Shadow

by Karin Alvtegen

  For a long time she just lay there breathing, finding no reason to get up.

  Three days had passed since she’d dropped the mask. When her sorrow had spilled out and overpowered her. Right before the eyes of her fellow actor. The farce they had been playing for so long. All the well-planned lines. The dismay she provoked when she suddenly stepped out of her role.

  All she wanted was to connect. She had sacrificed her last ounce of self-respect and pleaded for his attention.

  His silence spoke loud and clear.

  She was nothing.

  Not even worth refuting.

  She had lain awake all night after quickly turning off the bedside lamp when she heard him in the hall, and then pretending to be asleep when he looked in. She was incapable of facing him in her new subservient position. She simply wanted to get away.

  Away from what might have been.

  Everything had been amplified yesterday. For the first time in more than fifteen years he had stepped out of her fantasies and was suddenly within sight: her ex, the man who had left her, but not her imagination. During the years with Jan-Erik he had become wrapped in an ever more dazzling glow.

  A window table in a restaurant. Two children and a beautiful wife. They were laughing and listening to each other so attentively, sitting together. Like a real family.

  While she had stood across the street, hidden in the entrance to a building. Unseen, she had watched, and painfully realised that he’d found what she had always been looking for. What she had wanted to give him back then, if only he’d let her stay.

  If only he had wanted her.

  Maybe there was something about her. Something she wasn’t aware of. Did she smell bad? She took a shower every day. Wasn’t what she said interesting enough? She tried to keep up with what was happening in the world. Was her body repulsive? She was in better shape than many women her age.

  She didn’t know what it was, but there was definitely something. Something that made her impossible to love.

  She curled up on her side and pulled up the covers. She tried to convince herself that there was some reason to get out of bed. The only thing she had to look forward to was the glass of wine she usually enjoyed while sitting in front of the TV after dinner. Before that there was a whole day to get through.

  She found a note on the kitchen table. He was taking Alice to the clinic. She wondered what it was that had to be examined this time, which part of her body was attracting her mother-in-law’s attention now. She was thankful she wasn’t the one who had to drive her.

  She was standing staring at the coffee-machine when the phone rang. She wondered whether it was worth the trouble to answer it. The cordless handset was lying on the kitchen table. She picked it up but didn’t recognise the number. A number in Göteborg. She put down the phone, but it wouldn’t stop ringing. Finally she gave up.

  ‘Louise Ragnerfeldt, hello?’

  A click on the other end. This was the third time it had happened. Unless there was something wrong with the phone, somebody had been ringing and hanging up whenever she answered. She had heard that telesales people used that trick; calling several potential customers at the same time and taking the one who answered first. Annoyed, she went back to the coffee-machine. On principle she never bought anything from anyone who bothered her in her own home.

  She wasn’t particularly hungry, but she filled a bowl with cornflakes and milk. She wasn’t tempted by coffee or the morning paper, so she sat at the table reading the milk carton:

  Words to live by.

  Courage: the ability to act without fear of consequences, usually for a good cause and fully aware of the risks.

  She put down her spoon and looked up out of the window. If she were a courageous person everything would be different. She would be capable of hauling herself out of the place that had turned her into a shadow of what she wanted to be. All her expectations. All her dreams. All she had obediently packed away and put in a place she could no longer find.

  But she was not a courageous person.

  She had told her therapist she wouldn’t be coming back. She could no longer stand listening to herself talking about what she should do, only to leave the office too cowardly to follow her own good advice.

  Again the phone rang. Without looking at the display she picked it up.

  ‘Yes, hello?’

  The line was silent but she could sense that someone was there.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘I’m looking for Jan-Erik.’ A woman’s voice.

  ‘He’s not home at the moment. Who shall I tell him called?’

  Silence again, but not very long.

  ‘Just say hello from Lena in Göteborg. Ask him to ring me.’

  Louise was still holding the receiver to her ear when she heard the woman hang up. Lena in Göteborg. Looking for Jan-Erik. Surnames superfluous. Phone numbers already exchanged.

  Wasn’t Göteborg where he was a few days ago? That time when he missed Ellen’s play? She grabbed the phone and pressed the buttons to check the calls from the past few days. Seven times the same number in Göteborg showed up. Seven times Lena had called. Including half an hour ago, when she’d hung up.

  She leaned back and wondered about her reaction. She didn’t feel anger, or despair. All she felt was a sense of relief that she had finally found an explanation.

  It wasn’t contempt.

  He simply loved someone else.

  Louise got up, and armed with her new knowledge went to the bathroom. She had a shower, put on her make-up, got dressed. Something had happened to her mood. Suddenly the air felt easier to breathe and her steps were not as heavy. It was as if the knowledge of Jan-Erik’s lover had restored her dignity. She had risen from her position as underdog, strengthened by the fact that she now had a real accusation to use as a weapon. She surprised herself. She felt no disappointment or bitterness. It was no more important than that. Something unusual had happened that had roused her from her drab grey stagnation, and it was worth being rejected in favour of Lena in Göteborg.

