Shadow

by Karin Alvtegen

  ‘Gosh, you gave me a fright.’

  Axel sighed and gave her a little smile.

  ‘Can’t we start talking to each other as friends, once and for all, after all these years?’

  Gerda didn’t reply; uncharacteristically she turned her back and went on with her chores. She pulled out a drawer and grabbed a whisk. She cracked two eggs on the edge of a bowl and began expertly whisking them.

  ‘We’re equals, you and I, Gerda. I don’t see why we can’t just treat each other that way. I’m good at writing and you’re good at what you do, so why do we have to make it so difficult?’

  Gerda didn’t answer, but he could hear the motion of the whisk slow down slightly. Once again he felt the similarity to the conversations he’d had with his parents, as if his words were no longer comprehensible but took on a different meaning in their ears than they’d had in his mouth.

  ‘Gerda, please, won’t you at least talk to me?’

  The whisk stopped abruptly. Axel looked at her back.

  ‘We’re not equals.’

  She spoke so softly he had to strain to hear.

  ‘Yes, Gerda, we are.’

  He saw her shoulders rise and fall with her breathing.

  ‘I know what I have to do, and I do it the best I can. That’s that.’

  ‘There, you see? That’s the way it is for me too. I just do what I do the best I can.’

  In the silence that followed, everything lay open. For eighteen years they had shared this life. For the first time they were having a real conversation. He couldn’t quite grasp why it felt so important, but it did.

  ‘We’re not equals.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  She still had her back turned away from him.

  ‘Because I’m content and you’re not. You’re always chasing after what you imagine you could become.’

  Gerda went back to whisking, marking the end of their talk. Axel sat speechless, contemplating her words. And he realised that he’d received the most serious insult of his life.

  A week later and they all resumed their respective roles in the house. Everything returned to normal. Gerda took care of the housekeeping. Annika did her schoolwork. Axel struggled on with his novel, to no avail. What Alice was doing he had no idea, but she mostly stayed in the library, dressed in her customary dressing gown. They didn’t hear a peep from Torgny. He’d promised to ring as soon as he knew something, but apparently Halina was still missing. Then, on the seventh day, another letter appeared, and it turned out to be the beginning of a daily routine. Each morning a new envelope landed in the letter-box, and Gerda delivered them to his office without comment. Alice was not informed. On a few occasions she asked whether there had been any word from Torgny, and Axel was able to say truthfully that there had not. He put the letters unopened in his cupboard. If anything untoward were to happen, it was a good idea to save the letters as proof of her madness. And as with anything that goes on long enough, the whole thing soon became a habit; the letters were received with the same matter-of-factness as the morning paper.

  February turned to March, and the world went its way.

  Israel attacked Palestinian guerrillas in Lebanon, and in Mjölby 14 people died in a train crash. The king appealed to the media to respect his private life, and Iraqi forces put down the Kurds’ fight for freedom. U.S. Secretary of State Kissinger tried to mediate in the Middle East, but Egypt refused to go along with any demands as long as Israel occupied Arab land. Researchers feared that we were heading for a new ice age, Ingemar Stenmark won the World Cup, and it was claimed that the CIA had compiled a hit list of foreign heads of state, with Fidel Castro at the top.

  Nothing much new under the sun.

  It was April 1975.

  21

  T oday we are facing an acute threat to the environment, with the greenhouse effect and climate change. Today’s environmental destruction threatens our entire globalised world and in the long term could lead to the annihilation of our civilisation. By looking at prominent extinct civilisations, such as the Mayans, scholars have been able to show that what begins as environmental degradation risks ending in civil war and the total collapse of society.

  It begins when population growth causes an increase in the demand for food and other resources. Forests are cleared, the soil erodes, plants and animals are wiped out to make room for agriculture and the breeding of livestock. The result of depleting the environment and using up resources is starvation, and finally the population begins to wage war over the shrinking supplies. In the end the total population drops drastically because of starvation, illness and war. The ability to adapt to new living conditions becomes the difference between life and death. Finally, the total collapse of society is unavoidable, and a civilisation goes under.

  Today we are heading towards a repetition of this mistake. We decimate the forests, empty the seas of fish, deplete the soil and fight over the resources that are left. The difference is that we take it another few steps – we pollute the air and water, which causes global warming and destroys the basic prerequisites for our own life.

  Earlier in history it was a matter of individual, isolated cultures that went under. Today’s environmental destruction threatens the whole of our globalised world. The only thing to our advantage, and which distinguishes us from earlier cultures that were wiped out, is that we have the opportunity to learn from others’ mistakes. But are we human beings capable of doing that in depth, or do we personally have to experience the consequences in order to avoid them? New generations seem to keep repeating the mistakes of history, despite research and extensive documentation of the results. What harms us is our tendency to choose most often to do what works best for ourselves in the short term, even though in the long run it turns out worse for all of us.

