Everything properly done. The names are written, placed in the basket, which the pastor then empties demonstrably, showing it to be empty. He and Doctor Gyllen put the ballots in two piles and count them. Eastern discipline is exemplary— of their fifteen votes, six are for Sörling, five for Ström, and four for Holm. The western ballots are less carefully thought out—seven for Fridolf, four for Brynolf, four for the organist. Sörling, Fridolf Söderström and Ström are elected. A second round of voting for Holm, Brynolf, and the organist. The easterners sense victory, since Holm will get fifteen votes and beat Brynolf and the organist, who will divide the votes on the western side. But the organist asks for a recess and whispers an urgent appeal to the westerners. There are visible protests, even anger, and the pastor’s young ears pick up Adele Bergman threatening to turn in a blank ballot. But when the votes are counted, the east side is silenced. Fifteen for Brynolf, zero for the organist.
Now the chairman’s vote will decide. The pastor would love to object that he is too young and no match for this clever gathering, but he does not dare to show the slightest uncertainty. Above all, he must not look at the organist to seek confirmation. If he does that, he’ll have the east side against him forever. He smiles, sunnily he hopes. “Here I need the help of King Solomon. We have two good candidates with practical experience. If we view the thing positively, we get a good outcome however we decide. On the negative side, a good candidate will be eliminated whichever way we vote.”
A whisper of goodwill is heard through the room, and Doctor Gyllen, who has been sitting straight and attentive, smiles a little. He goes on. “In this case, we should perhaps consider the balance between the villages, since both will provide labour.” He smiles. “And Brynolf really did receive massive support in the second vote. So I will award the chairman’s vote in favour of Brynolf Udd. Let me congratulate the elected members of the Health Care Centre’s building committee—Gustaf Sörling, Fridolf Söderström, Håkan Ström, and Brynolf Udd. They may now choose their own chairman among themselves.”
The assembly erupts into life and clamour. If there is anything they love it’s strategic voting. Even though the committee is going to select their own chairman, everyone gets involved body and soul in speculation. The organist, who arranged to get no votes for himself, is now heard speaking out for Sörling, which upsets several people on the west side. “Fridolf possesses enormous practical knowledge that he ought to be allowed to use,” the organist explains. “Sörling is a politician. Let him struggle with the paperwork. A world of accounts and disbursements that Fridolf won’t have to deal with. Sörling likes being chairman. And the east villages win a prestige victory, which we can turn to our credit at some later date.”
The pastor and Doctor Gyllen listen discreetly and exchange a quick glance. The pastor waits until he can catch the organist’s eye and nods imperceptibly. If it is possible for Doctor Gyllen to have roses in her cheeks, they appear as tiny pink suggestions above her cheekbones. The pastor himself is noticeably amused and interested. He turns to Doctor Gyllen and says out of the corner of his mouth, “We’ll vote for Sörling?” She nods. Done. Then they remember at the same time that the voting will be internal, limited to the newly elected building committee members, and they both burst out laughing. Quite suddenly they are as deeply engaged as the villagers, in a matter they have no say in. Still, everyone hopes that the members of the committee have listened to the arguments on both sides.
“Now then,” the pastor says. “Has the building committee reached a decision about a chairman?”
“Yes. Sörling has had three votes, Fridolf one. Sörling is elected.” There is a buzz in the gathering. Before heading out into the night and the darkness, Fridolf feels compelled to make a statement. “Sörling knows this stuff,” he begins generously, but it’s too painful, and he continues: “And if he’s occupied with his papers at least I can work in peace!” Everyone laughs, even Sörling chooses to laugh. Fridolf glances around triumphantly.
“Excellent,” the pastor says. “My friends, I think we’ve done good work today. We’ve studied the plans and been inspired by them. And we’ve elected a competent and effective building committee. At Doctor Gyllen’s suggestion, I propose that the steering committee should meet in the near future with the building committee and Mrs Bergman and make some decisions about the next steps to take. According to the bylaws, special meetings of the entire membership can be called when necessary, which I will bear in mind. So I herewith declare the business portion of this meeting concluded.”
