Shadow

by Karin Alvtegen

  ‘I’m sorry if I led you to believe there could be anything between us, I really am. I don’t usually behave that way but, well, things just turned out the way they did. I assumed that we both knew it was a one-off. I have a family and children and I, well, I really do beg your forgiveness.’

  She smiled, but now it was another sort of smile.

  ‘So that’s all it was?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately, that’s how it has to be.’

  She gave a flat little laugh.

  ‘So, you, Axel Ragnerfeldt, the famous fucking author with a pole up his arse, you think it’s okay just to screw me a little and then throw me away like an old towel?’

  ‘Halina, please,’ he appealed to her, but she just shook her head.

  ‘How the fuck could I be so stupid?’

  He suddenly got the feeling that he was dealing with a child.

  ‘Halina, please, I sincerely apologise for what happened. Can’t we just try to part as friends? Can’t we at least do that?’

  She took a drag on her cigarette.

  ‘Do you know what I do when I get angry with myself?’

  He sighed.

  ‘Can’t we just…’

  ‘This is what I do.’

  She stretched out her arm. He couldn’t stop her. With a sizzling sound she pressed the tip of the cigarette onto her bare wrist. He slapped away her hand and looked in horror at the reddish-black hole the burn had left behind.

  ‘Are you mad?’

  She stood quite still, as if the pain had numbed her. He looked around to see if anyone had seen what happened, but there was no one nearby. The sleeve of her jacket fell down over the wound and he gently took hold of her arm. She wrenched it free and stepped back a couple of paces, turned round and walked away. Axel stood there watching her go, utterly at a loss. She crossed the street and he still stood there, incapable of understanding what had just happened. What scared him was not only what she had done, but also what he had seen in her eyes. Something in her look that had escaped him the first time, but this time he had seen it clearly. He wanted to get out of her consciousness. He didn’t want to be a part of what occupied her thoughts.

  On the other side of the street she suddenly stopped and turned to him.

  ‘Hey, Axel!’

  He watched her, waiting.

  ‘You with the great imagination, why don’t you go home and wonder about what I do when I get angry with someone else?’

  19

  Jan-Erik woke up alone in room 403. His only company in bed was an empty bottle of Glenlivet and some colourful miniatures from the minibar spread helter-skelter over the flowery bedspread. He realised he’d fallen asleep with his clothes on. The key he had so ingeniously handed over in the theatre dressing-room had been returned to the reception desk when he arrived at the hotel; the delay had apparently made her change her mind. Now he was grateful, but the dreary hotel room had driven him to empty the minibar. He hated hotel rooms. The anxiety-filled isolation; the claustrophobic feeling of being cut off from the world. He always checked all the emergency exits so he’d know which way to run if a fire started. Tried to convince himself that the probability of the hotel catching fire on the very night he was there was negligible. On the other hand hadn’t all hotel guests that died in a fire thought the same thing just before being engulfed by the flames or suffocated by the smoke that prevented them from finding their way out?

  With great effort he propped himself up on his elbow and looked around for some water. There was a bottle on a little side table, but the distance seemed insurmountable. He fell back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. He wanted to be somewhere else, at some other time. It couldn’t be a hangover, this was something else. He must have come down with some illness. His heart’s laboured beating seemed audible throughout the room. The anxiety lent each thought sharp barbs. Every molecule in his body was trying to fight the poisoning. He couldn’t possibly have caused this himself, it couldn’t be self-inflicted.

  He lay utterly still and tried to convince himself that his condition was not life-threatening.

  It was ten minutes to six.

  His drunken state wouldn’t even allow him to sleep.

  He fell into a restless doze and managed to kill forty minutes. Then he was involuntarily back in reality. Cautiously he broached the thought of the day before. Sporadic mem ories arose, gradually trying to arrange themselves in some sort of order. He had woken up at home. Morning in Stockholm. Louise and Ellen had already left. He had thought about Annika, about the choice she’d made, about the new grief that had to be endured, and how he would handle his parents’ thirty-year-old lie.

  Then came the newly discovered fear that Louise might leave him; in the morning light it had still felt real. He had promised himself that he would change his behaviour. Never again come home feeling guilty, never again wake up in the straitjacket of a hangover. He would show that he really wanted to fight, though he didn’t actually know for what. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand having such a crucial decision taken over his head. On the way to Central Station he had passed by Louise’s boutique. The ‘closed’ sign was on the door, and she hadn’t answered her mobile. With a nagging sense of uneasiness he had taken a seat on the train and swore to himself to be a better father, a better husband, a better person. He had even considered ringing the therapist, if that’s what it would take.

  But then he had stood there on stage in the spotlight. Felt how every pore opened up and gratefully absorbed the unconditional admiration that came rushing towards him from the audience. Felt the adrenaline racing through his veins, the power of approbation. And she had sat there worshipping him, unable to get enough of what he had to give. It was so simple, so impossible to resist.

  And once again he’d fallen to temptation.

  He thanked God that she had changed her mind.

  He would become a better person. He really would.

  It was his mobile ringing that woke him the next time. In the hope that it was Louise he fumbled about looking for the phone. He had rung her several times the day before without getting an answer. She hadn’t returned his calls.