  Kristoffer put down the book and looked at the clock. It was five past three, which explained why he wanted a cup of coffee. He got up and went over to the window. The rain was falling diagonally, and the bare tree branches in Katarina cemetery were shaking in the wind. Kristoffer, who’d been considering taking a walk over to Café Neo, decided to stay in.

  He still hadn’t heard from Jesper, despite the fact that he’d rung him several times, sounding more and more urgent in his messages. Finally he revealed that he had something important to tell him, because after having admitted the truth to Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt he felt lonelier than ever. He wanted to ask Jesper to come with him to Gerda’s funeral. After the experience in Västerås he realised that he needed a friend at his side, no matter how hard it was to admit. He was used to managing by himself, and it bothered him to have to ask for something that weakened his independence, tied him to an obligation that he might be forced to reciprocate at any time.

  His laptop was closed, and books and magazines were strewn across the table. He was determined to let his work tear his thoughts away from what awaited.

  The deadline for his play came closer and closer. But writing was easier said than done when all his thoughts were elsewhere. They kept returning to the funeral, where he would meet Gerda’s friends, and the mixture of anticipation and fear spoiled his concentration. He resorted to watching the rain, doing his best to find inspiration. He had to include that in the play. The fact that the weather was no longer what it had been. That madness was rampant. The idiocy of short-term thinking. From time immemorial the climate had been one of the few things that refused to submit to humanity’s need for power and was impossible to influence. Those days were gone. Now it had been proven that our amazing planet had finally been forced to yield; it could no longer put up resistance. The monumental victory of market forces. The stupidity of human beings in all its glory.

  He would get the play done in time. It was his duty to wake people up, since so few seemed to understand that there was a real urgency.

  He went back to his computer and sat down.

  FATHER: So what have we decided? Are we going to Thailand or Brazil?

  DAUGH
TER: What about a camping trip?

  FATHER: Camping?

  DAUGHTER: Do you know how much CO2 emission our family would produce on a trip to Thailand by air? Five point four tonnes.

  MOTHER: Good Lord, how tedious you are! I don’t understand how you got like this.

  DAUGHTER: I know, it’s unbelievable.

  MOTHER: That plane will spew out just as much junk even if we stay at home and have a boring time. Just because we happen to be environmentally aware, do we have to give up our lovely holiday in the sun? Not on your life. I really need a few weeks of sunshine this time of year just to keep going.

  SON: We could buy carbon credits then. To offset what we’re emitting.

  DAUGHTER: We’d be emitting just as much crap anyway! You can’t buy everything. Especially not freedom from your own responsibility.

  FATHER: Sweetheart, it’s good that you’re so involved, but now you’re just being foolish.

  DAUGHTER: Foolish?

  FATHER: Surely you realise that someone else is going to come along and buy our tickets even if we don’t go. The Svenssons, for example, are going to Bali on holiday, and I don’t intend to sit here and listen to their damned travel stories when the only place I’ve been is camping.

  He got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. His thoughts strayed once again, edging their way out of the isolation of his flat. If only Jesper would ring. He filled the glass and went back to his desk, sat down and read what he’d written. Placed his hands above the keyboard, but again his thoughts roamed. He made a quick note of the idea he’d just had before it too managed to disappear.

  But when the occasion arises, all are equally intent on applauding role models like Joseph Schultz, convinced that when the chips were down they would be equally heroic.

  He folded down the screen. It was futile even to try. It was as if all his thoughts had been loaned out from the place where they actually belonged. Restlessness kept forcing him out of his chair, and he’d lost count of how many useless walks he’d taken around the flat. It was like an itch inside him. On several occasions he had caught himself counting his pounding heartbeat. It frightened him, since he knew that it resembled something he’d experienced before. During those first wretched months in the flat, when he was tortured by the loss of his life’s companion. The one thing that had helped him simplify reality. He let his gaze wander up the bookshelf and over to the bottle of cognac. Purchased on the day of the première of Find and Replace All, to stand as an unopened monument to his achievement and his indomitable character. It had fortified him, made him feel invincible.

  He got up again and went to check his mobile, to see whether he might have missed a call or message, but the display was blank. He dialled Jesper’s number but was met at once by his recorded voice.

  He sighed in annoyance.

  ‘It’s me again. Call. It’s extremely important.’

  He disconnected and tossed the mobile on the sofa. It landed next to a piece of paper: the article about Torgny Wennberg he’d printed out a few nights ago. He sat down and read through it. Astonished once again at the tragic headline. Forgotten proletarian writer.

  No survivor here.

  At the bottom was the phone number he’d found online. He looked at his phone, pondered for a moment. Born 1928. Fourteen years younger than Gerda. He wondered how well they had known each other. Maybe they’d even been related. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wouldn’t get anything done until he found out why he’d ended up in Gerda Persson’s will. The fact that he kept glancing at the cognac, feeling that he was no longer invincible, made him pick up the mobile and punch in the numbers.

  He didn’t have a chance to think through what he was going to say before he heard a raspy voice on the other end.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is this Torgny Wennberg?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I don’t know if I have the right number, but I’m looking for Torgny Wennberg, who was an author?’

