Stone Coffin

by Kjell Eriksson

  Edvard laughed and Ann looked at him.

  “We have home-brewed aquavit,” Victor went on, and Ann guessed that the white plastic container on the back of the truck was filled with Gräsö Absolut, which induced dizziness and inspired festive encounters. Victor and his cousins had most likely already sampled their wares.

  How many times had she had to turn a professional blind eye to the containers and bottles pulled out at these parties? Victor had been a little careful in the beginning, especially when driving the tractor after consumption of the gray liquid was involved, but little by little his inhibitions were lowered as he realized that she didn’t care.

  They had brought not only pickled herring and alcohol but also bags and boxes loaded with pots and dishes filled with leek casserole and various gratins. Fresh vegetables and beer were unloaded. Kurt and Tore lowered a laundry basket that turned out to contain six different herring dishes, new potatoes, beets, dill, store-bought aquavit, liqueurs, pork chops, salmon, and freshly caught Baltic herring.

  Ann and Edvard took in this magnificence, with Gerd’s eyes on them. Victor glanced at the kitchen window. The cousins started to fetch and carry. Gerd hollered.

  “Wonderful,” Edvard said to Gerd with appreciation. “You’ve worked hard.”

  She pretended not to hear and yelled at Tore for being careless. Suddenly the kitchen window opened and Viola stuck her head out.

  “Get that miserable tractor out of my sight,” she said and quickly closed the window again.

  Victor smiled and walked up to Ann, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  “This is your chance to get some meat on those bones,” he said.

  Ann looked into his aging face and felt his alcohol-laden breath.

  “You’re just the same, Victor. It’s nice to see you.”

  He smiled, then turned to supervise the unloading. Tore grabbed the container and Gerd was looking more and more dissatisfied, but everyone knew things would lighten up when they sat down at the table. Gerd was a food person. She showed her best side when she was cooking and when she was eating what she’d prepared.

  “We’ve slaughtered the calf,” Victor said and turned back to Ann.

  She didn’t really understand what he meant by this. Surely they no longer kept animals? He saw her uncertain expression and chuckled but instead of explaining himself turned to Edvard.

  “Was that stupid?” he asked and pointed at the cousins and Gerd.

  “No, no,” Edvard assured him.

  “Viola might be unhappy.”

  As if in answer to these thoughts, Viola stepped out onto the porch. The old coat had been replaced by a green dress with red flowers. It reached all the way down to her rubber boots. Her hair had been smoothed back into a knot. She saw their gazes and appeared to have some trouble deciding which expression she should assume. Victor shuffled anxiously in his SnowJoggers.

  Ann’s gaze went from Viola to Victor, and suddenly she burst into tears. Victor was alarmed and rushed over.

  “What is it?”

  Ann sobbed, apologizing, and looked markedly embarrassed. The episode was over as quickly as it had begun.

  “I don’t know,” she said truthfully.

  “You need some food,” Gerd pronounced.

  Edvard stood completely passive. Ann looked up and their gazes met.

  “I’ll put the tractor away,” Victor said.

  * * *

  They went about setting up one long table. Viola took out some linen tablecloths. Ann carried the china. Gerd scrubbed more potatoes, boiled beets, dished up herring in all kinds of pickled sauces, and heated dishes in the oven. The cousins carried the chairs. Victor fried the Baltic herring and competed with Gerd for space in front of the stove.

  At half past twelve they sat down to eat, Viola at one end and Edvard at the other. Midsummer’s Eve. To the east, over the mainland, there were dark clouds, but the sun was shining on the island. Kurt expressed his joy at the fact that it was raining in Valö and Norrskedika.

  Ann had picked flowers and decorated the table with them. A brimstone butterfly searched for nectar in the head of a harebell. Everyone at the table fell silent at the sight of the yellow butterfly fluttering above the summery bouquet.

  From the water, they could hear the buzz of the powerboats as well as laughter and noise. It was as if the cousins were listening out to sea because they shortly fell into telling their tales. The stories, the humorous ones, of which many had been repeated throughout the years and at many parties, evoked much laughter and commentary. Soon the din from the bay was drowned out by the eruptions from around the table.

  “When it was hot in the summer, his wife set the vacuum cleaner in reverse and popped the hose under the sheets. ‘Air-conditioning,’ Morin called it.”

  “He died, that one,” Gerd observed dryly, still eating with gusto. She knew this because Morin had become a wiener cousin to one of her kin.

  “But he was nice,” she added.

  “The hell he was,” Tore said, as always fired up by the Gräsö Absolut. “He was a mean bastard.”

  Gerd gave him a look above the flower arrangement. In time she would have the last word, she knew.

  Tore and Morin had both been employed at the Forsmark nuclear power plant and had never seen eye to eye. The gang told a number of Forsmark stories, followed by the usual bad-mouthing of the summer residents and anyone else with more than six years of schooling.

  They did this even as they knew better. The old people around the table felt a mixture of awe and envy, respect and inferiority toward the city folk who had invaded their island. This was true even for those necessary outsiders such as veterinarians, public works officials, land surveyors, highway engineers, and others who effectively governed their island through their arbitrary decisions.

