‘Johnson, Grant, Hayes, Garfield, Arthur.’
Carina follows Stefan’s eyes and assumes he is thinking the same as her. Emil. He has been with that girl for half an hour. She would like to go and fetch him, but knows she shouldn’t. Emil doesn’t find it easy to make friends; his shyness and reserve get in the way. So Carina ought to be pleased. She tries to feel pleased.
‘Cleveland, Harrison, Cleveland again.’
Donald reels off his list of names triumphantly. Every one is a face, and every face is a period in American history. He is no expert, but taken altogether the names conjure up what America means to him. Opportunity. People who overcome the odds, who rise above their humble beginnings, breaking the chains of the past to be free. It is like a prayer, this litany, these names.
‘McKinley, Roosevelt, Taft.’
Isabelle is on her fourth bun. She would really like to grab the whole plate and withdraw to a dark corner like some wild animal to devour the lot. She loves the slim figure her illness gives her, but hates the weakness. She doesn’t want anyone to look at her while she is eating.
‘Wilson, Harding…hang on a minute. Wilson, Harding…’
Carina is so busy trying to be pleased for Emil’s sake that she doesn’t notice he has come into the awning until he hurls himself at her and buries his face between her breasts. His body is heaving with sobs, and she gently strokes the back of his neck. ‘Whatever’s wrong, sweetheart?’ Emil shakes his head and presses even closer.
‘Wilson, Harding, then Hoover. But there’s one in between. Who is it?’
Carina looks over towards the opening and sees Molly standing there, leaning against one of the supporting posts and staring at her. When their eyes meet Molly smiles, shrugs and shakes her head as if to say: ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him either.’
‘Help me out here,’ Donald says. ‘Wilson, Harding, and then…’
The sound of a car horn brings everyone to their feet. This is what they’ve been waiting for, although no one dared put it into words. Now they will know. There is anxiety on every face as they move towards the opening; Molly has already run away. Only Donald remains in his seat, staring blankly into space as he mutters: ‘There’s one missing. There’s one missing.’
*
Isabelle’s hunger has been appeased for the time being. She picks up the last bun on her way out. She is happy to leave the awning; the decor is possibly the most vulgar she has ever seen.
Bad taste can actually make her feel physically unwell. Both her parents are aesthetes, and she grew up in a home where every object was carefully chosen. Her bedroom was a monk’s cell compared to those of her contemporaries. No posters, no photographs, no bits and pieces.
A week spent camping has been something of an ordeal. At every turn she has been confronted by barbecues and cheap tat, and by people who seem to enjoy that sort of thing. She hates the caravan and she hates Peter for persuading her to come along. Some of the best memories from his ghastly childhood, camping holidays with his mother, blah blah blah. Isabelle hates his rotten childhood too, and his constant references to it.
She has erased her own childhood, left it behind. She doesn’t think about it, doesn’t talk about it. Above all she doesn’t use it as an argument to get her own way. She has other methods of achieving that.
Before she leaves the awning she glances back at Donald, who is sitting there with his mouth hanging open. No need for you to bother your pretty little head about that, my dear. No doubt he had a rotten childhood as well. She hopes so. She hopes he carries it with him, and that it really hurts.
Isabelle takes a few steps towards the car, then stops. There is something different about Peter, standing there by the open door with everyone gathered around him. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but it is as if the light is striking him from another angle, rather than from above.
*
The first thing Peter says to the group is: ‘Have you had a barbecue?’
They all look at one another. Everyone knows that no one has had a barbecue, and yet it is as if they have to check. Have you had a barbecue? No. Me neither. How about you? No, when would I have done that? And why is he asking?
It is Stefan who says it out loud: ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I thought I could smell smoke. As if someone was barbecuing. Meat.’
‘Okay…’ Stefan glances at the others. ‘But what did you see? What’s out there?’
‘Nothing,’ Peter replies. ‘Same as here. Nothing.’
