The Viper

by Hakan Ostlundh

  She and Ricky had stood there on either side of Mother in front of the casket, laid down their flowers. The casket had been made of oak with brass handles. Father’s choice. But he hadn’t been there. They had stood there alone, by the casket. Something had come up. His situation had become completely untenable, he had explained to Mother. If he had left Tokyo at that moment, then he might just as well have given up altogether, packed his bags, and gone home for good, shut up shop. No one would have trusted him again after that. She remembered clearly how Mother screamed and sobbed on the phone. It was the one time that she could remember Mother raising her voice at him. She didn’t know if there had been any consequences when he came home ten days after the funeral, but it didn’t really make any difference. The consequences were of no consequence anyway.

  Elin kicked off her shoes and put her heels up on the seat cushion of her chair. She flipped absentmindedly through the tabloid newspaper that she had bought at the same time she purchased the ice-cold glass of wine, but no longer had any interest in reading it. She rolled the thin pages diagonally from the upper right-hand corner, rolled them one by one into thin newspaper logs.

  They had stood on either side of Mother, she and Ricky, and she had tried to imagine the whole time how it would feel to be lying dead there inside that casket. It was the only thing she could think of throughout the entire funeral service, what it would be like to be dead inside that casket. But it was impossible to imagine. She just got this strange image of herself lying naked beneath a wooden lid. She had imagined death as being naked, because no matter how many clothes you had on, you somehow could never be dressed anymore once you were dead. And the lid you were lying beneath could be pulled away at any moment, and you’d be lying there naked in front of the entire congregation. It was embarrassing and cold and threatening. Naked in a box in front of an audience, unable to cover yourself or run away. That was death.

  Today of course she understood that it had nothing to do with death. That naked, frightened, and embarrassed girl underneath the lid of the casket lid was her. That was it.

  Now it was her turn to choose the casket. Oak with brass handles? Speak to the undertakers, organize everything that had to be organized. She and nobody else. She wasn’t surprised that Ricky had run away from it all. It wasn’t the first time. She had told the police about the time he had run off when his studies broke down and Father had to transfer money to a bank in Portugal so he could fly home. God only knows what he had been doing down there. Partying? Having a panic attack? Feeling sorry for himself? Everything at once maybe. After three weeks anyway, his money had run out.

  She wasn’t worried about him. Well, of course, she was concerned that he felt so depressed, but not in any other way. She was expecting that she’d get a call. Because she was the one he had to call, now that everyone else was gone. It might take a week or two, but then he would call and tell her some convoluted and largely made-up story that would end with her having to send him money so that he could come home.

  Elin pushed her feet into her shoes and grabbed the empty glass to go and fill it up. More cold, sour wine.

  * * *

  LENNART SVENSSON WAS sitting there looking at The Misfits with Marilyn Monroe when Fredrik and Sara rang the doorbell. He had paused the DVD and they could see Clark Gable’s face frozen on the TV screen when they entered the house. A tall, straight-backed chair stood awkwardly placed between the couch and the TV.

  “I got a Marilyn Monroe box set as a birthday present from my stepdaughter,” said Lennart and pointed at the TV screen. “But there are really only a couple of them that are any good. This one’s one of the better ones I guess.”

  On a white-lacquered shelf underneath the TV stood two tightly packed rows of DVDs. Fredrik scanned the titles. They were mostly classics from the forties, fifties, and sixties along with the occasional colorful Walt Disney spine, which he guessed were to entertain visiting grandchildren.

  “How’s the back?” he asked.

  “It’s getting there,” said Lennart.

  He put his hands on his hips and stretched.

  “When I can sit through an entire film without a break, then it’s time to go back to work. But I’m not quite there yet.”

  “Poor bastard, having to sit here the whole day watching half a movie at a time,” said Sara and nodded at the well-filled DVD shelf.

  “Yeah, it’s hell,” said Lennart with a grin.

  He turned his back to Sara and disappeared into an adjacent room where Fredrik saw a dining table through the doorway.

  It was a modern house with light, but not especially big rooms. The living room was white with varying shades of blue. Thin curtains filtered the light from the high windows that looked out onto a deck made of pressure-treated wood. Fredrik had expected something else. He couldn’t exactly say what, but something that was more … Lennart Svensson.

  “Seriously kids, be happy as long as your backs are okay. It may look silly, but it’s sure as hell no laughing matter,” said Lennart when he returned with the two diaries in his hand.

  “My grandfather’s also got back trouble, so I know what it can be like,” Sara said.

  Lennart looked at her, narrowed his eyes slightly, then let out a short, almost silent laugh.

  “That’s it, kick a man when he’s down.”

  He held out the diaries.

  “Here you go.”

  Fredrik took the two books, which were bound in cloth with a black lace-patterned print.

  “Maybe I should have come in with them, but I haven’t wanted to get in the car if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. The car is a killer for the back. And since you called, nobody’s asked about them,” said Lennart.

  “Nah, I doubt if anyone’s missed them,” said Fredrik.

  He handed one of the books to Sara.

  “Check July and August,” he said.

  He opened the book he’d kept and flipped forward to the day that Lennart had read from over the phone.

