by Sten, Viveca
The previous summer their disagreement about it had led to a terrible fight down on the jetty. Henrik had lost control and hit her—right across the face, so hard she started bleeding.
She could never have imagined that her husband would hit her. Henrik begged and prayed for forgiveness, and Nora gritted her teeth and tried to grant it, but something in their relationship had been broken beyond repair.
For the sake of the boys, she’d repeated over and over again like a mantra; we have to stay together for the sake of the boys.
But when she really thought about it, maybe she’d stuck it out more for her own sake. Sometimes she’d wondered if she even liked Henrik anymore.
She had been afraid of being alone, she admitted to herself now in the afternoon mist.
The fear was deep-seated. Some of her friends had separated from their partners, and she had seen how they struggled. It wasn’t easy, dealing with all the school obligations, all the activities and logistics, when the kids were spending alternate weeks with each parent. It was also hard to make ends meet.
This wasn’t how she’d imagined her life turning out, but she’d been naïve to believe the marriage was salvageable. She should have walked away long ago: When Henrik revealed that he’d always prioritized his own career and his own leisure pursuits, and assumed she would contort herself to accommodate him. When his job took precedence, leaving her to raise the kids and run the household even though she also worked full time. When it became increasingly clear that their views and values were poles apart.
Instead she had adapted. She had become compliant and accommodating. Slowly they had slipped into a pattern where whatever Henrik wanted automatically came first. Why had she accepted it?
She gazed out at the white landscape. In a weeping birch in the next garden over, abandoned birds’ nests stood out against the sky like dark stones.
What kind of old-fashioned sense of duty had made her stay with Henrik for so long? When they’d met and become a couple, they were equals, two students who operated according to the same principles, and each dreamed of exciting careers. Fifteen years later she was living like a 1950s housewife, and with her own job on top of it.
Compliant, accommodating, and deceived.
Nora shook herself angrily. She had been such a fool. There was no other way to describe it. She sighed and leaned back in the wicker chair with her eyes closed. Even though she had slept all night, she was so tired she could barely move. Her limbs ached with exhaustion.
Somehow it would work out. Thousands of women before her had survived a divorce. Many, many children with separated parents were absolutely fine. One week in each home, with access to one parent at a time.
She couldn’t stop the tears, but she was determined to stand her ground. She was going to divorce Henrik.
Sandhamn 1911
She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Her blond hair cascaded down her back, and her waist was so tiny he could circle it with two hands.
Her name was Vendela, and she came from Möja.
Her parents lived on the southern part of the island, and she had five siblings. At eighteen she was five years younger than him, and her eyes were the color of the June sky at twilight.
They had met at Dansberget, behind the Royal Swedish Yacht Club’s lavish clubhouse where the rocks were lovely and smooth—perfect for dancing to the sounds of Arne Karlsson’s fiddle and Bertil Söderman’s accordion. Korsö Tower rose up diagonally opposite, and a beautiful schooner lay at anchor down below. The evening sun was shining. Earlier in the day they had raised the impressive midsummer pole, decorated with flowers and birch leaves. Now it stood there tall and proud, a sign that summer was here at long last.
Groups of excited young people were standing around. They had come from Runmarö, Harö, and Möja. The fact that it would take several hours to row back home didn’t bother them at all; that was just the way things were if you wanted to join in on the festivities on another island. Besides, the dawn usually brought a gentle breeze, so a sail could be deployed.
Gottfrid was wearing his best coat, which looked good on him even though it had belonged to his late father. His mother had carefully cleaned and pressed it for the dance. She had gotten it out a week earlier, her hands lingering over the task.
Gottfrid was perspiring in the sunshine, but he had no intention of undoing a single button. Later, perhaps, when he’d had a couple of drinks and gotten even sweatier dancing the mazurka and the hambo.
On the promenade on his way to Dansberget he had passed a number of tourists strolling along by the water. The elegant ladies wore pale, floaty summer dresses and protected themselves from the sun with colorful parasols. The gentlemen sported straw hats and blazers, in spite of the heat.
He had lowered his eyes and hurried by. His mother rented out rooms, but he was still unsure of himself whenever he had any dealings with visitors from Stockholm. They pronounced words differently, their voices were strident, and they gawped at the boats anchored up in the harbor.
They were everywhere this time of year: drinking coffee in Anna Löfgren’s cake shop or Lilly Boman’s café, staying at the Tourist Hotel or the Sands. In the evenings they settled down for dinner at beautifully laid tables at the Yacht Club or the Solhem Restaurant. The gentlemen took a schnapps or two and called each other “my dearest friend.” The ladies smiled behind their fans and sipped at their drinks, laughing delightedly at their husbands’ witticisms.
The huge trunks that were unloaded at the steamboat jetty shocked the islanders. How could anyone own so much, and pack it all up just for a few months in the archipelago? Everything Gottfrid and his mother possessed wouldn’t fill even one of those trunks.
But he was grateful for the income the visitors brought with them.
Since his father passed away on a cold January night eleven years ago, the family’s situation had improved. His mother received a widow’s pension; it was a modest sum, but it came every month, which meant that Gottfrid could return to school. He still went fishing, but not at the expense of his studies. The money he earned was a welcome addition rather than essential to the family’s survival.
