn't the only one who can file a police report. Didn't she stand there screaming insults over the hedge a couple of days ago, saying she'd make sure I got what I deserved? Illegal intimidation, I think that's what it's called. She could go to jail for that…' Kaj licked his lips in anticipation and prepared for the coming battle.
Monica sighed and went back to the easy chair in the living room. She picked up a women's magazine and began to read. She no longer had the energy to care.
'We might as well drive over and talk to the friend and her mother, don't you think? As long as we're here.'
'All right,' said Patrik with a sigh, backing out the driveway. They didn't really need to take the car since it was only a few houses up the street to the right, but he didn't want to block the Florins' drive with Sara's father on his way home.
Looking solemn, they knocked on the door of the blue house, which was only three houses away. A girl about the same age as Sara opened the door.
'Hello, are you Frida?' asked Martin in a friendly voice. She nodded In reply and stepped aside to let them in. They stood awkwardly in the hall for a moment as Frida observed them from under her fringe. Ill at ease, Patrik finally said, 'Is your mother at home?'
The girl still didn't say a word but ran a little way down the hall and turned left into a room that Patrik guessed was the kitchen, lie heard a low murmur and then a dark-haired woman in her thirties came out to meet them. Her eyes flitted nervously and she gave the two men standing in her hall an inquisitive look. Patrik saw that she didn't know who they were.
'Good afternoon, Mrs Karlgren. We're from the police,' said Martin, apparently thinking the same thing. 'May we have a word with you? In private?' He gave Frida a meaningful glance. Her mother blanched, drawing her own conclusions about why they didn't think what they had to say was suitable for her daughter's ears.
'Frida, go up and play in your room.'
'But Mamma -' the girl protested.
'No arguments. Go up to your room and stay there until I call you.'
The girl looked as if she had a mind to object again, but a hint of steel in her mother's voice told her that this was one of those battles she was not going to win. Sullenly Frida dragged herself up the stairs, casting a few hopeful glances back at the adults to see whether they might relent. No one moved until she reached the top of the stairs and the door to her room slammed behind her.
'We can sit in the kitchen.'
Veronika Karlgren led them into a big, cosy kitchen, where apparently she'd been making lunch.
They shook hands politely and introduced themselves, then sat down at the kitchen table. Frida's mother took some cups out of the cupboard, poured coffee, and put some biscuits on a plate. Patrik saw that her hands were shaking as she did so, and he realized that she was trying to postpone the inevitable, what they had come to tell her. But finally there was no putting it off any longer, and she sat down heavily on a chair across from them.
'Something has happened to Sara, hasn't it? Why else would Lilian ring and then hang up like that?'
Patrik and Martin sat in silence a few seconds too long, since both hoped the other would start. Their silence was a form of confirmation that made tears well up in Veronika's eyes.
Patrik cleared his throat. 'Yes, unfortunately we have to inform you that Sara was found drowned this morning.'
Veronika gasped but said nothing.
Patrik went on, 'It seems to have been an accident, but we're making inquiries to see whether we can determine exactly how it happened.' He looked at Martin, who sat ready with his pen and notebook.
'According to Lilian Florin, Sara was supposed to come over here and play with your daughter Frida today. Was that something the girls had planned? It is Monday, after all, so why weren't they in school?'
Veronika was staring at the tabletop. 'They were both ill this weekend, so Charlotte and I decided to keep them home from school, but we thought it was okay if they played together. Sara was supposed to come over sometime before noon.'
'But she never arrived?'
'No, she never did.' Veronika said no more, and Patrik had to keep asking questions to get more information.
'Didn't you wonder why she never showed up? Why didn't you ring and ask where she was?'
Veronika hesitated. 'Sara was a little… what should I say?… different. She more or less did whatever she liked. Quite often she wouldn't come over as agreed because she suddenly decided she felt like doing something else. The girls sometimes quarrelled because of that, I think, but I didn't want to get involved. From what I've heard, Sara suffered from one of those problems with all the initials, so it wouldn't be good to make matters worse
She sat there shredding a paper napkin to bits. A little pile of white paper was growing on the table before her.
Martin looked up from his notebook with a frown. 'A problem with all the initials? What do you mean by that?'
'You know, one of those things that every other child seems to have these days: ADHD, DAMP, MBD, and whatever else they're called.'
'Why do you think something was wrong with Sara?'
She shrugged. 'People talked. And I thought it fit quite well. Sara could be utterly impossible to deal with, so either she was suffering from some problem or else she hadn't been brought up right.' She i ringed as she heard herself talking about a dead girl that way, and quickly looked down. With even greater frenzy she resumed tearing up the napkin, and soon there was nothing left of it.