Stefan waits for him to go on. At a push he can accept what Peter says, that things are as bad as he feared. But what he can’t get his head around is why Peter looks so pleased. It doesn’t make sense.
Isabelle appears to feel the same. She walks up to Peter and says: ‘What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t stand there lying like a fucking idiot. This isn’t the time or the place. What did you see?’
Peter looks down at the ground, blushing like a little boy whose mother has caught him dipping into the Saturday sweets in the middle of the week. No one understands him. His cheeks are burning as he raises his head and says: ‘It’s as if there’s a border. When you cross it, things are…different.’
‘What do you mean, different?’ Stefan asks.
Peter scratches the back of his neck. ‘I might have seen a person.’
Isabelle is on the point of slapping Peter. ‘A person? You saw a person? And you’re only telling us this now?’
‘I’m not sure. They were a long way off.’
‘So why the hell didn’t you drive up to whoever it was?’
‘The GPS stopped working. I was afraid of getting lost.’
Isabelle stares at Peter, then she turns to the group with a gesture that means something along the lines of: You see what I have to put up with? I live with this pathetic waste of space. She then grabs Molly’s hand and heads towards their caravan as she says loudly: ‘You poor kid. You were fathered by a man with no balls.’
*
Donald has a very specific fear that has grown stronger over the past few years. The name of this fear is dementia, senility, Alzheimer’s.
He has started to forget things. Sometimes he opens a cupboard and can’t remember why. He is about to say the name of a supplier with whom he has been dealing for over twenty years, and suddenly it has gone and he has to consult his diary. So far no one has noticed anything, not even Majvor, but he dreads the day when one of the children calls and he can’t recall their name.
And now the list of US presidents.
If there was one thing he thought he would still be able to reel off when he was sitting in the care home, when the last ounce of sense had left him, it was the list of US presidents.
They’re all there, every single one right up to Barack fucking Obama, apart from the guy who came between Harding and Hoover. Forty-three when there should be forty-four. Donald has gone all the way through the alphabet in the hope that the right letter would make the name jump out of its hiding place.
This is terrible. It’s like owning a house and suddenly discovering that a door or a window is missing. It’s not complete, it’s not whole, and he can feel the mists of senility drifting in through the opening, forming a figure made of smoke that reaches into his mind with its long fingers, hollowing out his thoughts and memories.
He shakes his head and smiles apologetically. Only then does he realise that he is alone. He looks around in confusion, and hears voices outside. One of these voices belongs to Peter, which means he must have come back.
The teak chair creaks as Donald gets to his feet and arranges his face, turning himself into the man he is meant to be, the kind of man people turn to. He can’t sit here philosophising over his minor lapses when more pressing problems are calling. He clears his throat, straightens his back, and steps outside.
The first thing he sees is Isabelle, marching past with her daughter. Donald sneaks a look at her bottom, and a vague rape fantasy passes through his mi
nd before being replaced by a desire to spank that little rump until it is bright red and the redness
turns into blood, a fountain of blood gushing
Stop!
Donald stares gloomily at the group gathered around the car. Peter seems disorientated; he is waving his hands around, while the others have their eyes fixed on the ground. Someone needs to take charge of the situation, so Donald steps forward: ‘How’s it going?’
Peter looks at him as if he doesn’t understand the question, and the boring little grocer answers on his behalf: ‘Apparently he could smell smoke out there. And he saw someone.’
‘Okay,’ Donald says. ‘What else?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘But where did the smoke come from? Who was this person? Peter? You did check, didn’t you?’
Peter runs his hand over the roof of his car as if he is removing invisible dust; he doesn’t look at Donald as he replies: ‘No.’
‘But why not, for God’s sake?’
The dust seems to be pretty stubborn; Peter carries on rubbing away. ‘I don’t know.’
Donald shakes his head. He is disappointed. Among all the milksops surrounding him, he had thought Peter was an ally. Someone who could tackle things head-on. But now he is standing here gibbering like the rest of them. This can’t go on.
