Yes. Even without magnification he can see the tiny figure in the distance. He looks through the sight again, and the figure moving across the field becomes clearer. Its body is blotchy red, and it has no hands.
The Bloodman
The gun begins to shake and Donald is no longer able to fix the figure in the sight. When he lowers the weapon his body is tense, hunched as if to defend itself against an attack, while the old fear slashes and tears at his belly and the guilt presses him down, down. Then something happens. A simple thought takes root in Donald’s head and flowers in a second.
Enough.
Enough. Everyone and everything is trying to break him, to bring him to his knees. Peter and those other milksops sitting there shaking in their little camp, noses trembling; even this fucking place is trying to scare him into submission. Enough. This is not How the West Was Won—no, we set off into the wilds with our guns in our hands and we took the land that had been given to us, if we just had the courage to be men.
A man or a mouse, Donald? A man or a mouse?
Donald nods to himself, slips the gun over his shoulder once more and climbs down from the roof without even considering that he might fall. He doesn’t fall.
When he reaches the ground he inserts a cartridge in the magazine, then sets off resolutely towards the Bloodman. After a short while he starts to whistle ‘John Brown’s Body’.
Enough.
*
Peter has been driving around aimlessly for fifteen minutes, sometimes heading to the left or the right without seeing anything but the horizon all around him. This is just what he was afraid of. He is hopelessly lost. Nothing about the field changes: there is only that endless expanse of green everywhere he looks.
He has sniffed at the liquid that ran out of the glove compartment and established that it is whisky; he caught a few drops in his cupped hand and lapped it up. This made him feel better for a little while, but the monotony of the field is taking its toll. It is as if he is being hollowed out, becoming as empty as the landscape in which he is driving around, with no goal and with the same view constantly before his eyes.
At the same time, something is growing within his body. An irritation, an itch, as if the soft tissue of his intestines is slowly hardening, chafing from the inside. He is itchy in places where it is impossible to scratch without the help of a knife.
To distract himself he switches on the radio and smiles in spite of himself when he recognises that cracked, croaky voice. It’s Peter Himmelstrand himself, singing one of the last songs he wrote, and possibly the most bitter. ‘Thanks for All Those Slaps’. It’s about things going wrong just when everything seems okay. Peter stops thinking about driving and focuses on the song, which seems to him to be truer and more real than the place in which he has ended up. When it gets to the part where Himmelstrand says his old man always hit him, he starts to sing along.
Yes, there are so many occasions in life when it might be appropriate to give up, to stop trying. There have been so many times when he could have done just that.
He could have given up when a knee injury ended his career in professional football. Or when the Italian restaurant chain he and Hasse had started up went bust. When all possible routes were closed off, one by one. When it became clear that he had married a woman with whom it was impossible to be happy, and had a daughter who turned out to be a stranger.
To allow his legs to give way, to fall over. Inside. Shoot down the energetic little devil that always drives him on. Kill him. How liberating would that be?
The refrain dies away: ‘At last I know my place…’ Peter stops the car and turns off the radio. The air has thickened once more; it is pressing on his head. He leans back in his seat and examines how he is feeling.
The itching sensation has become even more noticeable. It is as if a huge spider is squatting somewhere inside his chest and stretching out its long legs right to the tips of his fingers, tickling and tugging at him. No, not a spider. A tree. A tree has taken root in his heart and is reaching out with its branches.
Peter closes his eyes. And sees the tree. How stupid is he? Coming up with such complicated images when the answer is much simpler. It is the circulation of his blood that he can feel. He has become aware of the blood that usually passes quietly around his body. And it is pulling at him.
He gets out of the car and takes a few steps in the direction in which his blood wants him to go. When he sees what lies in the distance up ahead, he stops. There is a thin band of darkness on the horizon.
Over there. Come on. Let’s go over there.
He doesn’t know how high the wall of darkness is or how far away, but he has to physically resist the compulsion to go towards it.
Why resist? That’s where you have to go. You know that.