In cities, everyone rushes for the doors when a meeting is over, but on the Örlands, people stay and talk. And today there is plenty to talk about—their own Health Care Centre and their own share of the construction work. Even Adele Bergman, who otherwise always winds up at the pastor’s side, has other things to think about, and for a while Petter and Doctor Gyllen stand by themselves at the speaker’s stand, gathering up their papers. Sörling is to have the plans, but for the moment they lie on the table like a bond between them. Over the course of the evening, they have developed an understanding, and now they both look at the plans and smile.
“Another experience richer,” the pastor says. “It all went rather well, don’t you think? I have to admit that even though I try to be neutral, I got really caught up. One of these days I’ll stand here conspiring with all the other politicians.”
“Yes,” says Doctor Gyllen. “It pleases me greatly to see freedom of speech used so well.” She speaks more fluently now. “And their tactics work well. They chose good people, and a good chairman. Sörling needs to be chairman, otherwise he’s difficult. As chairman, good.”
“You’ve come to know them well.”
“Yes. And I think they know us better than we think.”
The pastor gives an appreciative laugh. “Well put. I’m glad we’ve had a chance to talk. I know you’re very busy with work and studying, but we’ll be seeing each other quite often, I think. My wife will be coming to see you soon. We’re expecting an addition.” He looks a little embarrassed.
“Congratulations,” says Doctor Gyllen, neutral but not unfriendly. “I will be happy to see Mrs Kummel your wife.”
“Thank you,” the pastor says. “She’s convinced that it will all go well. I worry more.”
The doctor nods. “Many times it is the man who more needs the doctor’s help. It is reassuring that Mrs Kummel is not worried. She is young. The second child is easy.”
They both look down at the plans. “Just think if the Centre was already built!” the pastor says. “With a delivery room and everything. Now it will be at the parsonage, and that’s a long way for you to come.”
“I’m sure I’ll have ample warning,” the doctor says. But she too looks longingly at the plans. “It is difficult in many homes. Small spaces. Hygiene. But healthy surroundings, strong people. I believe you like them very much?”
“Yes,” says the pastor, drawing a deep breath to continue, but then Sörling walks up and he switches gears and sticks out his hand. “Congratulations. They made a good choice.”
Sörling is in good spirits. “Thank you, thank you. I think we can make this thing work.” He too looks down at the plans and smiles.
“We stand here staring at these drawings and can’t drag ourselves away,” the pastor says. “I’m looking forward to the next meeting when we take the first steps towards concrete action. Mrs Bergman can hardly control herself she’s so eager to start ordering. We’re all enthusiastic.”
“And getting such a big donation! But he knows us and wants us to do the work ourselves so we’ll feel the Health Care Centre is really ours.”
“He” is the Örlands’ famous son, chief physician and professor, member of the Nobel-committee-otherwise-he-would-have-won-the-prize-himself for his epoch-making work on heparin, which is used to treat blood clots and has saved innumerable lives. “Even for a man in his position, that’s a very large gift,” the pastor says. “I doubt there
are many people who remember their native places in such a grand manner.”
“He had help,” Sörling says, a little barb in his voice. “The teacher took him under her wing, went to Åbo and arranged for a scholarship to the lyceum. Then a scholarship to the University and medical school. He had help the whole way. Others have to make do without.”
One of the others is apparently Gustaf Sörling. The pastor chimes in. “Yes, my guess is that there’s more talent here than most places. And it’s true that all too few get the help they need. Maybe he feels the same way and wants to show his gratitude.”
Fridolf has heard the end of this conversation and walks over. “We’re from the same family by way of my mother’s father’s father,” he says. “I can tell you from the time he was a little kid you could see he was a different calibre. So there aren’t so many of us here who could have done what he’s done.” His wears his family tree well, and he gives Sörling a kindly look. “We’ve done well this evening. You can put on a suit and go to Mariehamn and talk to builders. You’re good at talking.”
