by Sten, Viveca
“And what do you do?” she said gently.
“This and that. I’ve helped out at the day care center, but it’s not open at the moment; too few children on the island. And then I worked as a cleaner at the Sailors Hotel, but since Sebastian died I haven’t been able to do much. I’ve been on disability most of the time, as I am now.”
“He was your only child.”
Ingrid nodded, and her eyes filled with warmth.
“We couldn’t have any more. I was thirty-seven when Sebastian was born.”
So she wasn’t even fifty-seven yet, Margit thought. She looked ten years older.
“It was a difficult birth,” Ingrid went on. “He almost died; he was a breech baby. It was a miracle he survived.”
A tear ran down her cheek. “And then he died anyway.”
Margit gave the other woman a couple of minutes to compose herself, then she made one final attempt.
“Can I ask you whether Sebastian and his friends ever showed an interest in Norse mythology, or neo-paganism?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“No ancient rituals, sacrificial offerings, that kind of thing?”
Ingrid looked totally bewildered. “Why are you asking such strange questions about my son?” Red patches had appeared on her cheeks.
Margit shuffled uncomfortably. The conversation wasn’t going the way she had hoped; in fact, the woman opposite her seemed to be getting more and more agitated.
“Isn’t it bad enough that he’s dead? Killed by the police, you know! Why can’t you leave us in peace?”
Margit let the comment pass.
“I’m almost done; just one more question. Did your son ever hang out with someone named Jakob Sandgren?”
“I don’t think so. What does he look like? Does he live on the island?”
“I don’t actually know what he looks like,” Margit admitted. “We don’t think he’s a permanent resident.”
Ingrid glanced at the photograph of her son. Her tortured expression spoke for itself, and her hands twisted in her lap as if they had a life of their own.
Margit stood up.
“Thank you for your time; I won’t disturb you any longer.”
“It’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”
The hopelessness in those words stayed with Margit as she went out into the cold once more.
CHAPTER 28
“Daddy wants to talk to you.”
Simon passed her the phone, and Nora knew there was no escape. She could hardly hang up in front of her son. Reluctantly she got up and went into the kitchen so that he wouldn’t hear.
“Hello.”
“Finally! Do you know how many times I’ve tried you? Why the hell haven’t you called me back?”
“Because I don’t want to talk to you.”
“For goodness sake, be reasonable!”
“Why should I?”
She knew she sounded like a defiant child, but she couldn’t help it.
“You can’t pretend I don’t exist. We need to discuss the future, if nothing else. And the boys—how are Adam and Simon?”
“Fine.”
Henrik sighed.
“Nora, you must realize you can’t stay on Sandhamn. It could be dangerous. I want you to bring the boys home right now.”
The familiar voice sliced through her. It was worse, much worse, when he sounded concerned than when he yelled at her.
“Please come home.”
She almost gave in. She remembered his soft hand against her cheek, the smell of him she’d inhaled so many times. We loved each other, she thought as the tears sprang to her eyes. I loved you so much, Henrik.
The image that had haunted her the past few nights rose in her mind: his naked body with another woman, skin on skin. Their bed, tainted forever. She never wanted to sleep beside him again. She didn’t even want to go back to the house in Saltsjöbaden. Her throat ached; she had to force out the words.
“I’m staying here. I need to think things over in peace and quiet.” She gritted her teeth to stop herself from crying.
Henrik’s voice took on a different tone.
“Listen to me, Nora. I’m very worried about the three of you. I don’t want you there.”
“We’re not coming back before the end of the week. It’s best that way.”
“For God’s sake, Nora! If you don’t bring the boys home, I will come and get them. You cannot stay on the island. I won’t allow it.”
That was the final straw.
“Don’t you dare show your face here!”
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do—they’re my kids, too!”
Nora took a deep breath.
“You should have thought of that before you went to bed with that woman.”
“Her name is Marie.”
“I don’t want to know what her name is!”
Was that her voice, yelling like that? She had to calm down; she didn’t want to scare Simon.
“Don’t get hysterical. Surely we can talk to each other like adults—is that too much to ask?”
Yes, it is, Nora thought.
“If you set foot in this house, I will call the police.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“And I’ll inform the hospital that you’re having a relationship with a nurse. What do the ethical guidelines have to say about that kind of thing, Henrik?”
The aggressive words took her by surprise; she didn’t recognize herself. She felt ashamed, but she had no intention of taking anything back. Henrik had only himself to blame. She wasn’t the one who had put them in this position.
Anyway, it worked.
“We’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down. Answer your phone when I call.”
Henrik hung up, and Nora was left sitting there clutching the phone. She hid her face in her hands.
Sandhamn 1926
They’d gotten up early that morning, before four—before sunrise, in fact. Mother had supplied them with a substantial packed breakfast of fried bacon and soft bread, along with freshly brewed ersatz coffee. Father had taken out the shotguns, then they’d walked down to the north jetty where the skiff was moored, safely sheltered from the wind. As they got nearer Thorwald could see their neighbors, the Bergströms, packing their boat for the same mission. It was time for the spring hunting trip.