Peter holds out his hand with the fingers spread wide, and relaxes his muscles. The hand really is being drawn towards whatever is beyond the horizon. He walks around to the passenger door, opens the glove compartment and takes out a shard of glass from the broken whisky bottle. It has a sharp point, so there is no need to slice; he can simply stab.
It takes a couple of attempts before he manages to pierce the skin of his left middle finger. He squeezes out a fat bead of blood with his thumb, then turns his hand palm down. The blood slowly becomes a drop, then falls.
There is no doubt whatsoever. It’s not just in his head. The drop of blood does not fall straight down, but turns off towards the darkness. Peter wipes his finger on his shorts, then clamps his arms to his sides as if he were standing to attention, his gaze fixed on the horizon, swaying slightly because of the power that is pulling at him, at his blood.
Life is no picnic, for heaven’s sake.
What does it matter, after all? He could go back to the camp, to Isabelle and Molly, maybe manage to get away so that he can carry on ploughing through the mud for another year, and another year after that. He has been offered an alternative.
I’m coming, Peter. Peter is coming.
He gets back in the car and drives towards the band of darkness.
*
So.
After replacing the cans in the small fridge, Majvor has settled down in her chair with a can of Coke by one foot and a Budweiser by the other. She rarely allows herself a treat, but sitting here alone with her treasure trove she has decided to take a little holiday.
She has the occasional glass of low-alcohol beer with herring or a prawn sandwich, but how long is it since she simply sat down and opened a can of strong beer? Twenty years? Longer? She feels free and slightly naughty as she tips back her head and allows the cool liquid to run down her throat.
It doesn’t taste very nice, but she takes another swig simply because she can. Under normal circumstances she prefers not to sanction Donald’s alcohol consumption by following his example. When he really gets into the swing of things he can sit there knocking back can after can, which he then crumples and throws on the floor, building a pile of growing evidence of his achievement. He can be so…Majvor wrinkles her nose at the bitter taste and puts down the can as she searches for the right word. Unsavoury. That’s it. Repulsive, in fact.
It is many years since anything of a sexual nature happened between them. It was different when they were young, oh yes. But after Majvor gave birth to Henrik, their youngest, it was as if a light went out, and stayed that way.
Majvor was usually too tired, and if she was in the mood occasionally, it seemed that more and more frequently Donald wasn’t up to it. They never talked about it because you don’t talk about that kind of thing, but each of them slowly withdrew and stopped trying.
Majvor sighs and reaches for the can of Coke. Admittedly she’s no Liz Taylor; she’s overweight and her legs aren’t up to much, but could things have been different between her and Donald? Could they still have had a sex life?
She opens the can and swills the cola around her mouth to wash away the taste of the beer. No. With the way Donald looks and behaves these day
s, it’s out of the question. Nononono. Just thinking about Donald in that way almost makes her feel sick.
So it’s come to this. To tell the truth, at the moment she feels as if it would be best if Donald never came back. She would be able to lead a quiet life instead of running around trying to please him all the time. She has dedicated her life to being a mother, and now that job is done, perhaps she could have a rest?
Majvor puts down the can, leans back and folds her hands on her stomach so that she can really, really relax. She manages five seconds. Then she looks around and everything changes. She sits up straight, narrowing her eyes as she stares out at the field. It’s impossible.
Jimmy?
She is not a crazy person. When she imagines her conversations with James Stewart, she knows exactly what she is doing: using her imagination. Sitting him down opposite her in the role that suits her at the time, making him speak Swedish.
The slightly knock-kneed figure approaching across the field, dressed as Will Lockhart in The Man from Laramie, is no figment of her imagination. Majvor hasn’t thought about James Stewart for over an hour, and she has done nothing to conjure him up.