  The old people simply bowed, obstructed, didn’t give a damn, bowed again, sometimes yielding, but always with the inherent suspicion and envy of generations of islanders. They judged people as it suited them depending on the day and what they stood to gain.

  That they had accepted Edvard so quickly had to do with the fact that he had worked with the land and with animals. Ann was with Edvard. She was also a decent sort and didn’t poke her nose in anyone’s business, and last but not least, she was a woman and therefore of no consequence, especially as seen from Gerd’s perspective. Gerd railed against all “womenfolk” regardless of where they came from.

  Gather a bunch of Gräsö islanders around a table with filled shot glasses and there’s no risk of low spirits, Lindell thought. Apart from a feeling of satiation, she felt very thankful for being included at the table. Kurt launched into a drinking song about a swan. He had a decent voice and sang verse after verse until Tore made him stop.

  Viola had had a couple of shots and smiled at everyone. For once it didn’t look as if she was cold.

  * * *

  The dinner dragged on and Lindell started to feel some impatience. She had not had the opportunity to talk to Edvard. She found herself thinking about the Cederén investigation. In her thoughts, she returned to the road in Uppsala-Näs and saw the unknown Julio Piñeda before her. “We all carry a great sorrow…” She was suddenly convinced that the answer to the riddle lay there, in Piñeda’s great sorrow.

  Edvard noticed her serious look and he realized where her mind was. He whispered her name, and after a couple of attempts, she reacted and looked up.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Here,” she said simply.

  She got up from the table. Edvard did the same and together they left the increasingly noisy group. Lindell felt that she had to guard her tongue. The shots and the beer had affected her more than she had realized while she was still sitting at the table.

  They walked quietly, side by side, down to the sea. Edvard turned his gaze to the west. A mighty rainbow rose up from the horizon, but the sun was still shining over the island. They halted. Lindell wanted to touch him but hesitated. Edv
ard was the one who continued the walk. He did not choose the usual path. Instead they ended up walking through high grasses and herbs and arrived at the old boathouse.

  “How have things been for you?” she asked.

  “Good.”

  Touch me, she thought.

  “How about the knee?”

  “It’s better.”

  He continued along the shoreline and came to the new dock.

  “We built this one last winter,” he said. “Me, Victor, and the boys.”

  Ann nodded.

  “It’s nice,” she said and gazed at the massive construction, which by its enormous weight and new lumber stood in stark contrast to the old boathouse and the graying logs of the old dock.

  Edvard took a few steps out, testing its stability with bouncing steps.

  “This will last a long time,” he said and turned to Ann.

  “The boys helped you?”

  He nodded.

  “They slaved over those stones and boulders every day of their spring break. This stone coffin construction—that’s the technical term for it—is the largest on the whole island, according to Victor. They really worked hard.”

  “Stone coffin—is that really what it’s called?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It’s a little creepy,” Lindell said.

  “Victor spent two weeks on the couch after we were done. He was completely finished.”

  Edvard looked out over the water. Stood silently.

  “What did the boys say? Did they think it was fun?”

  “Yes, they liked it. It’s the best thing that’s happened since I got divorced.”

  What about me, Lindell thought, but she understood what he meant.

  “Maybe it’s genetic. I loved stone masonry, my dad was the same, and now the boys.”

  He talked more about the stone boulders, how they had gathered them and thought of various solutions in order to get them where they needed to be. Some had weighed hundreds of kilos. The tractor and an old winch had been needed in order to coax the boulders into place, but they had also had to strain with their hands and sticks.

  As Edvard talked, it struck her that it was the dock that had been the destination for their walk. This was what he had wanted to show her.

  She realized that the four of them had built a monument. Victor had approached it from his particular perspective. This was likely the last dock construction he would be involved with. He had overworked his old body and had had to rest for fourteen days. For Edvard, with his love of stone and physical labor, it was his first construction of a stone coffin, a task to his taste. Few projects were as archaic as this. And the boys could finally be united with their father in a shared undertaking. She could imagine their enthusiasm, their pride.

  A monument resting in the bay, equipped with seven-inch-wide pressure-treated planks, protecting the boats. A place to anchor that could withstand a nor’easter, the power of the ice and waves.

  Edvard kept talking. He showed her the plaque with their names.

  “And it turned out to be a fine dock,” he said as a concluding statement. Then he looked at her.

  Lindell agreed. When the story of the dock was finished, it didn’t look like Edvard knew what else to talk about.

  Lindell sat at the very end and let her legs dangle.

  “I left,” she said suddenly. “I loved you, but I left anyway. It was too much.”

  She sensed Edvard’s anxiety but went on. It had to be said, six months worth of dammed-up thoughts.

  “It got to be too heavy. Partly the job and partly you. We just didn’t laugh enough. Do you know what I mean?”

  She wasn’t sure how to go on. She wanted to do it right, not to hurt his feelings or say things that would shut him down. She wanted to get him to talk about himself, about her, in the same way that he had talked about the dock.

  “You gave me so much. I was richer with you, saw things in a different light. I know you don’t want to move away from Gräsö. That was what I wanted last Christmas: that you would bet on me, move in closer to town, meet your boys, start to live.”