  “Here it is. ‘The seventh of July. Today we sailed out to the island. We put out early from Klintehamn. Good winds. We sailed the whole way. Arvid said that the gods were with us. I think so, too. An amazing day, clear blue sky, nice and balmy. We had a following wind the whole way from Hoburgen.’”

  He looked up at Sara and Lennart.

  “Which island can she have meant? If you set sail from Klintehamn and head around Hoburgen, then you’re headed north along the east coast, right?”

  “Unless they were heading over to the Estonian archipelago?” said Sara.

  “That’s true, that’s quite conceivable. That definitely sounds like more of an adventure, more to Arvid Traneus’s taste maybe.”

  “But if we stick to Gotland, then Östergarnsholm is almost the only island on the east side,” said Lennart. “There are a few small islets out there—flat patches of grass full of angry seagulls—but nothing that would really qualify as a final destination.”

  Fredrik continued reading.

  “There’s not much to go on here. She writes about the kids, the food, the weather. ‘We went ashore next to the lighthouse. Rickard and Elin were ashore before Arvid even had time to moor the boat properly.’”

  “Could be anywhere,” said Lennart.

  “Here,” said Sara, “this is a year earlier, ninety-three. It says something here about the Adventure.”

  “Read it,” said Lennart.

  Sara gave him a quick look, but managed to refrain from saying what had been on the tip of her tongue. Instead she started to read.

  “‘July twenty-first. The Adventure put out from Klintehamn at eight o’clock in the morning. Light breeze. Would we be able to make it without having to use the engine? We put up the spinnaker.’”

  “Call the girl,” Lennart interjected, “she must know.”

  “Elin Traneus?” Sara asked.

  “Yeah,” said Lennart. “That’s the simplest solution isn’t it. Unless you want to keep her out of it for s
ome reason.”

  Sara and Fredrik looked at each other.

  “Isn’t there anything there?” asked Fredrik.

  Sara scanned a few paragraphs mumblingly, then continued out loud.

  “‘Dropped anchor alee of the headland. The sea report promised a calm night. Stefania can still show brief flashes of her old self when Elin and Rickard manage to draw her out of herself. A lively water fight broke out between the three of them. Went on for a long while before she suddenly caught herself and went and lay down with a book. Rickard and Elin stopped, too, and instead went to play cave explorers. I went along. Elin bobbed up and down inside the cave in her red life vest. Rickard took her in tow.’”

  “Östergarnsholm,” said Lennart. “I can bet you a hundred crowns.”

  “I’m in,” said Sara in a flash without really thinking about it.

  They shook on it.

  “Easy money,” said Lennart.

  55.

  The trick was to stay warm and dry. He was wearing a union suit, a windproof Helly Hansen top, and a windbreaker on top of that. Waterproof shoes.

  Father had taught him how to dress properly and what supplies to bring along. Even if he never managed to get his business degree he knew how to dress properly.

  Apart from wearing the right clothes, there were only two ways to stay warm on the island; either by moving continuously or else crawling down into the sleeping bag in the alcohol-soaked room in the old lighthouse. He had walked over to the new lighthouse on the east end of the island and back again, had seen the distant tower grow ever larger until he finally had to bend his neck back in order to look up at the lantern room at the top with a crop of antennae on its roof. Then he turned toward the gray, can-like building where he had spent the night. He’d had to open his jacket and sweater a little at the neck on the way back. He was still hot, but the heat quickly radiated away when he stood still. His clothes could only retain it for short time.

  His mouth tasted of fat and smoke from the sausage he had eaten for lunch.

  Why had he come out here? Was it because there was no way out? No way out of himself?

  The daylight wasn’t enough anymore. It didn’t help that the sun broke through the tears in the cloud cover. The visions left him no peace. No matter how light it was, he was sucked into a darkness of bleeding eyes staring at him. They bled forth the realization that there was no going back. He was what he was, something he had never thought he could be, and would remain forever.

  When that realization grabbed hold of him, he wanted more than anything to run headlong up the bluff and throw himself off. But he didn’t do it.

  Was that what he was going to do? Was he building up his courage to overcome the last memories of Elin and Stefania, of the bleached-white bird skeletons and fire ants, the last fragments of a few happy summer days that seemed so distant that they might just as well have belonged to somebody else?

  And maybe they did, too. He was someone else now, someone else entirely, about as far away from being an innocent child on a summer adventure as it was possible to be. The sun wasn’t shining on him anymore. There was no light that could penetrate his darkness.

  Father’s head rose up out of a hole in the ground. It stared at him with empty eye sockets, the eyes eaten away by worms and insects.

  The white skin smelled of smoked sausage. His silence had made Father into a murderer. For weeks he had been singled out as a murderer right up until he had been absolved by the remains of his own corpse. Only once his head had come out of the ground had his reputation been restored.

  56.

  “You shouldn’t have taken him up on it,” said Fredrik once they had pulled their car doors shut.

  “I can’t stand it when he acts so damn certain.”

  She glanced at Fredrik out of the corner of her eye.

  “I guess I’ll live to regret it?”

