by Lars Sund
The weather is always a good starting point for conversation – what an amazing summer we’re having, long may it last, and so on. Elna then comments that Beda is out Nordic walking with poles and that she is thinking of buying a pair – regular Nordic walking is supposed to be good for the heart, isn’t it … doesn’t put too much stress on the joints, does it … reckoned to be good exercise for those past their prime – as she herself is.
Elna has the knack of worming interesting news and worthwhile information out of people, which she then likes to pass on. She’s a long-term and diligent student of the branch of communication studies known by some people as gossip, and she has had good teachers. She knows that there is rarely much point in making a cast and reeling it straight back in. It pays to groundbait the fishing waters in advance to stir up some interest below the surface, and then the catch can be very rewarding indeed.
Today, however, Beda Gustavsson is not inclined to allow herself to be drawn into everyday chit-chat about wind, weather and the health-giving effects of Nordic walking. Firmly but politely she cuts short Elna’s chatter.
“I’m glad I bumped into you, Elna. Just one moment …”
Holding both poles in one hand she shrugs off her rucksack and produces a sheet of A4 paper from it. She passes it to Elna.
“There you are,” she says. “We would be pleased if as many of the permanent residents as possible would be interested in joining in.”
Elna takes the sheet, reads the heading and looks at Beda Gustavsson.
“Would you be kind enough to spread this around to as many people as possible? I’m quite sure you’ll be able to manage that,” Beda says, and it’s not until later that Elna realises there had been a caustic edge to her voice. “I must be getting on now. This all came about in a bit of a hurry.”
Beda takes her rucksack and walking poles and goes into the Eider Café. There will soon be one of her flyers taped on the door at eye level.
As for Elna, she rereads the flyer more carefully than before. She has placed the pastries she bought in the Eider on the roof of her car. She raises her eyebrows, furrows her brow and wonders why in all the world do they want to call a meeting just now? Now, when everything seems to be over, when no more bodies have been washed ashore for almost a fortnight. Now, when the awful tent in Tunnhamn has been packed away and the refrigerated units sent back to the mainland. Why now?
But her tongue is nevertheless itching to pass on the news to as many people as possible as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately she has left her mobile in the office. She gets in the car quickly and starts the engine.
As she passes the community centre and swings into Klombergsvägen, Fride, who happens to be outside the fire station, is surprised to see a brown paper bag slide off the roof of the car. Sadly, the bag ends up under one of the rear wheels and the almond tarts and sand cookies are ground to crumbs, so it’s only the tree sparrows which will have any joy from Elna’s pastries.
Within the next couple of hours the following information has been passed on to Mikaela at Olars, Disa Holmström, Valdine at Lemlot – Elna’s sister-in-law – and other close friends: Fagerö residents and summer visitors are being summoned to a protest meeting in Odinsborg, the premises of the Fagerö Youth Club in Storby, at 18.00 this coming Thursday.
“What sort of protest meeting?” Mikaela wonders on the telephone. She sounds a little abrupt, interrupts herself and says, “Sara, wait a moment, can’t you see that Mummy is talking on the phone?” Then speaking to Elna again she says, “Sorry about that. What was it you said again?”
“The flyer that Beda gave me says that there is ‘widespread disquiet that the people of Fagerö have had to deal with a large number of unidentifiable corpses that have been washed up during the early summer. This is a small island community and the situation has subjected it to considerable stress.’ Then it goes on to say that ‘there are serious questions to be answered about the response of both national and local government. The people of Fagerö are extremely concerned about what would happen if significant numbers of bodies come ashore in the future – a scenario which unfortunately cannot be excluded.’”
“That’s all very well, but what can we do about it?”
“I suppose that’s what they intend to discuss at the meeting.”
“Do you know who came up with this idea?”
Elna lowers her voice and brings the telephone closer to her mouth.
“Apparently they are calling themselves People for Fagerö.”
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“Well, I can tell you this much,” Elna says. “The flyer is signed by Beda Gustavsson PhD and Levi Pettersson, Tourist Executive, and …,” at this point Elna lowers her voice even more, “Karl-Erik Abrahamsson, Shipowner.”
“Heavens!” Mikaela breathes into the mouthpiece. “Abrahamsson! Now that’s something.”
Elna hears a crash and a yell at the other end of the line.
“Sara! What are you doing?” Mikaela shouts. “Elna, I’ll have to go. Sara is being completely beyond …”
Elna stands there with the telephone in her hand. She ought to feel a sense of satisfaction. That’s what she usually feels after passing on a piece of news that makes people catch their breath audibly. But that good feeling, her special private sense of satisfaction, refuses to come this time.
She tries to think positive: thank the Lord she’s no longer stuck with small children. And the day after tomorrow she’ll be closing the office and taking three weeks’ holiday.
But it doesn’t help and she is left with a strangely heavy feeling in her breast. It won’t go away.