  ‘What do you mean, “was”?’

  Kristoffer picked up the printout he had put down earlier.

  ‘No, I just mean is this the Torgny Wennberg who wrote Keep the Fire Burning and The Wind Whispers Your Name? Among others,’ he added, when he got no reply.

  ‘Yes. That’s me.’

  Only now did Kristoffer hesitate and wonder what he should say. He wished he had planned the conversation better.

  ‘If you’re one of those fucking salesmen, then I’m not interested.’

  ‘No, no, it’s nothing like that.’

  He hesitated again. Torgny Wennberg sounded irritated, and he didn’t want to risk being dismissed on the phone. He decided to take a chance.

  ‘I was wondering if I might possibly interview you about what it’s like to be a proletarian author. I’m a playwright myself, and I read about you on a web site. I’m working on a piece right now and it would be a great help if I could meet with you. If you have time, of course. I would appreciate asking you a few questions.’

  There was silence on the line. He realised that further coaxing was required.

  ‘I’d be happy to buy you dinner or lunch or something, near where you live, so it won’t be so much trouble for you.’

  ‘No, damn it, we can’t even go to the pub now that smoking is no longer allowed. So you’ll have to come up here if you’re interested. I’ll be at home tonight if it’s that urgent.’

  With relief Kristoffer said that would be fine, and they agreed on a time. He asked if he should bring anything, and Torgny suggested picking up a pizza for him. There was a pizzeria right around the corner.

  Everything felt suddenly lighter. It was the passive uncertainty that was so taxing; now he was on his way again.

  Not until he pulled on his shoes did it occur to him that he hadn’t mentioned his name.

  * * *

  He took the path across the cemetery and continued towards the bus stop. There were no seats on the bus but he was happy to stand. It made his restlessness less obvious. A mother with a child in a pushchair stood in the crush by the central doors. The boy was shrieking and kept trying to climb out of his prison, to his mother’s increasing exasperation. She looked tired and had dark circles under her eyes; the boy was bright red in the face and the hair sticking out from under his cap had stuck to his sweaty forehead. Finally the mother’s patience ran out; grabbing the boy roughly by the arm, she shoved him back down in the pushchair. A man with a briefcase gave the woman a disapproving look. The boy stopped screaming at once and rubbed his arm where his mother’s hand had grabbed it.

  Why not like fish roe? thought Kristoffer. Or tadpoles? Why did human offspring have to be dependent on and at the mercy of their progenitors, marked for life by their mistakes?

  He got off the bus and looked for the pizzeria. He ordered two pizzas and sat down to wait. Although it was only five o’clock, several of the tables were occupied. Two people at one table, two at another, a party of four – scattered throughout the room, all the customers sat with invisible barriers between the tables. In the endless space-time of eternity they all happened to be gathered right here, right now. For one single moment. Kristoffer imagined a scenario. What if a madman came in the door and took them all hostage? In an instant everything would change – the barriers would be torn down and together they would form a unit. United by a common threat they would quickly organise themselves into a group and do everything possible to work together. But as long as no threat was in sight, they sat there and did their best not to notice one another.

  ‘Your pizzas are ready.’

  Kristoffer stood up and paid for them.

  He cast one last look at the diners before he walked out the door.

  Clearly the threat of climate change was not scary enough.

  Torgny Wennberg had given him the code to the front door, and he balanced the pizza cartons on one knee as he keyed in the numbers.
The lock buzzed and he pushed open the door. A list of residents informed him that Torgny lived on the third floor, and since it was difficult to pull open the grille of the lift with his hands full of pizza, he decided to take the stairs. He pressed the doorbell and the next moment the little point of light in the middle of the peephole turned black, and Kristoffer knew that Torgny was looking at him. He smiled, and the next moment the door was opened. Kristoffer smiled a little more.

  ‘Hello, here I am with the pizza.’

  Torgny Wennberg stood quite still and stared at him. He didn’t move a muscle to indicate that he was going to let him in, and his expression made Kristoffer unsure.

  ‘I’m the one who rang you before, a few hours ago. I wanted to ask you a few questions.’

  He got no reply. Instead Wennberg clapped a hand to his mouth. Kristoffer was confused. Maybe the man was sick or something. The deep furrows in his unshaven face testified to a hard life. His hair was grey and bushy, and the hand he’d put to his mouth shook in a disturbing way. A stale smell of old cigarettes infiltrated the pizza aroma, and Kristoffer began to regret that he’d come. Torgny looked like somebody Kristoffer might turn into if he weren’t made of sterner stuff. As always, when faced with someone else’s obvious weakness, he felt a slight contempt.

  Torgny lowered his hand.

  ‘Is it really you, Kristoffer?’

  In the moment that followed, all his senses took on a sharpness he had never felt before. Everything froze.

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  And when Torgny replied, the door he had always searched for opened up wide. He dropped the pizzas and wanted nothing more than to run away from there.

  ‘Because you look just like your mother.’