by Lars Sund
The drunk made a strange grunting noise and sank to the pavement, where he lay motionless.
Kangarn then turned to the man’s mate and once again raised the shovel. But the second drunk took to his heels and ran, dirty slush splashing up around his down-at-heel boots.
Kangarn helped the shopkeeper to his feet and then bent over the man he had struck.
“God in Heaven!” Kangarn said through frozen lips. “I think … I think he may be dead.”
And so Kangarn had little choice but to leave the city in which he had grown up without delay. The worst part of all, however, was not that he had probably killed a man; it was his parents’ grief, particularly his mother’s.
Their grief went with him as an invisible travelling companion.
Since he had to flee anyway he thought he might as well try to head for the coast and see the sea. He assumed he was being hunted and would have to be on his guard, which meant that he stole food to survive, slept in barns and outhouses, and lived rough. Towards spring he came to a port on the north coast and at last he saw the sea.
The sea was grey and sludgy. All kinds of rubbish – pieces of wood, empty bottles and cans – were bobbing in the water by the quayside. White birds circled above without moving their wings. Nowhere could he see any sign of the wide unbroken horizon his mother had talked about so often, for – although Kangarn did not know it – this harbour lay on a river many kilometres upstream from the sea. Feeling absolutely empty, he sat down on a bollard. He would probably have cried, but he had forgotten how to do so.
A small tramp steamer was moored at the quayside, her superstructure white, her derricks yellow and her black hull a patchwork of rust. Painted in white letters on the stern he saw the name Oihonna.
Alone and dirty he sat on the bollard. The ship called Oihonna was the first ship he had ever seen. From somewhere deep inside her hull he could hear a slow, dull, pulsing throb. He noticed that there was no one on the deck and the quay was deserted. And the Oihonna’s gangway was there in front of him.
Kangarn reached his decision.
“I don’t really have anything to lose, do I?” he thought.
It wasn’t until the Oihonna was far out on the real sea that the stowaway was discovered.
His legs shaking, Kangarn climbed down from the lifeboat where he had been hiding under the awning. Now he saw the horizon at sea for the first time. The Oihonna seemed to be lying motionless in the centre of a circle of smooth blue water. The vault of the sky over the water was enormous and the horizon was clear and unbroken in whichever direction he looked.
For a while Kangarn said nothing and stood staring down at the deck. He licked his dry lips. Whatever it was he was thinking about only he knew. He sighed and shivered. Then he asked for some water.
The SS Oihonna of Fagerö happened to be a man short when Kangarn slipped aboard. On the outward passage to England an inexperienced deckhand had gone overboard in a severe storm over the Dogger Bank. The captain of the Oihonna studied the castaway carefully: he seemed to be healthy and strong. And honest – in broken schoolboy German and sign language Kangarn explained why he had been forced to leave his homeland and would probably never be able to return. The captain of the Oihonna gave it a little thought and then he offered Kangarn the dead deckhand’s job on condition that he was willing to pull his weight.
And Kangarn certainly pulled his weight.
He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty and he was a quick learner. He grew sea legs. He also learnt the language: most of the crew of the Oihonna were Fagerö islanders and within an astonishingly short time Kangarn had mastered their language almost perfectly. He was extremely gifted in that respect and he worked hard to smooth away the last vestiges of a foreign accent.
When it wasn’t his watch he liked to spend his time in the galley. The cook discovered that he was handy with both knife and ladle and that he had a way with spices.
Kangarn rarely went ashore with the rest of the crew when the Oihonna was in port. In the evening he was sometimes to be seen standing motionless on the poop deck, his arms resting on the rail as he stared down into the wake which the Oihonna’s propeller was whisking into a green and white foam. He would raise his head and look out at the horizon with the fading light reflected in his sad dark eyes.
Kangarn sailed with the Oihonna for ten years, so he saw a lot of water.