Authorised Entry Only
Both before the event and later, the meeting in Fagerö Youth Club caused a good deal of talk. There were differences of opinion and things were said that were harsher and sharper than intended. The meeting left long-lasting scars.
More’s the pity, then, that the media was excluded, neither newspapers nor radio and TV being allowed in.
“The presence of reporters would only lead to misunderstandings. People are more prepared to express themselves freely if they know that no one is recording them or taking notes,” Beda Gustavsson explained.
Nor were any minutes taken. The only written documentation to emerge from the meeting was a brief statement sent to the local newspapers and radio when it was all over.
So we have to rely on second-hand sources such as hearsay and reconstruction, and on interviews with people who were present.
“Is that you again?” Janne the Post sighs. “What do you want this time?”
“Can you tell us anything about last Thursday’s meeting?”
“I wasn’t there,” Janne answers and turns his back on us. He opens the fridge, takes out a couple of smoked flounders in a plastic bag, a tub of crème fraiche and a lemon. New potatoes are already boiling in a saucepan on the stove.
“That’s not true. There are several people who say you took part in the meeting.”
Janne shrugs his shoulders.
“OK, if you insist I was there then I was there.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing very special. People talked.”
“For almost three and a half hours. Things got very heated, or so we’ve heard.”
Janne says nothing. He takes a small plastic tub from the kitchen cabinet and a spoon from the drawer, opens the crème fraiche, pours a couple of spoonfuls into the tub and stirs it.
“Just recently we’ve had a feeling that you’re avoiding us.”
Janne seasons his crème fraiche with salt, a couple of turns of the pepper mill and a generous sprinkling of dill. He sticks the handle of the spoon into the mixture and licks it to taste, then he looks thoughtfully along the shelf of spices above the fridge.
“Might be worth trying a pinch of curry … might be good,” he mutters.
“Janne, why won’t you help us?”
“Listen to me now,�
� he says, the kitchen knife raised to cut the lemon, “I have helped you, haven’t I? I opened the post and read it illegally, just as you told me to! I risk prosecution, I could lose my job, I could end up in gaol! All for your sake!”
“Come on, Janne, it wasn’t like that at all.”
“And what did I get in return? Nothing, not a thing! And now you’re treating me like a servant and expecting me to jump to it the moment you snap your fingers. You describe me as a laughable little gnome who’s afraid of the sea. You even claim that I drive a car without a licence to do so.”
“We’ve never said any such thing! Unfortunately, though, it happens to be true!”
“Right, then! That’s the end of it! You’ll get no more from Janne the Post. I’ve done my bit. Anyway, this bloody story of yours will soon be finished, thank God for that.”
Clenching the handle of the knife in his fist and breathing hard, he turns his back on us.
“I do regret going to that meeting. Thank heavens Stig went with me. Then Judit stood up and spoke.”
Mikaela is down on her haunches weeding the strawberry bed. She is a plump young woman wearing bikini bottoms and a blue T-shirt with a picture of the volcano Teide and the word Tenerife printed across the front. Her thighs are heavily built and the elastic of her pants is cutting in around the hips and making weals in her skin.
“Of course we’ve had our quarrels and disagreements on Fagerö before, but I never thought it would go this far,” she says. “It’s not as if we had any choice about taking these foreigners. But it’s obvious it would have been better if they hadn’t come. Obviously.”
“The most important thing is that all our decisions are taken in a properly democratic manner,” K-D Mattsson says. He is sitting in the kitchen at Västergrannas with a sea of papers spread out on the table in front of him, along with a couple of black bookkeeping binders. “Proper democratic decisions ought to be well prepared and solidly anchored in the electorate. As politicians we have a duty to listen to the voice of the people and to act accordingly. That is the very basis of democracy and we should not deviate from it.”
He sighs and scratches his head. He is unshaven and dressed in a check shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He runs his eyes over the papers on the table and gets lost among the accounts, invoices, delivery notes, reminders, balance sheets and all the rest, the import and function of which mean nothing to us.
“I just don’t know how I’m going to sort this out,” he sighs. “I shouldn’t have hidden the situation from Saga. Maybe she’d have stayed with me if I’d told her.”
“It’s essential to talk about these things however unpleasant they may be,” Beda Gustavsson states. “Things should have been out in the open from day one. The issues needed to be discussed! As things are, many of the people on Fagerö have suffered. Of course I understand that these poor drowned people are victims and they have my full sympathy. It’s self-evident we should act in a spirit of common humanity and try to do what we can for the poor souls. But we also have to ask ourselves how much we can reasonably be expected to give. Where do we draw the line?”
According to usually well-informed sources these are the questions Beda Gustavsson raised from the platform in her introductory remarks to the meeting held in the hall of the youth club. Pettersson had proposed that she should be the one to kick off. The hall was full, although accounts differ as to how many people actually participated – some say fifty, others two hundred. The latter estimate seems over the top since there’s no way two hundred people could fit into the hall. Anyway, those present consisted of a mixture of Fagerö residents and summer visitors, the latter consisting mainly of those who owned or rented property on Fagerö.