A little shiver of joy ran through Thorwald. It was exciting to join Father on the hunt, and he was determined to do well. They usually shot merganser, eider, and long-tailed ducks, and the new Belgian double-barreled shotgun Father had ordered from Stockholm seemed like a fine weapon.
The first time Thorwald was allowed to accompany his father, he was only nine years old, hardly bigger than the gun itself. The following day his cheek and shoulder were black and blue; he had been too small to handle the recoil, but his pride when his father uttered a few words of praise at the number of birds he’d bagged knew no bounds.
He had loved the spring shoot ever since.
They rowed to the outer skerries where the Eknö estate held the hunting rights. It was important to be on the right side of the birds’ flight path—otherwise, they risked missing out. Before going home, they’d also collect some eggs, particularly eider eggs with their reddish yolks, which were a family favorite. Thorwald could picture his mother’s face breaking into a broad smile when he returned with a basket full of eggs. Over the next few days she would make duck soup, shiny with grease, and delicious oven-baked pancakes.
His father rowed without a word. Thorwald was sitting in the prow, and after a little while he relaxed; Gottfrid enjoyed hunting and was usually in a good mood on these occasions, particularly if the outing proved successful.
This time, everything would be fine.
Last year he had missed over and over again, and in the end his father had hit him hard and taken the gun away. However, in the past few weeks, Gottfrid had been unusu
ally contented. He had been promoted at work, and Vendela had sewn a new badge onto his uniform. When he came home with the big news, he’d even brought candy for both children. They had sat around the kitchen table while he proudly told them all about it.
The customs inspector had come over to Gottfrid’s desk to congratulate him. They shook hands, and Gottfrid was given a document with an impressive seal.
Vendela had smiled tentatively, and Kristina had thrown her arms around her daddy’s neck when she saw the candy.
“Thank you, Daddy, you’re the best,” she chirped.
Gottfrid laughed and ruffled her hair. Even Thorwald received a rare pat on the shoulder.
It had been one of the best times Thorwald could remember, which was why he’d been so happy when Gottfrid said he could come hunting again.
His father rowed with powerful strokes. The water rippled in barely visible waves in the morning breeze, and the islands drifted by like shadows.
Eventually they arrived. Before going ashore they laid out the decoys, generously smeared with tar and chalk and stuffed with finely shredded bracken fronds; these served as bait to attract the rare birds. Then they rowed the last few yards and dragged the boat up onto the rocks.
It was bitterly cold, but by now the darkness was beginning to give way to a faint glow in the sky. Soon a pale, reddish-yellow sun appeared, and it was just possible to see gray-white skerries on the horizon.
Thorwald carried the old, smaller shotgun as they made their way across the island, while his father held the new one in a firm grip. Beads of dew sparkled in the lichen.
From a distance came the sound of a shot; it must be the Bergströms, father and son, who usually hunted from the next reef. Gottfrid always scowled when the birds flew over the neighbors’ territory; he didn’t want the other villagers to grab the fattest booty right under his nose.
“Come here, boy,” he said, his eyes fixed on something gray approaching in the sky. The light still wasn’t good, and Thorwald had to squint to make out what it was, but after a few seconds he realized that it was a flock of ducks, flying with their necks extended, wings outstretched. They kept their distance from one another with perfect precision, in spite of the rapid beating of their wings.
Thorwald smiled. Their fine down was highly prized. Mother would be delighted. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his father was pleased too; after the winter’s diet of salted fish, fresh game would taste good, even though the dark flesh was tough and had to be cooked for a long time.
Thorwald raised the gun to his shoulder and waited. It was heavy, but he took careful aim. He was desperate to show his father that he was a good shot, that he deserved to come along.
Soon the flock would be within range.
His weight rested on his right knee, down on the damp lichen. Thorwald adjusted his balance slightly to get a firmer grip; the rocks were slippery, and he knew how powerful the recoil could be.
But just as he was about to fire, he heard another shot from the neighboring reef. He gave a start, which was all it took for his own gun to go off.
A hail of pellets flew past his father, out across the water, and the recoil made Thorwald lose his balance. He tried to find something to hold on to, but in vain. He tumbled over the edge, slithered helplessly down the slope, and landed on a flat rock.
The shotgun slipped out of his hand and was gone.
CHAPTER 29
Thomas contemplated the black metal cell phone as he ran his fingers over the buttons. He couldn’t stop thinking about Pernilla. It’d been a long time since he’d felt as lighthearted as during their dinner.
One tap and her number appeared. A quick text message couldn’t do any harm, could it?
Thanks for a lovely dinner. It was wonderful to see you again.
He was about to press “Send,” then he hesitated. Wonderful might be a bit much. He deleted it and wrote “very nice” instead. No, that sounded stiff and formal. He deleted it and wrote that it had been “great” to see her.
But he still wasn’t sure. What if she took it the wrong way? She was the one who had asked for the divorce. Just because they had dinner together, it didn’t mean she wanted him back in her life. She had shown surprising generosity in getting in touch with him at all, considering how he’d blamed her for Emily’s death.