“And let’s hope you’re good at building,” Sörling says. “Seeing you’ve been in America and built things for Rockefeller.”
“Yes indeed,” says Fridolf. “There have been no complaints about those buildings.”
The pastor and Doctor Gyllen gather up their papers and walk towards the western group, where Adele Bergman’s voice rings out more sonorously than the pastor has ever heard it, and where the organist can be heard in the background, still under pressure, explaining why he didn’t want to be elected. “These are new times, and at some point we have to start thinking more about the individuals than about the relative balance of power between the villages. As it is, we’ve got the most qualified people, and I’ve been spared yet another job.”
“Well said,” the pastor says as he joins the group. “And isn’t it fun to spend other people’s money for a change. This evening really warmed my heart.”
Politely, they turn to him and Doctor Gyllen, who remains a little in the background. No one really wants to go home, not even the pastor, who has the farthest to go. He had to ride his bicycle around the whole island in the pitch dark. Longingly he looks out the window. “If I had my own motorboat it would save me a lot of time.”
“Wait till it freezes over,” Sörling says. “You’ll see what a short trip you have. If it’s clear ice, you can skate. Otherwise a kicksled.”
“But I don’t have time to wait for that now. Brr, it’s really cold tonight. Now what did I do with my scarf?” He says good night to those around him and out to the whole room in general, wraps himself up as best he can and goes outside. It is November fifteenth, cloudy, only a couple of degrees above freezing, so dark that he has to stand still for a moment before he can see his bicycle where he leaned it against the corner of the building. The Petromax lamp shines brightly inside the school, but he can’t see a thing outdoors. He has to walk his bike through the gate so he won’t ride into it. Out on the road, he swings up and starts to pedal, and then the dynamo whirs into life, a scraping sound like a locust. Now he can see enough to stay on the road at least, and thank God everyone has taken in their cattle, so the gates are open and he doesn’t have to worry about riding into a cow lying in the road. When he picks up speed and pedals down the east village hills, his own dynamo also kicks in. It spreads warmth and builds a fire under his bass voice so that it starts to sing. He is a vehicle with a motor, central heating, and the radio’s evening concert. So equipped, he travels through the night, pleased to be alone, pleased at the thought of arriving home soon to warmth and light.
Chapter Eleven
FATHER LEONARD HAS A HARD TIME tearing himself away, stubborn as a child at bedtime, but now he’s coming. Brings his bicycle on the boat along with two big suitcases and a certain method behind the contents, which consist of a great deal of dirty laundry. Innocently he pours the entire load out on the floor. Petter is angry but Mona is triumphant—just what I expected! There is something about Leonard that dissolves a person in smiles. Mona and her father-in-law are absolute opposites, but she puts up with him, and he admires her, so it could be worse. At their very first meal, Petter feels transported back to the home he believed he had left behind him for all time. His father talks a blue streak, speaks with authority of things he knows nothing about and with astonishment about things that ought to be well-known to him. Meanwhile he eats methodically, and then comes the formulaic “This was good, Mother, I must say.” Then they all stand up, and father offers his help by fetching water, taking out the slop bucket, and carrying in wood. Mona thanks him kindly and says it was nice of him, because this way Petter can concentrate on his pastoral dissertation. And it’s true that the house seems homier when he sits in his study and can hear Papa in the distance commenting on the newspapers while Mona carries on with her work. Maybe it really will work out. He sincerely hopes so.
Leonard spends the night in the preacher’s guest room, where he will live until some actual travelling preacher appears. He feels better when he’s among other people. When he’s alone, his sighs echo through the room and his body tosses and turns on the groaning springs of his bed. Even if he’s out of sight, no one can forget that he is a martyr to the rheumatism that makes his jaws creak, and to a bad stomach and to pain between his shoulder blades. That first evening he walks from window to window and notes that you can’t see a single light from the parsonage, only the lighthouse, which blinks but bears witness to the presence of no living being.