  He cleared his throat in an attempt to sound less groggy.

  ‘Yes, this is Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt.’

  ‘Oh, forgive me, this is Marianne Folkesson. I didn’t wake you, did I?’

  He cleared his throat again.

  ‘No, no, not to worry, I just have a slight cold.’

  He sat up with an effort. Some of the little bottles fell to the floor with a clatter.

  ‘I just wanted to ask if you’d managed to find a photograph for the funeral. Time is getting short, so I really need to know.’

  ‘I looked all over the house but unfortunately I couldn’t find one.’

  He wanted to be of help. Especially this morning. So that not a single person could think ill of him.

  ‘But I’ll look again. I’m in Västerås right now but I’ll be home this afternoon. Is it all right if I let you know tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’ll be a bit of a rush but I think there’ll be enough time.’

  He was going to go straight home. Buy some groceries on the way and have coffee and sandwiches ready when Ellen came home from school.

  ‘I should also tell you that I gave your phone number to Kristoffer Sandeblom, the one who’s named in the will. I hope that’s all right. He wanted so badly to get in touch with someone who knew her.’

  Jan-Erik suddenly remembered the visit in his dressing-room. The strange young man and the awkward circumstances. The absurd notion that he might be Annika’s child, that it had something to do with her suicide. Crazy perhaps, but the stranger’s story had got tangled up in the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind. Thankfully he had worked out that the years didn’t match. With the clarity of distance, he realised what his preposterous idea said about his confidence in his parents. It filled him with sadness.

  He cleared his throat again.

&nb
sp; ‘I’ve already talked with him. He came to meet me yesterday after a lecture, and I must say it was a strange story. Unfortunately I wasn’t much help to him. He is apparently a foundling, but I haven’t the slightest idea what connection he might have had to Gerda.’

  ‘A foundling, you said?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he told me.’

  There was silence on the other end.

  ‘But I promise to let you know tomorrow when I’ve had another chance to look for a photo. I think there must be one somewhere, the question is where. I promise I’ll do my best.’

  They said goodbye. There were seven minutes left till checkout time.

  He managed to shower but not much more. Embarrassed, he checked out and paid for wreaking havoc with the minibar. He explained to indifferent ears that he’d had some friends visiting and they’d even drunk the small bottles of liqueurs.

  His hand was shaking when he signed the bill.

  He took the path through the park to the train station. Tiny stones caught in the wheels of his rolling suitcase, and kicking it did no good. He picked up the bag and ran to catch the train, his body protesting at the strain. Thirsty and sweaty he made it in time and found his seat in the first-class carriage. He sat down to catch his breath and noticed at once that he could see into the restaurant car. The feeling of being poisoned was still strong, and he knew very well what would help. The method was well-proven and he would feel so much better if he took a little nip, merely as an antidote to help his body.

  He took out his mobile and tried to ring Louise, but he still got no answer. The Swedish Railways magazine lay on the table before him and he leafed through it half-heartedly, without taking in what he read. The door to the restaurant car opened and closed when a passenger went through. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, looked out of the window and then at the restaurant car again. He took out his mobile for a second time and began keying in a text message, but stopped and deleted it. He drummed his fingers some more, looked out of the window, flicked through the magazine. Maybe he ought to buy something to eat; the thought wasn’t appealing, but still. In any case he could see what they had. If nothing else, he could stretch his legs a bit.

  He looked out of the window again and continued drumming his fingers.

  Lasagne, vegetarian pizza, pancakes. He did a thorough job of reading the entire menu. Chicken salad, tortellini with meatballs. He spied some sandwiches wrapped in plastic near the cashier and went to inspect them. Below them stood the drinks, and he scrutinised all the juices and at last decided on a beer.

  Purely medicinal, he argued to himself when he got back to his seat. Even the sound of the bottle cap coming off made him feel better.

  Four beers and fifty-seven minutes later he stepped off the train at Central Station. It was two o’clock and the day was young. He felt melancholy. He wished he could go home and be greeted by someone who understood him, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t immediately be interrogated by someone who always demanded the impossible. She couldn’t even answer her mobile. She was punishing him, even though he was trying to do his best. Why couldn’t she see him as the person he was? And Ellen, little Ellen, the years that had gone by so fast. He remembered her as a baby, toddling across the floor; those days were gone for ever. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he hurried towards the waiting taxis.

  Do your duty, be a good person.

  Gerda had died utterly alone, and he hadn’t even been able to find a single photo of her for the funeral. So many years she had spent with him, dear Gerda, the solid anchor of his childhood. What could be more important right now than honouring her with one last effort?

  He climbed into the back seat of a taxi and asked to go to Nacka.

  When the taxi stopped outside the gate he no longer felt quite as confident. He paid the driver and got out, checking to see whether, unlikely though it was, there might be something in the post-box. All he found was a flyer from a charitable organisation. It was twenty minutes to three.

  He looked at his childhood home. Empty windows. Four point two million kronor taxable valuation but with no soul and no purpose.

  On the path through the garden he scrolled to Louise’s number but ended the call before it went through.