  She put on her coat and went outside. She decided to keep the boutique closed for another day, she couldn’t stand being there any more. The solitary hours spent behind the counter, waiting for a banal conversation with one of the few customers who ever found their way to her shop.

  She breathed in the clear air, letting it fill her lungs, and tried to persuade herself that it was there all around her, the courage that she still lacked.

  She headed towards the canal. When she reached the pathway she heard her mobile. She let it ring and kept walking, but then her voicemail beeped. It might be Ellen. She pulled out the phone and, seeing that the call was from home, played the message. It was Jan-Erik.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. I’m back home. I went to the shop but you weren’t there. Where are you? It didn’t go so well at the clinic. They actually found something this time, and it’s apparently quite serious. She’s back home now but will be having an operation the day after tomorrow. Call me when you get this. Bye.’

  She deleted the message. Alice ill? Seriously ill? The news shook her. All those years Alice had pestered them with her imaginary pains, but finally she was right. With a pang of guilt Louise stuffed the mobile in her pocket, turned round and headed towards Alice’s flat.

  She had intended to use her own key but changed her mind as her hand reached the lock. If Alice was in bed she didn’t want to surprise her. Their relationship had never allowed such intimacies. Instead she rang the doorbell.

  Alice came to the door quickly and opened it.

  ‘Oh, Louise, how nice. Come in.’

  Louise didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the image of the woman who stood before her. Brisk and sober and wearing a flowered apron, Alice stepped to one side to let her in.

  ‘Aren’t you at the shop today?’

  Louise hung up her coat.

  ‘I’m taking the day off. Jan-Erik rang and told me about the doctor’s exam.’ />
  ‘Yes, apparently things didn’t look so good. Come in. But you shouldn’t have closed the shop for that.’

  Louise stopped short. The Alice she saw before her was different. Louise had gone there ready to hear her usual complaint that no one ever believed in her illnesses. She’d imagined Alice triumphantly ensconced in bed, intent on feeling sorry for herself and apportioning blame.

  Alice vanished into the kitchen after motioning Louise towards the living room.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Louise let her gaze sweep over the mess. Almost everything in the room had been moved from its place, and every flat surface was covered with books, papers, magazines and knick-knacks.

  Alice appeared in the doorway from the kitchen with a cardboard box in her hands.

  ‘I’ve started cleaning up a bit. You should have a look around and see if there’s anything you’d like. I thought I’d have someone come over and take away the rest.’

  Alice picked up a little glass horse. ‘I know Ellen was fascinated by this when she was little. She might like to have it as a little keepsake.’

  Louise watched her, amazed at her energy and the sparkle in her eye.

  Alice caught sight of one of the paintings on the wall.

  ‘I think Jan-Erik would want this one. I remember he said he liked it. It was in the living room out in Nacka, and if nothing else I think it might be worth a few kronor.’

  ‘But, Alice, don’t you think you’re jumping the gun a little?’

  Alice put down the box and looked around as if she hadn’t heard a thing.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Well, God knows, they use so many big words that nobody can understand what they really mean. But she looked worried and wanted to go in and investigate the day after tomorrow. And what about this!’

  Alice went over to the bookshelf and took down a book.

  ‘Well, here it is! It was one of the first books I ever read. Imagine, I haven’t seen it for years. I thought I’d lost it. You have to give this to Ellen.’

  Louise was surprised that Jan-Erik had left Alice by herself. Not even he could have helped noticing her agitation.

  ‘So you’re going to have the operation the day after tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alice went over to the sideboard and pulled out the top drawer.

  ‘Imagine how many things one collects over a lifetime, and only a fraction have been of any use.’

  She continued chattering in her cheerful tone. Louise sat down on the sofa, unsure what to do. How should one behave with people in shock?

  Alice began taking out silverware and piling it on top of the sideboard.

  ‘If you polish them up, they look really nice. I inherited them from Mother and Father.’

  Louise looked at the back of Alice’s head. During a conversation long ago she had once mentioned losing contact with her parents early on; she never said why. She never mentioned them again other than on that one occasion, and then it was Ellen who had asked about them.

  Louise’s own mood suddenly gave her the courage to ask.

  ‘Didn’t you ever miss your parents?’

  ‘No, parents are very overrated.’

  A statement as if quoted from a psychology book. Even with her back turned it was clear that Alice had no intention of delving any more deeply into the topic. She inspected a tablespoon with extra care.

  It occurred to Louise how little she knew about Alice’s life, how little she knew her at all. She had lost a child in a car accident, a fifteen-year-old daughter. Not until now did Louise fully realise what that actually meant. As if Ellen right now would have only three years to live. The thought was impossible to grasp.

  Alice’s hand kept inspecting the silverware in the drawer. Once that hand had written books; Alice had been a writer just like Axel. She had written some novels back in the fifties that Louise had never bothered to read. And neither had Jan-Erik, as far as she knew. She wondered why she had stopped writing.