In Cuxhaven the ship’s cook had no choice but to leave the Oihonna in a hurry. The cook originated from a place up north where the people are known for their hot tempers and for the many skilled knife smiths. The tradition in that region is for the men to wear three knives in three sheaths, one on top of the other. They use the small knife for paring their nails, the middle knife for carving off a slice of smoked shoulder of mutton, and they keep the large knife for those occasions when they step out into the yard to settle matters between them. There was a Swede in one of the harbour bars in Cuxhaven who wanted to settle matters with the Oihonna cook. When brought before the magistrate the cook swore that the unfortunate Swede had suddenly become so tired of life that he’d asked the cook to draw his largest knife, on which the Swede had then hurled himself. Eleven times in all. Unfortunately the magistrate did not find the cook’s defence convincing and sentenced him to eleven years in gaol for homicide. In other words, one year for every hole in the Swede’s body.
Kangarn took over the galley and it was the unanimous opinion of the ship’s officers, crew and engineers that they had never eaten so well on board before.
A man who has spent a fair amount of time perambulating the swaying deck of a ship may sometimes be overcome by the urge to feel solid ground beneath his feet. Kangarn felt that urge. He was thirty years old and it struck him that he’d seen an awful lot of water and an infinite number of waves. He had made a thorough study of the horizon and his childhood longing for the sea had been well and truly satisfied.
And he had another reason for wanting to go ashore. There was a woman from the mainland who had signed on to the crew of the Oihonna as a stewardess. She was a short taciturn woman with dark hair and heavy eyes and Kangarn recognised something in her. Just like him, she was one of those people whose roots had been destroyed. She was a wanderer, a refugee.
She came to clean Kangarn’s cabin one morning, not knowing he was there. He was off duty and lying on his bunk dressed only in underpants. But she did not leave, she stood just inside the door looking at him with her sad eyes. Her eyes were a smoky blue-grey, like the sea at dusk in late summer.
Kangarn met her gaze. He saw that she, too, had recognised the sort of person he was.
His cabin did not get cleaned that morning.
And, for once, lunch was served late on the Oihonna.
She gave birth to twins. The boys were christened Olavi and Erkki – it was their mother who chose the names.
By this point Kangarn’s papers were in order and he could legally reside in his new homeland. It had all been organised by the Oihonna’s owner, Abrahamsson the Elder, back at the time when Kangarn signed on. Abrahamsson was not without influence in those days.
Kangarn thrived in his new country. He was an enterprising type with a head full of ideas, one of which was to open a tourist establishment in the archipelago to enable people to rent simple but comfortable accommodation for a week or two at a reasonable price. Unfortunately he lacked the most important resource necessary to turn that dream into reality – capital.
By a real stroke of chance, however, the lawyer administering the bankruptcy that followed the collapse of the Fagerö mining enterprise happened to be drinking in a restaurant in which Kangarn was also a guest. The said lawyer had been trying for some considerable time to dispose of the mine and its appurtenant buildings. His efforts had not been successful and he was sick of the whole business. “I would sell the whole bloody mine, workers’ housing and the whole damn lot for one mark just to be quit of the shit!” the intoxicated lawyer proclaimed to his drinking companions.
Kangarn, who was sitting at the next table eating baked macaroni, heard what the lawyer said.
He chewed his macaroni thoughtfully. He had heard of Fagerö mine and the deserted workers’ housing out there. And he thought: “Why not?”
The two of them are sitting in the American Bar, Kangarn and Abrahamsson. For obvious reasons Kangarn hasn’t told all this to Abrahamsson, just a small part of it. He is, as we have suggested, a secretive man. And much of this has been invented by the scribe anyway.
“I didn’t realise that my old dad had helped you with your citizenship papers. He never mentioned it,” Abrahamsson the Younger says.
“Your father was a good man,” Kangarn says.
“So you ended up here on Fagerö …”
“Well, the fact is that I had spent so many years sailing with Fagerö islanders that it felt more or less like coming home when I eventually came here.”