'So you never saw Sara at all this morning? And never heard from her by phone either?'
Veronika shook her head.
'And you're sure the same is true for Frida?'
'Yes, she's been at home with me the whole time, so if she had talked to Sara I would have known. And she was a bit peeved that Sara never showed up, so I'm quite sure they didn't talk to each other.'
'Well then, I don't suppose we have much more to ask you.'
With a voice that quavered a bit Veronika asked, 'How is Charlotte doing?'
'As can be expected under the circumstances,' was the only answer Patrik could give her.
In Veronika's eyes he saw the abyss open that all mothers must experience when for an instant they picture their own child a Victim of an accident. And he also saw the relief that this time it was someone else's child and not her own. He couldn't reproach her for feeling that way. His own thoughts had all too often shifted In Maja in the past hour. Visions of her limp and lifeless body had forced their way in and made his heart skip a few beats. He too was grateful that it was someone else's child and not his own. The feeling may not have been honourable, but it was human.
* * *
STRÖMSTAD 1923
He made a practised judgement of where the stone would be easiest to cleave and then brought the hammer down on the chisel. Quite rightly, the granite split precisely where he had calculated It would. Experience had taught him well over the years, but natural talent was also a large part of it. You either had it or you didn't.
Anders Andersson had loved the stone since he had first come to work at the quarry as a small boy, and the stone loved him. But it was a profession that took its toll on a man. The granite dust bothered his lungs more and more with each passing year, and the chips that flew from the stone could ruin a man's eyesight In a day, or cloud his vision over time. In the cold of winter it was impossible to do a proper job wearing gloves, so his fingers would freeze until they felt like they would fall off. In the summer he would sweat profusely in the broiling heat. And yet there was nothing else he would rather do. Whether he was cutting the four-inch cubic paving stones called 'two-örings' used to construct roads, or had the privilege of working on something more advanced, he loved every laborio
us and painful minute. He knew this was the Work he was born to do. His back already ached at the age of twenty-eight, and he coughed interminably at the least dampness, but when he focused all his energy on the task before him, his ailments were forgotten and he would feel only the angular hardness of the stone beneath his fingers.
Granite was the most beautiful stone he knew. He had come to the province of Bohuslän from Blekinge, as so many stonecutters had done over the years. The granite in Blekinge was considerably more difficult to work with than in the regions near the Norwegian border. Consequently the cutters from Blekinge enjoyed great respect thanks to the skill they had acquired by working with less tractable material. Three years he had been here, attracted by the granite right from the start. There was something about the pink colour against the grey, and the ingenuity it took to cleave the stone correctly, that appealed to him. Sometimes he talked to the stone as he worked, cajoling it if it was an unusually difficult piece, or caressing it lovingly if it was easy to work and soft like a woman.
Not that he lacked offers from the genuine article. Like the other unmarried cutters he'd had his amusements when the occasion presented itself, but no woman had attracted him so that his heart leapt in his breast. He'd learned to accept that. He got along fine on his own. He was also well-liked by the other lads in his crew, so he was often invited home for a meal prepared by a woman's hand. And he had the stone. It was both more beautiful and more faithful than most of the women he had encountered. He and the stone had a good partnership.
'Hey Andersson, can you come over here for a moment?'
Anders interrupted his work on the big block and turned round. It was the foreman calling him, and as always he felt a mixture of anticipation and alarm. If the foreman wanted something from you, it was either good news or bad. Either an offer of more work, or notification that you could go home from the quarry with your cap in hand. In fact, Anders believed more in the former alternative. He knew that he was skilled at his profession, and there were probably others who would get the boot before him if the workforce were cut back. On the other hand, logic did not always win out. Politics and power struggles had sent home many a good stonecutter, so nothing was ever guaranteed. His strong involvement in the trade-union movement also made him vulnerable when the boss had to get rid of people. Politically active cutters were not appreciated.
He cast a final glance at the stone block before he went to see the foreman. It was piecework, and every interruption in his work meant lost income. For this particular job he was getting two öre per paving stone, hence the name 'two-örings'. He would have to work hard to make up for lost time if the foreman was long-winded.
'Good day, Larsson,' said Anders, bowing with his cap in hand. The foreman was a stern believer in protocol. Failing to show him the respect he felt he deserved had proven to be reason enough for dismissal.
'Good day, Andersson,' muttered the rotund man, tugging on his moustache.
Anders waited tensely for what would come.
'Well, it's like this. We've got an order for a big memorial stone from France. It's going to be a statue, so we thought we'd have you cut the stone.'