  Enough was enough.

  Now it was her turn to ring him.

  There was nothing to drink in the downstairs kitchen. There had never been a drinks cabinet in the house. He went upstairs to what had been Annika’s room but was later converted to Alice’s kitchen. All he found was an unopened box of rice and a packet of old cocoa.

  Axel’s office looked the same as the last time he had been there. The cupboard door was open, and the raw cold had spread into the room. He stopped in the doorway and looked at the lamp hook in the ceiling. How had it been possible for his father to continue working in here afterwards?

  The box in which he’d found Annika’s death certificate was still on the desk, and he quickly looked through the rest of the contents. No picture of Gerda.

  Maybe he should go home. Now he regretted coming back here. His restlessness had returned.

  He carried the box back to the cupboard and almost stumbled over the black rubbish bag. He stood there drumming his fingers against his thigh. The jumble of piles on the floor and shelves, all the boxes and cartons, the whole thing gave him the creeps. A whole life collected in a few square metres, filled with success and uncertainties. What he had already found was betrayal enough.

  A picture of Gerda. Where was that bloody photo? Why had the old devil been so disorganised?

  He pulled out a cardboard box and went over to the desk, sat down and opened the lid. Boring paper, boring paper, boring paper, newspaper review, boring paper, letter from his publisher, boring paper, magazine article, invitation to the Finland-Sweden Literary Society, boring paper, boring paper, boring paper.

  He lifted out the whole mess and let all the papers slowly flutter back down. Not a photograph to be seen. He went into the cupboard and chose a different box. Boring paper, boring paper, review.

  Photographs.

  Somewhat encouraged he took them out but was soon disappointed. Axel receiving a prize from some unidentified person at some unknown location.

  Gerda was obviously not a popular subject for photos.

  He returned to the box. Under another boring paper lay about fifty unopened letters. Different colours and shapes, some thicker than others, but all with the same handwriting. He turned one over to read the return address. Simply a tiny H. They were all the same. For a brief moment he hesitated before his curiosity took over. He was the one who would have to sort through all this eventually, so why not start now? He carefully slit open the envelope. It contained only a small note. He pulled it out to read it.

  The shackles – they burst – they fall off me. The darkness is dispelled. I let love triumph!

  Your H

  Flabbergasted, he put the note back in the envelope and leaned back. The stamp was postmarked 17 March 1975, but he was the first to read the cryptic lines. He lifted the lid of the box and emptied out the letters onto the desk. One of the envelopes had been opened. He picked it up and unfolded the paper.

  Thank you for your message. I promise to be there. Finally, my love!

  Your Halina

  He read the lines three times with increasing astonishment. His father was the one person on earth in whom he truly believed – although naturally it wasn’t all positive. But here was something he never in his wildest dreams would have suspected: his father had had a lover. Although he knew his father must have made his mother pregnant at least twice, the thought of Axel Ragnerfeldt as a sexual being was absurd. And unfaithful? Could it really be possible? That he would dare risk appearances – the very basis for the meaning of life?

  And with the power of a sudden detonation he was then struck by a terrible thought.

  Imagine if Axel’s lover, sometime around 1972, had borne his child.

  20

/>   A xel, Axel, forgive me, forgive me. Let me pour out a thousand pardons over a thousand pages before I try to convince you that I deserve your forgiveness. With complete confidence I appeal to your magnanimity and beg you to give up the aversion you feel for me. I can’t change the place from which I came, only the place to which I am on my way. There I will be able to carry your benevolence like a smooth stone in my hand, a consolation when memory plagues me. How could it happen? you must have wondered. I beg you to read my words without judging. To admit a mistake, after all, is only to admit that one is wiser today than yesterday. All I want to accomplish is a farewell that allows us to part as friends, as you so sensibly said back then, when I was in no condition to listen.

  A thousand and another thousand times I beg you to forget what happened outside the publisher’s, because the person you saw was me and yet it wasn’t. Since my teens I’ve suffered from a number of problems, the doctors say that the explanation lies in my experiences in the camp during my childhood. As long as I take my medication I’m the Halina you met in Västerås, the Halina to whom you gave such a beautiful memory. Our experience enriched me. It’s so easy to believe that everything is whole when the heart is joyful. Unfortunately it made me careless about taking my medication. And I ended up taking it out on you, to my great dismay. It hurts so much to be rejected, when a feeling of worthlessness already fills every part of me.

  Axel, none of it was your fault. I would like so much to say farewell with these lines and tell you that everything is fine. You’re a wonderful man and writer, and I wish you all good fortune with all my heart.

  Halina

  Axel read the letter four times. The relief he felt made him euphoric. Since the incident, he had gone around in a daze, not knowing what was up or down, and with each day his feeling of helplessness had spread. Each time he left the room he was afraid of seeing Gerda with yet another letter; when he heard the telephone ring he feared that it was Halina. He peered out of the windows when he thought he heard unfamiliar sounds. But Halina had not got in touch again. The letter was a liberation. He had already worked out that she suffered from some sort of mental disturbance. He hadn’t been able to forget what he’d seen glinting in her eyes, and during sleepless nights he had wondered about her personality change.