Abrahamsson nods but says nothing. He picks up his cigarette packet from the table but then drops it again. The cigarettes have made the back of his tongue feel stiff. For a moment he is tempted to ask Kangarn whether it’s really true that he bought Fagerö mine for one mark one wet evening in a pub. But he drops the idea before carrying it through. Why ruin a good story?
He says: “May I ask you something”’
“Ask away.”
“Do you ever want … feel the urge … to go back to where you came from?”
“I do,” Kangarn says. “Every single day.”
“Have you never been back? I mean, it would be easy enough to fly now.”
Kangarn shakes his head.
And when Abrahamsson is on his way back to Busö he thinks of the last thing Kangarn said: “My foster parents were refugees. I was a refugee. And being a refugee is something that will always be with me.”
Abrahamsson thought of responding with the words, “I don’t rightly know that I understand you.”
But he could tell that there was no need to; instead, he said nothing.
VII
The Search
Judit’s girl has gone missing.
She was last seen leaving the graveyard on Fagerö at around 18.00 on 25 June. She was alone and she was seen walking along Kyrkbrantsvägen in the direction of Storby.
The missing girl is 161 cm tall, has fair hair and blue eyes. She is described as shy and quiet. At the time of her disappearance she was wearing a white cotton dress with a blue pattern, a dark-blue windcheater and strap sandals. She was bareheaded and carrying a white plastic bag with the logo of Fagerö Store. Anyone who may have seen the missing girl is asked to contact the Fagerö police (telephone 351 040) or the emergency services.
Worried and concerned, we hurry away to get more detailed information about the disappearance. First stop: Söder Karlby and Janne the Post.
We try his flat first. We’d hoped to find him there busily steaming open letters, but no, his kitchen is empty, the draining board carefully wiped clean and there is no kettle boiling on the stove. Janne’s car is parked behind the house and the post office is closed. We try the door, but no luck. And there is no sign of anyone inside when we look in through the windows.
So where can Janne be?
Nothing for it but to carry on to the police station. We might reasonably expect them to have some information about the missing girl.
On our way to Storby we hear the whine of turbojet engines and the unmistakeable paf-paf-paf of rotor blades slicing through the air. We catch sight of the coastguard Super Puma helicopter above Ållskojen, hovering, so to speak, in a whirling circle of disturbed air like some enormous aluminium bumblebee with an orange nose, belly and tail. We read the words FRONTIER GUARD painted in white letters along its olive-green body and see the flashing lights on its nose and tail. Then the helicopter turns to one side, swings its tail rotor in our direction and moves out over the waters of Aspskärsfjärden with its nose pointing downwards like a dog following a scent.
Axelina is in her place behind the reception counter in the police station. A pair of knitting needles are dancing in her hands, making a soft click every so often when they strike one another. We have to clear our throats politely to get her to look up from her knitting and then, wrinkling her eyebrows, she gives us a bored look.
“Yes?”
“Any chance of seeing Inspector von Haartman?”
“No, he’s not here. Everyone is out.”
Her needles begin moving again, the right needle putting pale-blue wool on to the left – one stitch, two stitches, three stitches.
“Where is the inspector, then?”
“Out looking for the girl obviously.”
“Where are they looking?”
Axelina lowers her knitting and sighs.
“They were in Ållskojen this morning.” She pushes the stitches along the needle and looks at her work.
“I’m knitting a baby’s bonnet. My youngest daughter is expecting soon. Start of July, we estimate.”
“Do you know if they’ve found anything?”
“You’ll have to ask the inspector.”
We eventually catch up with Riggert von Haartman a couple of kilometres north of Storby. There are a dozen cars parked on the forestry road to Käringsund. This is a wooded area with a dense plantation of spruce in which the trees are already three or four metres tall. Inspector von Haartman is standing in front of the police Saab with a 1:20,000 national survey map spread out on the bonnet and he is issuing instructions to the twenty or so men clustered around him. Ludi is there, and constables Juslin and Grönholm, as are Abbor-Johan, the Fagerö fire chief, and some of his men. They are being assisted by Backas Isaksson, Birger from the store, Pettersson, Stig Hemnell, Brunström and many others.