That makes him think of America and the snowstorms on the prairie. He suggests that they rig a line from the parsonage to the cow barn so that Mona doesn’t get lost in a blizzard where a person can lose her sense of direction and location in no time flat. Many people have missed the corner of the house by a metre or so and frozen to death on the prairie, helplessly, only a hundred metres from home. Mona laughs heartily. She thinks it’s hilarious to imagine stepping from the parsonage on the Örlands straight out onto the North American prairie. Petter looks at them and thinks that maybe Mama once looked at Leonard the way Mona does now, disarmed and amused against her will. In an absence of filial love that he can’t help, Petter sighs much the way Mama did when she was older. But at least he offers him a roof over his head!
He must see to it that his father enlarges his circle of acquaintance quickly, for the little parsonage family is not big enough for his social needs. Petter lets it be known that his father, a schoolteacher, will be happy to jump in if any teacher needs a substitute, and the young people’s organizations are tipped off to the presence of a willing lecturer. He goes himself to visit Örlanders with connections to America. It is an effort to visit people here on the islands, but without complaint he rows across the sound with his bicycle in the boat, struggling along against a headwind. Then he sits at farms and talks about America, places and events that mean something only to those who’ve been there, who’ve frozen and starved and spoken English.
Winter sweeps in across the Örlands, piles up drifts but sweeps them away again before there’s time to shovel. The wind howls around the house, and rugs and curtains flutter. Sanna is dressed in several layers of wool and scratches her legs through her stockings and complains and cries. When she’s to sit on the potty, she says she’s wearing so many clothes she can’t find her bottom. There’s a fire in the kitchen stove all day long, and fires are lit in the tile stoves morning and evening. Sanna’s clothes are warmed on them before they can dress her. Keeping the house warm is an all-day job and they have father Leonard to thank for it. He’s good with fires. The firewood is one of the pastor’s payments in kind and has arrived on a cargo vessel. Many of his parishioners are not so fortunate and search the shores for driftwood all year long. The shortage of firewood is a big problem, and most of the farms heat only the main room and maybe one other. The parlour in the parsonage is between the dining room and the bedroom and has to be kept warm for the meetings and functions held there.
The study must also be heated, and the guest room.
When the dampers are closed and the tile stoves are warm, the air in the house is fresh and clean and tempers are calm. They have to teach Sanna to stay away from the hot metal parts, but she can sit with her back to the stove and enjoy the warmth, along with the cat. At least once a day, Sanna and Grandpa wrap themselves up in all their warmest clothes and take a walk on Church Isle. Grandpa talks about the ice freezing and his thoughts rush forward to the spring, when the ice will break up. “A first-class spectacle!” he assures Sanna. “Mother Nature demonstrating her grandeur and power.” He doesn’t think she understands what he’s saying, but how could she fail to understand talk about greatness and might!
She is not allowed to sit on Papa’s lap when he’s studying or when he’s instructing confirmation candidates. The latter turns out to be a great annual delight. The young people of the Örlands have a radiance that no shyness can disguise. They are just entering the most attractive period of their lives, but they are completely unaware of it. They feel ugly and hopeless as they sit there blazing with beauty, glowing with life. They’re embarrassed because they’re not polished and smooth but can’t disguise their charm as they beam and blush. They think everything they say is silly and stupid, although they’ve already demonstrated their inborn way with words—a dominant gene out here, thinks the pastor, who has read about Mendel and his peas.
Now he’s studying the catechism with them, and as he talks and instructs, the girls look at him to show that they’re paying attention. But otherwise they look down, for at least half of them are in love with him and will nearly perish of shyness if he speaks to them either before or after the class. Of course they like the pastor’s wife, who is nice and gives them hot tea when it’s cold out, and the little girl who opens the door a bit and stares at them though the crack is sweet, but imagine if the pastor was single! Imagine if he lived in a cold, untidy parsonage and dreamed of someone who could be his beloved and take care of him and love him for the rest of his life!
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