The year he was confirmed, he got a job at the Royal Customs Office as an errand boy. The supervisor, an older man by the name of Ossian Ekbohrn, had known his father, and he took pity on the boy. He arranged for Gottfrid to take up his post at the yellow-plastered, eighteenth-century building, which stood majestically by the inlet to the harbor.
Gottfrid worked hard, and after a few years, he was promoted to customs assistant and given a uniform. The first time he wore it home, his mother burst into tears.
“My boy,” she’d sobbed, as he stood there in the doorway, simultaneously proud and embarrassed.
The wages he received were a great relief. They could finally start fixing up the house, which had fallen into disrepair during his father’s illness. However, his mother was determined to save as much as possible. It would soon be time for him to find a girl, and he would need financial stability. Eventually, at his urging, she agreed to buy herself a new silk shawl and a black, ready-made skirt. She even allowed him to treat her to dinner once at the widow Wass’s boarding house to celebrate his success.
But she still got down on her knees to scrub the floor tiles with sand and water until they were smooth and white, and she wouldn’t hear of sending the laundry to one of the village washerwomen. She hauled water from the pump as she had always done, and waved him away when he came home with something sweet from the cake store to cheer her up.
“Go on, ask her.”
Adolf Wolin, Gottfrid’s best friend, gave him a push.
“You’ve been staring at her half the night. Just ask if she’d like to dance!”
Gottfrid pushed back his cap, then risked a glance at the lovely Vendela, who was standing with a group of girls from Möja, laughing and chatting. She might have been looking back at him, but it was hard to tell, because her fair hair fell over her f
orehead, hiding her eyes. Her long skirt came down to her ankles, and her white blouse was embroidered in shades of red and yellow. He could just see her feet beneath her skirt; she was wearing pretty dancing shoes.
Now he was sure she was giving him a shy glance in return, but she immediately looked away. He recognized several of her friends from other dances in the archipelago, and he saw one of them give Vendela a nudge.
Adolf, tired of his indecision, had gone off to find a partner of his own. Gottfrid took a deep breath, walked across to the group, and stopped in front of Vendela. Then all the words left his head and there he stood, unable to make a sound. The longer it went on, the redder his face got. What an idiot!
Vendela raised her eyebrows, and behind his back, he heard someone giggle. At last he managed to choke out the all-important question. Vendela smiled, and her smile was so open, so unaffected and spontaneous, that he almost burst into tears.
“I’d love to dance with you,” she said softly, tucking her hand under his arm.
CHAPTER 7
“Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred. Coming, ready or not!”
Adam Linde straightened up and looked around. He was in the forest in the center of the island, some distance beyond Sandhamn’s chapel. He’d been playing hide-and-seek with Simon, Fabian, and Fabian’s older sisters Elsa and Agnes for quite some time.
He walked a little ways without spotting anything. It was a chilly day—below freezing, with a thick layer of snow covering the ground. The plow had cleared the narrow roads in the village, but out here you just had to push through as best you could. The snow muffled every sound; it was as if the island were swaddled in a wool blanket.
But local children knew how to dress warmly, and having fun made them forget the cold. They were completely focused on the game, finding increasingly daring and inventive hiding spots. In the course of the game they had left the village and moved deep into the forest. It was more exciting to lurk behind trees and rocks than around the corner of some building.
Adam stopped and stood perfectly still. His cheeks were red, but the rest of his narrow face was winter pale. With his dark-green wool hat and khaki-colored coat, he blended into the surrounding landscape. From a distance he was barely visible in the fading afternoon light.
It was unnaturally quiet among the trees; the only sound came from the tops of the tall conifers swaying gently above his head, and from the sea far out to the east, where the ice had not yet formed.
He should have found the others by now, especially Simon and Fabian. They were just kids; they couldn’t usually manage to stay hidden this long. Adam took a few more steps. His sturdy winter boots sank into the snow, leaving deep footprints. As he lifted his foot it made a faint smacking noise.
He gazed around once more as a feeling of unease crept over him. The forest seemed infinite, even though he knew perfectly well that it ended on the shore on the other side. He couldn’t see anything from where he was standing; he was totally alone.
And it was so quiet. Much too quiet.
Adam shook his head at his silliness. He would be twelve in April. He wasn’t a baby, like Simon. But, as he walked on into the forest, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
CHAPTER 8
Nora had decided to remove all traces of Henrik from her place on Sandhamn. She stuffed every item of clothing she could find into a black garbage bag: old jeans he’d saved for painting the boat in, faded polo shirts that were good enough for gutting fish. The much-loved but worn-out deck shoes at the back of the closet went the same way.
Then she attacked the rest of the house. With tears burning behind her eyelids she threw away his books, the cheap reading glasses from the gas station, the blue terry-cloth robe he always wore. She even rolled up his astronomically expensive Helly Hansen sailing kit and pushed it into the bag.
Overcome by pure rage she flung open the pantry and yanked out his morning cereal, the one neither she nor the boys liked. Even the almost-new life jacket, which could easily be used by someone else, had to go.