Donald puts a friendly arm around Peter’s shoulders. ‘Come and have a beer and we can talk about this.’
*
The first thing Lennart and Olof do when they get back to their caravan is to switch on the radio, as if they need to check that the broadcast is not a localised phenomenon restricted to Donald’s awning. But no. The music comes pouring out of their battered old Luxor too. And not just any music, but one of Olof’s favourites: ‘This Is How Love Begins’ by Agnetha Fältskog and Björn Ulvaeus.
Lennart sits down on the sofa and watches with quiet amusement as Olof shuts the door, then begins to move in time to the music. Lennart likes the song too, but finds it a bit too romantic for his taste: a chance meeting in a crowd, dancing dance after dance.
Olof grabs Lennart’s hand and pulls him to his feet, opening his arms as he sways on the spot. Lennart waves dismissively: ‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can,’ Olof says, taking both of Lennart’s hands. ‘It’s just a basic foxtrot.’ The caravan rocks as Olof demonstrates the steps, pulling Lennart close. Lennart takes one step to the right, one to the left, and his cheeks grow hot. He pulls away and moves backwards until he bumps into the kitchen table.
‘I can’t.’
Olof frowns and turns down the volume. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t dance.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘No, I can’t. And it feels so…I don’t know.’
Lennart sits back down on the sofa and looks out of the window. There is nothing to see, but he looks anyway. He hears a click as the radio is switched off, and in his peripheral vision he sees Olof sit down opposite him. He feels a gentle caress on his forearm.
‘It’s okay,’ Olof says. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I know,’ Lennart says, glancing at Olof, who has tilted his head to one side, his expression full of concern.
‘Was it too intimate?’ Olof asks.
‘No. Yes. Although it would be…I know. It’s just that…’
Olof withdraws his hand and fixes his eyes on the table. ‘We do sleep together, after all.’
‘Yes, but that’s different, somehow.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Olof says. ‘I feel the same.’ He scratches his head and pulls a face. ‘Forgive me. I just felt…inspired.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for. I wish…well, you know.’
They sit in silence for a while, then Olof says: ‘Can you really not dance? Did you never learn?’
‘No. I must have been off sick when we had dancing lessons.’
‘My mother taught me, when I was fourteen or fifteen.’
‘My mother wasn’t much of a dancer, as you might recall.’
‘No. Of course not.’
Lennart looks gloomy, and Olof wishes he had never brought up the subject. Lennart’s mother was kicked by a horse, and Olof remembers her as old before her time, always leaning on a stick for support.
It was a silly idea anyway, trying to get Lennart to dance. It’s all coming back to Olof now. Whenever he and Ingela went out with Lennart and Agnetha, Lennart would always have some problem with his back or his knees, and would stay at the bar while Agnetha danced with other partners. Olof had assumed he was just shy.
‘Listen,’ he says, tapping the table. ‘Shall we go out and listen to our iPod?’
Lennart nods and gets to his feet, follows Olof. Before Olof has time to open the door, he feels Lennart’s hand on his shoulder and turns around. Lennart’s expression is serious as he slowly strokes Olof’s cheek and says: ‘Forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ Olof places his hand on Lennart’s, presses it against his face. ‘That’s just the way things are. And it’s fine.’
The gadgets are on the table between the two folding chairs. Olof knows the correct terminology—iPod, dock, speakers—but because he doesn’t know how to operate the devices in question, he thinks of them as gadgets.
Lennart is astonishingly adept when it comes to modern technology. Mobile phones, computers, MP3 players. In his own defence, Olof can say that Lennart’s daughter Gunilla is a much more patient tutor than Ante, whose pedagogical efforts rarely extend beyond: ‘Read the instructions.’
Olof settles down in his chair and nods to Lennart, who looks much happier now he is dealing with something he is good at. Lennart slides his finger across the screen, and Olof says: ‘It’s a good job you know how to do that.’