  “Don’t know,” said Fredrik, “but I hope so.”

  It took them barely twenty minutes to drive to Herrvik from Lennart’s house. The little fishing harbor looked deserted as it came into view below Grogarnsberget. There wasn’t a person to be seen anywhere, but stacks of fishing crates, fishing nets, and other equipment hinted that it was still a working harbor. A fishing boat with a shimmering green hull was moored along the concrete quayside. Black net floats marked with bleached flags lay sprawled amidships. Along the pier over by the parking lot lay two older pleasure boats and a little fishing boat without any equipment. The red fishing huts were shuttered, except for one with the sign HARBOR OFFICE above the door.

  Fredrik parked the car in the middle of the large asphalt parking lot where only two other cars were standing. He turned off the engine. The restaurant that lay on a little rise above the parking lot was also closed. It was in there that Eva Karlén had dumped him one Sunday in July a little over two years ago.

  “What now?” said Sara next to him.

  Fredrik looked out at the parking lot.

  “We should run a check on those cars,” he said. “Would be a shame if we missed something that easy. If you do that, I’ll go and check with the harbor office.”

  “Okay,” said Sara.

  Fredrik climbed out of the car and walked the short distance over to the harbor office. The windows were dark. There was a handwritten note taped up to the windowpane directing inquiries to a cell phone number.

  He turned his back to it as the phone began to ring at the other end. The flags on the fishing buoys flapped hard in the wind, but he was standing sheltered from the wind.

  “Hello? Maj speaking,” a woman answered out of breath after it had rung so many times that Fredrik ought to have hung up a long time ago.

  He introduced himself and explained his reason for calling. He had heard that there was a fisherman who used to take people out to Östergarnsholm during the tourist season. Would it be possible to get hold of him?

  “Sure,” said Maj and gave him another cell phone number.

  The fisherman’s name was Evert Söderman. Sounded more like someone from Roslagen than from Gotland.

  “He’s usually quick to answer.”

  Fredrik went back to the car and slid into the driver’s seat. It was muggy inside the car, so he kept the door ajar.

  “Nothing of interest,” said Sara, “both cars are registered to people around here. No Traneus.”

  “Okay,” said Fredrik, “let’s see if we have any luck with the fisherman.”

  He called the number he’d gotten from Maj and got an answer on the second ring.

  “Evert Söderman,” said an elderly man as if he’d read the name from a slip of paper.

  Fredrik explained why he was calling.

  “Are you in Herrvik right now?” said Evert Söderman.

  “Yes,” answered Fredrik.

  “Are you the ones sitting in that Volvo?”

  “We’re sitting in a Volvo, if it’s that Volvo or not I can’t say,” said Fredrik and peered toward the houses across the inlet’s bluish-gray water, expecting to catch a glimpse of a man with a cell phone raised to his ear standing in one of the windows, but didn’t see anyone.

  Sara looked at him questioningly.

  “In the parking lot, down by the harbor office?” said the voice on the cell phone.

  “Yes,” said Fredrik after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I’ll be right down,” said Evert Söderman.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Fredrik. “We can do this over the phone.”

  “I was on my way down to the boat anyway.”

  “Well, in that case,” said Fredrik.

  He flipped his phone shut.

  “He’s coming down,” he said in answer to Sara’s questioning look.

  It didn’t take long before an old, well maintained, former phone company Volvo came rolling down to the quayside. Bright orange. It stopped as close to the little fishing boat as was possible. The man who climbed out was white haired, tall, and slightly hunched, but more springy
than slouched. He walked straight up to Fredrik and Sara, who met him halfway.

  “Evert Söderman,” he said and held out a hand that was knotted from a lifetime on the Baltic.

  He greeted Sara first.

  “You often take people out to Östergarnsholm, is that right?” asked Fredrik when they had shaken hands.

  “That’s right,” said Evert Söderman and squinted at Fredrik as if the light bothered him.

  “Have you taken anyone out there over the past few days?” he asked.

  “No, no,” said Evert Söderman and laughed. “Last time was a while ago. It’s mostly tourists.”

  “When was the last one?”

  “Must have been right at the beginning of September. Maj usually gives out my phone number when somebody asks,” said Evert Söderman.

  He smiled warmly at Fredrik, and glanced at Sara. The light from the breaks in the clouds flashed in his dark-gray eyes.

  “Do you know if anyone else might have taken someone out there this week?” said Fredrik. “Or rented someone a boat?”

  “No, I doubt it. Not that I’ve heard anything about, anyway.”

  “And nobody’s had a boat stolen, a skiff or a dinghy that’s been lying pulled up onshore somewhere?”

  “Nah, I would’ve heard about that.”

  He turned out toward the sea and looked north.

  “Of course, there are a few summer residents with small boats they keep up on land in the off-season. If one of those has disappeared, then it’s likely to take a while before it gets discovered.”

  He turned to Fredrik again.

  “So you’re out hunting boat thieves?”

  Fredrik excused himself and took Sara aside while Evert Söderman climbed nimbly aboard his boat, the Anita, and got busy with something.

  “We could ask him to take us out there,” he said to Sara.

  “To look for Rickard?”