His heart hammered with joy, but he also felt a stab of fright. It was a great opportunity to be given the responsibility to cut the raw material for a statue. It could pay a great deal more than the usual work, and it was both more fun and more challenging. But at the same time it was an enormous risk. He would be responsible until the statue was shipped off, and if anything went wrong he wouldn't be paid a single öre for all the work he had done. There was a legend about a cutter who had been given two statues to cut, and just as he was in the final stages of the work he made a wrong cut and ruined them both. It was said that he'd been so despondent that he took his own life, leaving behind a widow and seven children. But those were the conditions. There Was nothing he could do about it, and the opportunity was too good to pass up.
Anders spat in his hand and held it out to the foreman, who did the same so that their hands were united in a firm handshake.
It was a deal. Anders would be in charge of the work on the memorial stone. It worried him a bit what the others at the quarry Would say. There were many men who had considerably more years on the job than he did. Some would undoubtedly complain that the commission should have gone to one of them, especially since unlike him they had families to support. They would have Viewed the extra money as a welcome windfall with winter coming on. At the same time they all knew that Anders was the most skilled stonecutter of them all, even as young as he was. That consensus would dampen most of the backbiting. Besides, Anders would choose some of them to work with him, and he had previously shown that he could wisely weigh the pros and cons of who was most skilled and who was in greatest need of extra income.
'Come down to the office tomorrow and we'll discuss the details,' said the foreman, twirling his moustache. 'The architect won't be coming until sometime towards spring, but we've received the plans and can begin the rough cut.'
Anders pulled a face. It would probably take a couple of hours to go over the drawings, and that meant even more time away from the job he was currently working on. He was going to need every öre now, because the terms stated that the work on the memorial stone would be paid for at the end, when everything was completed. That meant that he would have to get used to longer work-days, since he would have to try and make time to cut paving stones on the side. But the involuntary interruption of his work wasn't the only reason that he was displeased about going down to the office. Somehow that place always made him feel uncomfortable. The people who worked there had such soft white hands, and they moved so gingerly in their elegant office attire, while he felt like a crude oaf. And even though he always did a thorough job of washing up, he couldn't help the fact that the dirt worked its way into his skin. But what had to be done had to be done. He would have to drag himself down there and look over the drawings; then he could go back to the quarry, where he felt at home.
'I'll see you tomorrow then,' said the foreman, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. 'At seven. Don't be late,' he admonished, and Anders merely nodded. There was no risk of that. He didn't often get a chance like this.
With a new spring in his step he went back to the stone he was working on. The happiness he was feeling made him cleave the stone like butter. Life was good.
* * *
She was spinning through space. Free falling among the planets and other heavenly bodies that spread a soft glow all around as she sped past them. Dream scenes were mixed with small glimpses of reality. In her dreams she saw Sara. She was smiling. Her little baby body had been so perfect. Alabaster white with long, sensitive fingers on the tiny hands. Already in the first minutes of life she had grabbed hold of Charlotte's index finger and held on as If It were her only anchor in this frightening new world. And maybe it was. For her daughter's firm grip on her index finger would become an even harder grip around her heart in the days In come. A grip that even then she had known would last a lifetime.
Now she passed the sun on her path across the heavens, and its dazzling light reminded her of the colour of Sara's hair. Red like fire. Red like the Devil himself, someone had said in jest, and she remembered in her dream that she hadn't appreciated that joke. There was nothing devilish about the child lying in her arms. Nothing devilish about the red hair that had at first stood straight up like a punk-rocker's, but with the years had grown long and thick till it tumbled down her shoulders.
But now the nightmare pushed away both the feeling of the child's fingers round her heart and the sight of the red hair that bounced on Sara's narrow shoulders when she hopped about, full of life. Instead she saw her hair dark with water, the strands flouting round Sara's head like a misshapen halo. It was waving to and fro, and below she saw long green arms of seaweed reaching out for it. Even the sea had found pleasure in her daughter's red hair, claiming it for its own. In her nightmare she saw the alabaster white darken to blu
e and purple, and Sara's eyes were closed and dead. Ever so slowly the girl began to turn in the water, with her toes pointed to the sky and her hands clasped over her stomach. Then the speed increased, and when she was spinning so fast that a small backwash was formed on the grey water, and the green arms withdrew. The girl opened her eyes. They were completely, utterly white.
The shriek that woke her seemed to come from a deep abyss. Not until she felt Niclas's hands on her shoulders, shaking her hard, did she realize that it was her own voice. For an instant relief washed over her. All that evil had been a dream. Sara was alive and well; it was only a nightmare playing a nasty trick on her. But then she looked into Niclas's eyes, and what she saw made a new scream build up in her breast. He forestalled this by pulling her close to him, so that the scream metamorphosed into deep sobs. His shirt was wet in front and she tasted the unfamiliar salt of his tears.
The Stone Cutter Page 3