‘Shall I show you what to do?’
‘If you like. As long as you let me show you how to dance. One day.’
Lennart can’t help smiling. Then he nods. ‘Sounds reasonable. Super Trouper?’
‘Muy bien, gracias.’
‘De nada, señor.’
Lennart places the iPod in its dock. Olof leans back and closes his eyes as he hears the first staccato notes of ‘Lay All Your Love on Me’. Excellent.
*
Emil has calmed down, but he refuses to talk about why he was so upset. As soon as Stefan or Carina attempt to ask a question, he puts his hands over his ears and starts humming tunelessly.
Stefan is standing with his hands in his pockets, staring out across the field. Nothing. This can’t be true. Vast expanses of emptiness like this do exist on the earth, but they are deserts or oceans. Where there is grass there are flowers, bushes, animals.
What if we’re not on the earth?
The idea is ridiculous. Is he suggesting that a spaceship came along and beamed them up to this place, then started broadcasting Swedish pop music to keep them calm? It sounds like a bad film. Or a good film. But not like something that happens in real life.
He hears the sound of ‘Lay All Your Love on Me’ coming from the vicinity of one of the other caravans. Stefan has never been a fan of Abba; he has never really listened to their songs, but now he realises that the chorus almost sounds like church music, something sacred. A psalm or a prayer.
‘Daddy,’ Emil says. ‘There aren’t any birds here.’
‘No, it seems that way.’
‘That’s stupid. That means we can’t walk the line. And there aren’t any trees either. So what is there?’
‘There are people. And the caravans. And the cars.’
‘But there must be more than that, mustn’t there?’
‘I guess so.’
Like many of the best games, Walk the Line came about by chance. Stefan had been measuring the distance between outbuildings in order to submit a planning application, and had run a length of twine through a small copse of trees.
Emil had been following this line in his gumboots when he spotted a bullfinch. After a couple more steps he saw a wagtail. When h
e reached Stefan they heard a knocking sound and looked up to see a woodpecker in the tree to which Stefan had secured the twine.
They decided to leave the line in place because it was obviously particularly easy to spot birds along its length. Every afternoon Emil solemnly walked along it with one foot on either side, gazing up at the trees. One day when Stefan and Carina were with him, Stefan had started to sing ‘I Walk the Line’, and that was how the game got its name.
‘Stefan,’ Carina says, getting up and looking out at the field. ‘We have to find out what’s out there.’
‘Yes, but…we don’t have GPS. I’m afraid of getting lost, if there are no landmarks. But you’re right, of course. We can’t just sit here.’
Carina pinches her nose and thinks for a moment. ‘Couldn’t we… or…’
‘Hang on,’ Stefan says. ‘I know what to do.’
Emil tugs at his hand. ‘What, Daddy?’
Stefan looks at him with a smile, and says: ‘Walk the line.’
*
Majvor has been banished to the caravan so that Donald can have a private conversation with Peter. It is slightly humiliating, but she chooses her battles. For the most part she complies with Donald’s wishes, but when she does object, he usually listens. This truce has not been achieved without cost, and harks back to an incident in the fourth year of their marriage.
At the time their one-year-old son Albert was still sleeping in a cot in Donald and Majvor’s bedroom, while his brother Gustav, who was two years older, had his own room. Albert woke up crying several times each night, and Donald decided that he should go in with his brother so that he could get used to not being picked up and consoled all the time.
By the second night, Majvor had had enough. Albert screamed and screamed, and refused to go back to sleep. Gustav started yelling too, although he was slightly more articulate in his protests. Majvor got out of bed to go and fetch Albert, but Donald held her back, said that the boy had to get used to it, however long it took. Majvor lay awake for two hours listening to the child screaming, until he eventually subsided into exhausted sobbing, then silence. Her heart was in shreds by then, and she couldn’t get to sleep.
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