And yet it’s definitely him. She can hear the jingle of the spurs on his boots, visible below the turned-up jeans; she can see the gun belt hanging low on his hips, and his brown suede jacket is dusty, as if he has just come back from riding across the plains. His face is weather-beaten and sunburnt, his blue eyes shine beneath the brim of the characteristic white hat that Jimmy wore in so many of his cowboy films. Those eyes are looking at Majvor as he moves closer.
Majvor’s hands flutter nervously over her body as if to brush something away: dirt, several kilos of fat, quite a lot of years. It’s not fair of him to turn up now, when she’s old and such a sight. However, she still gets up and goes to meet him.
She knows that James Stewart has been dead for seventeen years, and that what she is seeing must be a particularly detailed vision, or perhaps she is well on the way to being as crazy as Donald, but right now none of that matters at all. He’s here. That wonderful, incomparable man whom she has seen on the screen in so many roles, the best of them all: James Stewart.
Majvor accepts what she sees so completely that the only thing she finds strange is that he doesn’t have his horse with him. Pie, who accompanied him throughout his career in Westerns—how did he get here without Pie?
That’s the first question she asks when they meet in the open space in the middle of the camp: ‘Where’s Pie?’ she says in Swedish.
James Stewart pushes back his hat with one finger, and Majvor, who is already weak at the knees, is quite overcome. She curses herself, feeling like a silly little girl.
He doesn’t speak Swedish, you idiot.
She blushes, partly because of her stupidity and partly because she is now going to have to speak English, which is not her strongest suit. Whenever she and Donald visit the USA, he always teases her about her limited vocabulary and terrible accent.
But her fears are unfounded. James Stewart smiles in that gentle, sad way as only he can and says in Swedish: ‘He couldn’t come along this time. Unfortunately.’
In the last word Majvor picks up a hint of Roslagen, as if he comes from her home area. Her overwhelming feeling is one of relief, because she will be able to talk freely. She decides to start again.
‘Please forgive me,’ she says with a little curtsey. ‘Good afternoon. I’m Majvor.’
She holds out her hand and James Stewart takes it. His handshake is firm but not painfully so, his hand warm and dry. It is a hand that makes her want to shrink, to shrink and become tiny so that she can curl up inside it like a baby bird.
‘James,’ he says. ‘Call me Jimmy—most people do.’
Majvor swallows and nods. She is not going to start babbling about how much she loves his films, how she has dreamt of meeting him all her adult life, because no doubt every woman he comes across says exactly the same thing, so instead she asks: ‘What are you doing here?’
It is a reasonable question, and she hopes he won’t think she is being too brusque. Jimmy doesn’t seem to be offended; he simply nods as if the question is justified.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ he says.
Majvor nods too. This is going well. A reasonable answer to a reasonable question. Suddenly a jolt of fear shoots through her belly. What on earth is she doing? She’s still holding on to his hand, even though he has loosened his grip! What a faux pas!
Majvor quickly lets go of the beloved hand and strokes her stomach. Another source of embarrassment is that she is wearing her scruffy sweatpants, her house clothes. She really would have liked to be a little better dressed on such an occasion, but Jimmy doesn’t seem to mind; he smiles at her and asks: ‘So how are you, Majvor?’
There is no denying it any longer. Ever since Jimmy turned up and Majvor realised that it really was him, she also realised something else. That Donald might just be right, and this is all a dream. What other explanation can there be for the fact that Jimmy Stewart appears to be standing here talking to her, saying her name and wondering how she is?
But in that case…in that case it is Donald who is a product of her imagination, not vice versa. Donald would never dream up Jimmy Stewart, oh no; he’s more likely to come up with Åsa-Nisse, the cunning farmer/inventor loved by Swedish film audiences and hated by the critics in equal measure.
‘What are you smiling at?’
Majvor has been impolite enough to lose herself in her thoughts while Jimmy was standing there waiting for a response.
‘Oh…Nothing. It’s just so nice to meet you. At long last. So I’m fine, thanks.’