After a short introductory statement Beda Gustavsson threw the meeting open.
A hesitant silence followed. People looked at one another, shifting uneasily in their seats. Chair backs creaked. Someone coughed, possibly clearing their throat. It’s not easy to be the first person to raise a hand, stand up and see all the faces turning your way. But someone did so, asked for the floor, stood up, took a breath, ordered his or her thoughts, marshalling them until they were on the right track, like wagons in a goods yard, so to speak.
It hasn’t been possible to ascertain who was the first to speak and thereby overcome the initial reluctance. But, as the saying goes, the ice was broken and discussion could begin.
As we mentioned earlier, the meeting lasted for over three hours. The longer the meeting lasted, the more people felt the need to voice their opinions.
Disconnected bits and pieces echoed in the memories of participants long after the conclusion of the meeting.
“Are we really going to allow the dead to decide things for those of us who are alive?” Pettersson is supposed to have said at the start of the meeting.
“Aren’t we all human beings? Don’t we all have the same value as fellow beings? Doesn’t everyone have the right to a decent burial? Are we supposed to leave them on the rocks on the shore?” Those were the views of Ingvald Sommarström, the fisherman from Lemlot.
“But why do they have to be buried on our island? Why couldn’t they have been sent home? Everyone wants to lie in their native soil when they die, not among strangers.” That was a summer visitor, a woman from the mainland whose name was reported to be Manninen, or something of that sort.
“There are a number of different issues involved here, aren’t there?” Birger said. “How is all the publicity caused by this business going to affect on our commercial life? A lot of the attention has undoubtedly been of a negative kind and it’s not hard to imagine Fagerö being associated with death – becoming Death Island, so to speak. People may be reluctant to eat fish caught around here because they think of our waters as full of corpses. Tourists may not want to come here when they hear about the mass graves in our cemetery. I mean … well, I do wonder.”
“Have you noticed business falling off in your store then, Birger?” someone in the hall asked.
“What’s the district council done about it? Or the regional council? The authorities could have intervened more forcefully, don’t you think? As it was, it was left to volunteers to deal with all the bodies. It must have been extremely stressful.” We cannot be certain who said this.
“The Red Cross volunteers along with those from the church made an enormous contribution. And it deserves to be recognised. Who’s going to thank them?” someone else said.
“Yes, and what’s going to be the impact on the local budget? And on the church tax? Someone has to pay, that’s for sure, but who?” a third voice asked.
Then K-D Mattsson stood up and began to make a speech.
“Dear friends! This has been a trying time for all of us. There is not one of us who has not been affected by what has occurred. I have no doubt that many of us have suffered distress. When we buried the first of the dead none of us could have foreseen what was to follow. We have struggled to live as normally as possible, struggled to maintain the security and normality that we all wish to share. I can understand why some of you are critical of the district council and feel that the authorities should have stepped in more vigorously and at an earlier stage. That may be so, and if that is the case the proper forum for such criticism is a meeting of the council. We must adhere to proper democratic processes. As I understand it, this meeting has no mandate to take decisions of any kind at all. It is, of course, right that these issues should be aired, but I would exhort you to reflect carefully: there is nothing to be gained from us arguing about things that are already facts …”
And K-D droned on, forgetful – as always – of his personal troubles once he was given the opportunity to mould words to his own will. But before he had reached his usual “Over and out!” he was interrupted by Axmar, who roared at him from where he was standing over by the door: “Enough talking! We should have shipped those corpses out immediately. Send them back where they came from!”
“Keep your mouth shut, Axmar!” Fride s
aid. “You’re pissed as usual!”
He tried to pull his brother out through the door, but Axmar resisted, swearing loudly.
So the meeting proceeded and the air in the hall, which had high narrow windows, a small stage and a marble memorial on the wall to the young men of Fagerö who had fallen in the war, grew hot and thick. As the oxygen level fell everyone took deep breaths to get sufficient air into their lungs. They all began to feel strangely light-headed and the thoughts in their mental marshalling yards were derailed.
Thinking about it afterwards some people took the view that the meeting would have ended differently had it not been for exhaustion and a shortage of oxygen.
There are others who think that is irrelevant. “We are ordinary respectable people,” they say. “All we are doing is protecting our homes. Is that something to be ashamed of?”
Inger – she’s married to Klas-Åke Dahlström at Grannas – was the first to bring up the topic of the graveyard.
There was a look of astonishment even on her husband’s face when she rose and asked to speak. The point is that everyone on Fagerö knows her to be hopelessly shy, so it must have taken a great effort of will on her part to overcome her shyness, get to her feet and see all the faces in the hall turn her way. Perhaps it was the thought of her husband’s Aunt Celia, who had been taken to hospital on the mainland. It was more than likely it wouldn’t be too long before they would be organising her funeral.
“It’s like this … I’ve been thinking about the graveyard at Tjörkbrant’n,” she began in a voice as small and tremulous as droplets of water on a windowpane.