She didn’t pause until she reached the photograph in the hallway. The picture, which had been taken a few years earlier, showed the whole family on the shore. She and Henrik were sitting with the boys between them, laughing into the evening sun. The warm light revealed that it was the height of summer, and there was no mistaking the happiness in their suntanned faces. Little Simon was naked and golden brown, and Adam was smiling up at his father, who had one arm around his shoulders.
It was a wonderful photograph.
Nora hesitated. If she took it down, the boys might start asking questions, and she didn’t have the strength to explain the situation right now. She turned away with a sigh.
A short while later she was finished. It was as if Henrik Linde had never lived in this house. Nora knotted the top of the garbage bag and pulled on a thick jacket. The bag was heavy, and she had to throw it over her shoulder to manage the weight.
She trudged down the narrow streets to the harbor, a grim expression on her face. The plow had done its job, but there was still plenty of snow. Sweat trickled down her back as she stopped for a moment to catch her breath.
The dump was at the far end of the harbor, next to the Falu-red buildings lining the promenade. Nora passed the row of boats that had been lifted out of the water for the winter and covered with tarpaulins; they looked a little desolate, as if waiting for the season to begin again. She followed the narrow path leading to the various dumpsters, all clearly marked: glass, batteries, household waste. She opened the metal flap, and after a brief hesitation she pushed the bag into the hole. It was a little tricky, because the bag was slightly too big for the opening, but she kept trying, and eventually it went in. She slammed the flap shut.
“Pre-spring cleaning?”
Nora gave a start and turned around. Pelle Forsberg was standing a few yards away with a curious expression on his face. Nora felt caught out; she had no desire to reveal what she had just disposed of. Glancing guiltily at the container, she tried to come up with a sensible answer.
“I just needed to get rid of a few things,” she said, edging away.
“How are you feeling today?”
It was kind of him to ask, but Nora wasn’t in the mood to chat. She just wanted to go home and cry, but good manners won the day.
“Better, thank you. Nice of you to ask.”
She smiled, but avoided saying anything that might prolong the encounter. “I need to get home to the kids.”
Pelle stepped aside to let her pass. He was holding a knotted Konsum market bag in one hand.
“You’re going through a tough time. Sometimes you’re angry, sometimes sad. One minute you want everything to go back to normal, the next you hate your ex with a passion.”
Nora realized he knew what he was talking about. She longed for Henrik at the same time that she loathed him.
“Yeah. It’s not easy.”
“Had you been together long?”
“We got married thirteen years ago.” The unlucky number made her grimace. “But we’ve been together longer than that.”
“Did you go to college together?”
She nodded. “Kind of. I was studying law and he was a medical student. We met in a bar when I was celebrating after my exams.”
She remembered the way Henrik had looked back then. He had been a friend of one of her classmates; a whole gang of them had gone out. He had offered to buy her a drink, and they’d danced together half the night. Nora had been interested right from the start, but she didn’t expect the attraction to be mutual. Henrik seemed like the kind of guy who could afford to be choosy.
When he got in touch the very next day, she’d been surprised and pleased. She said yes right away when he suggested meeting up at a popular café.
Tears pricked at her eyes yet again; Nora blinked them back. Pelle looked at her sympathetically.
“I know exactly what you’re going through. W
e’d been together for ten years. Met right here on the island, in the Divers Bar. I spilled beer on her, and we started chatting.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Breaking up is hard to do.”
“It is.”
“Was he unfaithful?” He sighed and put down the bag. “I made a stupid mistake at a work party, and that was the end of that. We’d been arguing for a while beforehand, of course. No doubt you two were having problems?”
Nora shifted uncomfortably; this was getting much too personal. No doubt Pelle meant well, but she really didn’t want to stand next to a garbage dump discussing her marriage with a man she hardly knew.
“I really do have to go,” she said with an apologetic smile.
“Drop by for coffee if you want to talk. Like I said, I’m here all week. My wife has our little girl; they’re skiing in Sälen.”
“Thanks,” Nora mumbled.
“I did tell you where I live, right? It’s one of the houses by the tennis courts—the green one with white window frames and a brown fence.”
“Mmm.” She gave a quick nod of thanks and slipped past him.
All done. Henrik’s possessions lay in the bottom of a dumpster, along with all the other garbage.
It felt good. Really good.
The house on Sandhamn was no longer his home. He wasn’t welcome here.
Sandhamn 1912
They were to be married on Möja on Midsummer’s Day—exactly one year after they’d first met. He sailed across to the island a few days in advance; his mother and the rest of the family would arrive the evening before the wedding.
Vendela’s parents had a lovely homestead, and a wedding was an occasion for the whole village to celebrate. All the preparations made Gottfrid dizzy. Relatives and friends had come from far and wide, the pantry was crammed with food, and he could smell detergent wherever he went; the place had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life.
Midsummer’s Day dawned bright and clear. The church had been adorned with leaves, and a special archway had been erected outside for the couple to pass through. Vendela’s sisters had woven garlands of flowers to decorate the choir, and the aisle was strewn with petals.