  Alice pushed the drawer back in and headed towards the kitchen with the silverware.

  Louise sat in silence, thinking about the contempt she’d so often felt for her mother-in-law. Intertwined with a reluctant wish to win her respect. Maybe it was only fear she’d felt. She had wanted to secure her own position to avoid Alice’s verbal attacks, well aware of the way she talked about other people. Like an autocratic judge she evaluated everyone around her. If she found a personality trait she herself lacked, she was quick to make it the object of ridicule.

  Louise heard water running. The clattering of the silver in the sink. Louise went out to join her. She stood at the door and watched Alice’s attempt to be supremely practical.

  ‘Alice, wouldn’t it be a better idea to wait a while and see what the doctors have to say first?’

  Alice squeezed out some silver polish onto a white cotton cloth and picked up a fork.

  Louise tried again.

  ‘We don’t actually know yet, maybe it’s not so serious.’

  Alice’s hand rubbed faster, and the cloth turned black.

  ‘I still think you ought to wait a bit and see what the doctors say, don’t you?’

  With violent force Alice suddenly cast the fork aside and turned round. Completely unprepared, Louise shrank from the ferocity of her gaze.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman! Can’t you at least let me enjoy my own obliteration?’

  For a few seconds Alice was exposed, and Louise lost her breath at what she saw. A despair so deep it distorted her features. Then the moment passed, and Alice returned with furious movements to her silverware. Louise backed out to the living room and sank down on the sofa.

  It was Alice who was standing there in the kitchen, and yet it was herself she had seen.

  In a sudden moment of clarity she understood that in forty years it would be her turn to see the meaninglessness of life finally confirmed. Just like Alice, over the years she would spread her bitterness over anyone who came near her, over Ellen and her future family. Passing on to her daughter the futile task of attempting to make up for a wasted life. Illuminated from a different angle, all perspectives had changed, her obligations to her daughter other than she had envisaged. For whose sake had she sacrificed herself? Who was expected to show gratitude? Ellen, who would be sent out into life with a distorted view of what love is? Jan-Erik, whose behaviour she condoned by not telling him to stop? What sort of role model was she for her daughter? Louise realised that her fear of making a move was merely selfish cowardice, for what joy would Ellen gain from a mother who was already dead? A mother who, when it was much too late, would expect gratitude for everything she had given up to keep the family together.

  All she desired was to be allowed to surrender. To set free a life that had been imprisoned for so long. She could feel it inside, how it was begging for oxygen, pulling and tearing to be allowed to show its potential.

  The instant she made her decision, everything became calm.

  The little glass horse was standing on the window-sill. She reached out and picked it up, placing it gently in her hand. Then she returned to the kitchen. Alice was still standing where she had left her, picking through her parents’ silverware. Louise hesitated, wanting to thank her, but as usual couldn’t quite find the words. She put her hand tentatively on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m going now, Alice. Good luck with everything you have to do. I’m taking this little horse and giving it to Ellen. I know she’d love to have it.’

  28

  Torgny was sitting at his kitchen table holding Gerda’s obituary. No poem. No grieving relatives. Just as anonymous as his own would be one day, if someone even took the trouble to put one in the paper.

  His black suit was hanging in the hall. Nowadays he only wore it to funerals. Newly brushed but as outdated as himself. A disguise he allowed himself now and then.

  He would often look in the newspaper to see who had die
d, and if a name sounded familiar he would go to the funeral. A chance to get out and kill some time, steal a little sympathy. His tie had once been tied by Halina’s fingers. He had never undone it. He simply widened the loop a bit and pulled it over his head, wearing his noose as a symbolic marker.

  He struck a match and lit a cigarette, opening the window a crack as he’d promised the landlady when the neighbours complained about the smell of smoke from his flat. For fifty-four years this had been his home, ever since he moved to Stockholm. With youthful enthusiasm he had moved into the city proper, ready for the world to open up to him. A world that had been divided into black and white, where no nuances of grey had yet made themselves felt. The black was everything he had left behind; his childhood and the inherited job as a metalworker. Even as a child he had felt different. Early on he’d learned to hide his pain whenever a schoolmate, one of his brothers, or his father gave vent to their fury because he refused to apologise for his individuality. Short, thin and not very strong, he was easy prey for anyone who felt so inclined. Until he discovered the power of language. With his new-found weapon he fended off every antagonist, and over the years he honed his argumentative technique to perfection. Not that he escaped being bullied; on the contrary, people who are inarticulate are quick to raise their fists, but the beatings were always easier to bear when he knew that he’d already won.

  The white part was what awaited him in the future. Stockholm, its cultural offerings, and the writer’s life that had begun. He would certainly show everybody back home just who they had been laughing at.

  He would soon turn seventy-eight. Twilight had come early, his life had long been moving towards evening. The days were growing more desolate; everyone he’d known was gone or had been lost somewhere along the way. Few people were left who could share his memories.