  “I love you,” he interrupted.

  It was as if the dock swayed from an imperceptible wind. He sat down by her side and put his arm around her shoulders. It was a weight she had been longing for. He repeated what he had said. They sat completely still, staring out over the water.

  “I’ve thought about moving,” he said, “but it doesn’t feel fair to Viola. But I know it. I know I have to move closer to you and the boys.”

  Go on, Lindell thought, keep talking. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “I want to try with you,” he said softly. “Maybe we can pull it off.”

  Pull it off. She smiled to herself.

  * * *

  The sun had set behind the alder trees when they got up from the dock. They strolled hand in hand like a pair of newlyweds. Not much had been said, and they walked quietly back to the house. We have to learn to talk again, Lindell thought. This time I won’t let go. I will force him to let go, to talk, to express himself, to give his opinion on how life should be lived.

  “I’m not letting you go,” she said when they arrived at the woodshed.

  The old people had gone inside. The bank of clouds from the mainland had come a little closer, but the air was still warm. Dusk enveloped the house and its surrounding area in an expectant silence. It was completely still. The calmness of the nature around them, the light clouds to the south that slowly sailed into one another in the sky, swiping a neighbor here and being pushed together there, spoke of a clear evening and night. The birds in the trees were celebrating the twilight. They weren’t moving as quickly anymore. They were flying in lazy arcs between the old rowan and the juniper bushes in the pasture. Edvard had a notion that they might be visiting one another, that the worst of the spring and early summer frenzy was over. The territories had been meted out and defined, the eggs were under way, and now there was time for a little relaxation, a little chirping in the bushes.

  They did not go directly into the main house. Instead they took the stairs up to Edvard’s room. Ann peeked in the room next to Edvard’s bedroom and saw that he had made up the bed.

  “Did you think we would have separate bedrooms?”

  “You can never be too sure of these things,” he said. “The fact is, that little bedroom is always made up these days. Fredrik comes out sometimes and then the boys. It’s become a bit of a hostel.”

  She snuggled close to him. She wanted to feel his chest against hers.

  “Should we go down?” he said and gently loosened himself from her grip.

  Their need for closeness and—at the same time—their shyness with each other meant that they simply ended up standing there with silly smiles on their lips. Lindell wanted so badly for him to squeeze her long and hard, but he only smiled tentatively.

  * * *

  The rest of Midsummer’s Eve they spent in Viola’s parlor. The cousins were starting to calm down, but Victor and Gerd were still in high gear and playing cards. The television was on, displaying images from Dalarna: the raising of a Midsummer pole, a choir singing, and a tug-of-war. Lindell looked around and for a moment imagined that they were in a nursing home.

  Edvard told Victor that the dock received approval from the police, at which the old man laughed heartily.

  Viola bustled around the kitchen, making the coffee. Lindell went out to her and stayed there. Edvard sat down in the sofa. He could hear the two women talking and the dishes clattering.

  When the shadow of the rowan reached the roof of the chicken coop, the old people gathered themselves together and left in the tractor. Lindell, Edvard, and Viola stood in the yard and watched it disappear around the bend by the plum orchard.

  “The air is a bit raw,” Viola said and shivered. “But at least there won’t be any rain.”

  She kept talking, chilly but unwilling to turn in. Lindell wanted to ask Viola what she thought about
the fact that she had returned, but realized that she couldn’t. For a moment she was struck by uncertainty. Was this really the way things were supposed to be? Should she and Edvard go up the flight of stairs and become reunited? Her choice was so close at hand. Longing mingled with worries for the future. The stairs up to Edvard’s room constituted a path that felt decisive. She wanted in some way to have Viola’s blessing, as if the old woman with her gruff wisdom could pass final judgment and say: Of course, this is right. You’re going to pull it off. Or perhaps: Go home to Uppsala, Ann, Edvard isn’t right for you. I know, I’m a woman and live with him.

  Say something one way or the other, Lindell thought, and in the old woman’s talk of the weather, she tried to discern something else.

  As if Viola could sense Lindell’s inner struggles, she suggested that they have a final snack before turning in. Lindell knew that she had trouble falling asleep and liked having company as long as possible, but Edvard said he was more than full.

  “In that case,” Viola said, “we should get ready for bed and dream sweet dreams.”

  * * *

  The day after started with nausea. Lindell woke early. Edvard was still sleeping heavily when she got up, pulled on her clothes, and went outside.

  It was a heavenly morning. The birds greeted her with a song she had not heard for a long time. She had hardly gotten through the door before she gagged and got an aftertaste of herring. Suddenly the morning was no longer as appealing. She felt terrible and quickly made her way around the corner of the house. Just beyond the corner, by the large rain barrel, she vomited. Brutally, violently, and abruptly. She broke out in a cold sweat and hardly had time to think before the next attack came on. She leaned forward and stared repulsed at the ground.

  She moved her hand along the barrel and dipped her fingers into the water. The nausea still came in waves. She spit and felt completely confused. Yes, she had drunk alcohol, but only in small amounts. It must be Victor’s home brew, she thought, and felt panicky. She had heard about bad liquor and witnessed the consequences.