Janne the Post is standing on the fringes of the group. He is wearing boots, tracksuit bottoms and an old-fashioned black skipper’s cap.
These are all steady, reliable men. They know the terrain in the northern part of Fagerö as well as they know their own backyards. If they can’t find the girl, well, we can be sure that she isn’t around here.
Beda Gustavsson PhD, Mrs Karin Alfthan, Rabbe and Ulrika are standing with their bikes on the other side of the road watching the preparations for the search. A blue styrofoam cool box is attached to Beda Gustavsson’s handlebars and Rabbe has a beach ball tied on his luggage rack. Vallo, Isaksson’s old harrier, sniffs around the ditch before cocking his leg on the back wheel of the police car. Irritated, Isaksson tugs at the dog’s lead.
The inspector looks up from his map and gestures with the two-way radio he has in his hand. He says, “OK, you all know what to do. Skogster will act as search-line organiser – just remember that everyone must stay within eyesight of each other. Understood?”
The men nod.
“Right, let’s get started.”
The inspector folds the map. The men form a line, each man a couple of metres from the next, along the break that marks the edge of the plantation. Ludi takes up a position closest to the road and checks that everyone is in place before giving a signal with his hand. The line of searchers moves forward and disappears into the dark-green curtain of spruce trees. There are sounds of snapping and creaking as the men force their way through the dense plantation. The crackle of a two-way radio is heard.
The gruff voices of the searchers shout the girl’s name: “Anna! Anna! Are you there?”
Sunlight shines on the parked cars, heating the metal surfaces and causing the air to shimmer. The smell of resin and turpentine from the spruce trees mixes with that of bog myrtle and moss and stagnant ditchwater.
Did you notice that Inspector Riggert von Haartman placed himself in the middle of the line of searchers? Just an ordinary man – one of the line, like the others.
He is not even wearing his uniform as he usually does – not the outer, visible one, anyway. He is wearing boots, tracksuit bottoms and a shooting vest with big pockets. Only his dark-blue cap with the word POLICE on the front marks him out as
having official status.
The girl has now been missing for more than forty-eight hours.
On the morning of Midsummer’s Day, Judit had gone to Fagerö to work the day shift at Solgård. The girl hadn’t wanted to go with her and stayed out on Aspskär. According to Judit the girl had been behaving normally that morning and had walked down to the landing stage with Judit as she always did. The girl had put her arms around Judit and rested her head on her shoulder for a moment. Judit hadn’t thought any more about it since the girl often did that. Judit smiled at her, stroked her cheek and promised to ring at half past twelve to see how she was. She considered mobile phones to be an unnecessary luxury but she had bought one anyway in order to be able to contact the girl when she was at work. No one else had the mobile number, so when it rang the girl knew it was Judit and wasn’t afraid to answer.
The girl sat out on the end of the landing stage and watched Judit’s boat disappear. Judit waved to her and the girl waved back. At half past twelve Judit telephoned as arranged, talked to the girl for a couple of minutes and promised to be home at around four o’clock at the latest.
But when she went home the girl was not down on the landing stage to meet her, nor was she in the house. Judit shouted for her. It was just like the day the girl had found the dead baby and Judit was seized by the same terror.
Then she saw that the dinghy with the outboard was missing and she heard herself whimper. She had a feeling she knew where the girl had gone.
She jumped back into the boat and headed back to Fagerö. In Tunnhamn she found the dinghy, hauled up on the shore behind Gotfrid’s boathouse, with its mooring rope around a boulder to make it secure. It must have been there when Judit left Tunnhamn after work and she had been in such a hurry to get home that she had failed to notice it.