by Lars Sund
The fire broke out in the early hours of the morning, several hours after the American Bar closed. Fortunately the fire alarm woke Kangarn and until the fire brigade arrived he and his boys fought the fire with foam extinguishers and prevented the place being completely gutted. In spite of that, however, smoke and water damage means that major renovation work is necessary before Kangarn can open the bar again.
Police technicians have not excluded the possibility of arson, but no one has yet been arrested on suspicion.
The islanders of Fagerö are unanimous in their view that no one from here could be the guilty party.
One evening in autumn a team of workmen with lorries and a mechanical digger arrive at the cemetery at Tjörkbrant’n. They set up floodlights and the driver of the digger starts shifting earth with his shovel. The work proceeds swiftly because the soil is still loose. The final covering is shovelled away by hand. Men in overalls and boots then climb down into the graves and attach chains to the coffins, which are lifted out by the hydraulic cranes on the lorries.
Just for a moment the earth-covered coffins hang in the cold light of the lamps and sway on their chains until the crane driver swings them in over the load surface of the lorry and carefully lowers them.
Janne the Post drives his round from Söder Karlby to Storby every day. The post has to be delivered irrespective of what’s going on in the world. The metal lids clunk shut behind him as he deftly drops letters and newspapers into the mailboxes all the way along Ållskogsvägen, Lassfolsvägen, Kyrkvägen and Tunnhamnsvägen. He is punctual and letters and papers never end up in the wrong box. He drives on the wrong side of the road, of course, so that he can reach the boxes from the driver’s seat of his orange Lada, but everyone on Fagerö knows that he does that and, so far anyway, Janne hasn’t been involved in an accident.
Mikaela is on the ferry Arkipelag to Örsund. There are not that many people in the cafeteria on the upper deck at this time of year. The waters of Norrfjärden are unsettled today and the Arkipelag is pitching in the choppy sea. Mikaela is on her way to the central hospital to visit her father. She pours herself a mug of coffee at the cafeteria counter, picks up a plate and stretches to take a Danish pastry but stops herself. Sighing she puts down the plate and the cake tongs and pays for her coffee. She puts two sweeteners in her coffee and tries not to think how lovely it feels to sink your teeth into a fresh Danish and taste how sweet the cream in the middle can be.
Fride is going round with a leaf blower outside the community centre. Dead yellow birch leaves whirl away in front of the snout of the blower. The motor whines as Fride blows the leaves into small piles which he’ll deal with in a moment. Skogster drives past in the milk tanker and Fride raises his arm in greeting. Skogster returns his greeting.
Elna Isaksson, proprietor of the South-west Archipelago Bookkeeping Agency, takes her eyes from the page of calculations on the computer screen, pushes her glasses up on her forehead and massages the base of her nose with her thumb and index finger. She sits like that for a while, staring out of the window with her glasses up on her forehead, a thin woman with a narrow face and grey hair, dressed in a trouser suit. The noise of a leaf blower can be heard from outside. She remembers she has forgotten to fetch the post – Janne went past a long time ago. She remembers she must ring Mikaela that evening and find out how her dad is. Mikaela has told her he has been given chemotherapy.
That’s life, Elna thinks. That’s the way things are going.
She turns back to the computer screen. She wants to finish Pettersson’s accounts before allowing herself an afternoon cup of coffee.
On the third Saturday in September over at Klås the customary autumn party is being held. Beda Gustavsson’s birthday is being celebrated at the same time. It’s her forty-eighth. Torches have been lighted along the shoreline and along the quay and the flames are reflected in the black water. The whole house is lit up. They eat a buffet out on the veranda, and they drink and sing drinking songs. All very jolly. The voices and the laughter carry far in the quiet warm autumn evening.
Copyright
Original Swedish text first published in 2007 as En lycklig liten ö © Lars Sund
Translation copyright © Vagabond Voices Publishing Ltd. April 2016
First published on 20 April 2016 by
Vagabond Voices Publishing Ltd.,
Glasgow,
Scotland.
Epub ISBN: 978–1–908251–75–6
Mobi ISBN: 978–1–908251–76–3
The author’s right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.
Printed and bound in Poland
Cover design by Mark Mechan
Typeset by Park Productions
The publisher acknowledges subsidy towards this publication from Creative Scotland
Vagabond Voices gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of FILI – the Finnish Literature exchange
For further information on Vagabond Voices, see the website, www.vagabondvoices.co.uk