Jimmy nods thoughtfully, as if she has said something profound. She really would like to come out with something wise or witty, anything to show that she’s not just some flibbertigibbet, but the only thing she can think of to ask is how he could possibly have had a romance with Olivia de Havilland. That’s not really acceptable, so instead she says: ‘Who are you meeting?’
Jimmy nods towards the field, in the opposite direction. Majvor turns around and wobbles slightly; she would have fallen if Jimmy hadn’t taken her arm and helped her to keep her balance. Unfortunately she cannot enjoy his touch, because her mind is fully occupied with trying to process what she is seeing.
Walking across the field, or rather strolling, his face glowing with amiability and the joy of life, is Elwood P. Dowd, Majvor’s favourite incarnation of Jimmy. But that’s not what made her wobble. Fifty metres behind him is Harvey, a six-foot-tall rabbit, kind of waddling along behind Elwood on his hind legs.
It’s Harvey who tips the balance. Majvor has often conjured up Elwood P. Dowd for a chat; she has frequently dreamt of being hugged by Will Lockhart, the Man from Laramie. But Harvey? Harvey doesn’t even exist in the film, or rather he does, but Harvey isn’t… real. There are no six-foot-tall rabbits, and on top of everything else this one is wearing a bow tie, just like…what’s his name…Little Hop in the Bamse cartoons!
Majvor no longer thinks this is fantastic, or even pleasant. As she watches the oversized rabbit waddling towards the camp, a shiver runs down her spine and she is scared. This is crazy stuff, and crazy stuff is dangerous.
‘Majvor,’ Jimmy Stewart says, but Majvor doesn’t want to listen to him any longer. She has noticed a detail which only a dedicated Jimmy-fantasist would pick up. The colour of the handkerchief knotted around Will Lockhart’s neck is exactly the same shade of pink as Harvey’s bow tie, and that’s not right. Lockhart’s neckerchief should be medium-red.
There is something dubious going on here, and even if she can’t work out what it is or why, it makes her feel uncomfortable, and in spite of everything she wishes Donald was here. He knew there was something in the air, even though he drew the wrong conclusions.
She ignores the attractions of Jimmy Stewart; she goes over to Stefan’s caravan and crouches down. Benny has stopped chewing the hose, and is now staring out at the field, te
nsion in every line of his body. The cat also seems on edge; she has pricked up her ears, and is looking in the same direction as Benny.
‘Benny,’ Majvor says, and the dog looks up at her as if he is waiting for instructions, which is exactly what Majvor intends to give him.
‘Benny,’ she says again, clapping her hands. ‘Go and find your master, Benny. Find your master.’
*
It’s nice to be given an order. Benny has been feeling confused for quite some time; he hasn’t known what to do with himself. Nothing is as it should be. The strangest thing of all is this business with Cat. They are getting on really well. Benny no longer has the slightest desire to chase or bite Cat. Cat makes sense, unlike almost everything else.
The Grandchildren, for example. At a distance the Grandchildren smell was exactly as it should be—brand-new, sweet and gentle. But now they have arrived in the camp, Benny can smell something else, an old smell like stuff that has been lying around in the forest for too long. It’s faint, but it’s there, and it’s not right. No Grandchild smells like that.
Besides which, it’s almost impossible to look at them. The Sun has disappeared, but instead it is the Grandchildren that are hurting his eyes, so Benny doesn’t look at them, he just sniffs, and he can’t make any sense of the way they smell.
‘Find your master,’ the Mistress says, and Benny is only too happy to oblige. He wants to get away from here, away from the old Grandchildren. He crawls out from under the caravan and runs over to his basket, which is lying upside down on the grass, and sniffs all around it. He sneezes and looks out across the field. The sniffing isn’t really necessary; he knows what his caravan smells like, and there is a clear scent trail to follow.
He gives himself a shake, then sets off at a reasonable speed. Since Benny finds it difficult to keep several things in his head at once, he hasn’t given Cat a thought since he was told to find his Master, but as he runs he becomes aware of a soft, rhythmic sound beside him.
I Am Behind You Page 24