A badly worded text was a pretty pathetic response.
He stamped his feet as he tried to make up his mind. One dinner for old times’ sake wasn’t something to get carried away over. Admittedly, she had said she’d like to see him again, but did she mean it? Was it a polite way of saying good-bye, the kind of thing people just said?
With a final glance at the display, which still showed Pernilla’s number, he slipped the phone back in his pocket.
He had almost reached the Rosén house, and then he was going to Nora’s.
The breath emerged from Nora’s mouth like an icy cloud. The Brand villa was enveloped in snow, and it was hard work trudging from the gate to the front door. The snow on the steps was several inches deep, and her boots sank in deep. Fortunately she had brought a broom along with her; she swept the steps and turned the key.
As usual, she felt a wave of happiness as soon as she opened the door and stepped inside, in spite of all the sad things that had happened. It was strange that a place could mean so much, but she had been coming to this house ever since she was a little girl, and she loved walking into its beautiful rooms with their high ceilings and leaded windows.
The chandelier and the grandfather clock in the dining room were a familiar sight, and she stood for a moment enjoying the fantastic view. Even with the overcast sky, it was possible to see right out across the bay, where the wind was whipping up white horses.
The temperature indoors was just a few degrees above freezing, so Nora kept her coat on. She had turned the heating way down to save money, but she didn’t dare switch it off completely. It wouldn’t do the old house any good if everything froze.
Slowly she wandered from room to room, checking that the windows were properly closed and that everything looked as it should. There were no mice in the traps, and Nora breathed a sigh of relief. Emptying mousetraps was always Henrik’s job. She was no wimp, but the thought of removing a little dead body made her shudder.
She sat down in the library for a while, resting her head on the little embroidered cushion in the wingback chair. Old books with ornate gold writing on the spines filled the shelves lining the walls. Works by August Strindberg, who had spent time on Sandhamn, stood side by side with titles by Verner von Heidenstam and Selma Lagerlöf.
I should read them someday, Nora thought to herself.
In the cozy atmosphere, her tense muscles began to relax. She remembered how close she’d been to giving in when Henrik kept pushing her to sell the house. She could still hear the prospective buyers’ curious voices, wealthy Swedes living in Switzerland who would have destroyed the place with their horrific renovation plans.
Now there was a sense of peace here, as if the house were resting, waiting to be brought back to life by a new family. There was a calmness in the walls that comforted her.
It would soon be time to make the house her own.
She glanced around the room. Frost covered the windows in a pretty floral pattern, as if someone had painstakingly applied little white strokes with a tiny brush.
An intense longing for Aunt Signe came over her. She so wished that her neighbor was still alive. Signe was a good listener, and she would have understood exactly how Nora felt.
“My dear child, this business with Henrik isn’t your fault!” she would have said. “You need to think about yourself and the boys. You’re so sensible and smart, you’ll get through it!”
Then she would have produced a plate of homemade raspberry buns and served tea. They would have sat down on the veranda and discussed how Nora was going to deal with a difficult situation.
And Nora would have felt much better.
&
nbsp; With a sigh she got up from the well-used chair. She really did miss her darling “honorary grandma.” Her own mother, Susanne, was always so anxious; Nora found it hard to confide in her. She usually ended up consoling Susanne instead of the other way around, and she couldn’t cope with that right now.
She made a careless movement with her arm and bumped a paperweight on the desk. The heavy object crashed to the floor, dust whirling up around it. Nora picked it up and realized the whole place needed a good clean; she’d had neither the time nor the energy during the fall. She ran her finger over the desk, leaving a clear path through the dust. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, made of cherry wood with brass fittings that had darkened after many years in the damp climate. It reminded Nora that both Signe’s parents and paternal grandparents had lived here.
On a whim she opened the top drawer to find pens and scraps of paper in a heap. She spotted a goose feather that might have served as a writing implement long, long ago. She set it aside to take home to Simon.
The next drawer was the same, but the bottom one, twice as deep, was different. It contained an old shoebox, tied with a red silk ribbon.
Nora’s curiosity was aroused.
She took out the box and carefully undid the ribbon. When she removed the lid she saw a neat pile of notebooks. She picked up the top one, full of anticipation.
This book belongs to Karolina Brand, it said at the top of the first page, the handwriting childish and a little ornate.
Nora thought for a moment. Karolina Brand must have been Signe’s paternal aunt. She was born at the beginning of World War I, if Nora remembered correctly, in which case she would have been twelve or thirteen when she wrote this diary.
Nora sat down and leafed through the pages. The writing had faded but was still legible, and the style wasn’t as old-fashioned as she’d expected.
Karolina had written something every few days.
June 10, 1927
After supper I am going to the sewing bee at the Mission House with my darling mom. I can’t wait.
When we were tested on the catechism at Sunday school I knew the answers to lots of the questions. Mom was pleased, and praised me when we got home. Poor Thorwald gave the wrong answers, and his father got really mad with him.