The Blood Spilt

by Asa Larsson

  Like Nalle. Lisa has to smile when she thinks of him. She can see it in his new friend Rebecka Martinsson. When Lisa saw her for the first time last Tuesday evening, she was wearing that calf-length coat and the shiny scarf, definitely real silk. A stuck-up top-notch secretary, or whatever she was. And there was something about her, a microsecond’s hesitation perhaps. As if she always had to think before she spoke, made a gesture or even smiled. Nalle doesn’t bother about things like that. He goes marching into people’s hearts without taking his shoes off. One day with Nalle, and Rebecka Martinsson was walking around in an anorak from the seventies, her hair tied back with a rubber band, the sort that pulls out half your hair when you take it off.

  And he doesn’t know how to lie. Every other Thursday Mimmi serves afternoon tea at the bar. It’s become one of those events that the ladies from town travel out to Poikkijärvi for. Freshly baked scones with jam, a wide variety of cakes. The previous Thursday Mimmi had shouted angrily: “Who’s taken a bite out of my cakes?” Nalle, who’d been sitting there having a snack of a sandwich and a glass of milk, had immediately shot his hand up in the air and confessed: “Me!”

  Blessed Nalle, thinks Lisa.

  The very words Mildred used a thousand times.

  Mildred. When Lisa’s hardness cracked, Mildred poured in. Lisa was totally contaminated.

  It’s only three months since they lay on the kitchen sofa. They often ended up there, because the dogs had taken over the beds, and Mildred used to beg “don’t push them off, can’t you see how cozy they are?”

  Mildred is always really busy at the beginning of June. End of term services in schools, confirmations, playgroups breaking up for the summer, church youth groups finishing off and lots of weddings. Lisa is lying on her left side, leaning on her elbow. She is holding a cigarette in her right hand. Mildred is asleep, or she might be awake, or more likely somewhere in between the two. Her back is covered in hairs, a soft down all along the length of her spine. It’s like a special gift, the fact that Lisa who is so fond of dogs has a lover whose back is like a puppy’s tummy. Or perhaps a wolf’s stomach.

  “What is it with you and that wolf?” asks Lisa.

  Mildred has had a real wolf spring. She got ninety seconds on the evening news program, talking about wolves. There was a concert, with the proceeds going to the wolf foundation. She’s even preached a sermon about the she-wolf.

  Mildred turns onto her back. She takes the cigarette from Lisa. Lisa doodles on Mildred’s stomach with her finger.

  “Well,” she says, and it’s obvious she’s making a real effort to answer the question. “There’s something about wolves and women. We’re alike. I look at that she-wolf and she reminds me of what we were created for. Wolves are incredibly patient. Just imagine, they can live in polar regions where it’s minus fifty degrees, and in the desert where it’s plus fifty. They’re territorial, their boundaries are set in stone. And they roam for miles, completely free. They help each other within the pack, they’re loyal, they love their cubs more than anything. They’re like us.”

  “You haven’t got any cubs,” says Lisa, regretting it almost immediately, but Mildred isn’t offended.

  “I’ve got you lot,” she laughs.

  “They’re brave enough to stay in one place when it’s necessary,” Mildred continues her sermon, “they’re brave enough to move on when they have to, they’re not afraid to fight and attack if need be. And they’re…alive. And happy.”

  She tries to blow smoke rings while she thinks about it.

  “It’s to do with my faith,” she says. “The whole of the Bible is full of men with a major task to do, a task that comes before everything, wife, children and…well, everything. There’s Abraham and Jesus and…my father followed in their footsteps in his work as a priest, you know. My mother was responsible for where we lived, visits to the dentist, Christmas cards. But for me Jesus is the one who allows women to start thinking, to move on if they have to, to be like a she-wolf. And when I’m starting to feel bitter and weepy, he says to me: Come on, be happy instead.”

  Lisa carries on doodling on Mildred’s stomach, her index finger traces a path across her breasts and her hip bones.

  “You know they hate her, don’t you?” she says.

  “Who?” asks Mildred.

  “The men in the village,” says Lisa. “The ones on the hunting team. Torbjörn Ylitalo. At the beginning of the eighties he was convicted of hunting crimes. He shot a wolf down in Dalarna. That’s where his wife comes from.”

  Mildred sits bolt upright.

  “You’re joking!”

  “I’m not joking. He should really have lost his gun license. But Lars-Gunnar is a policeman, and you know how it is. And it’s the police authorities who decide these things, and he used his contacts, and…Where are you going?”

  Mildred has shot up off the kitchen sofa. The dogs come rushing in. They think they’re going out. She doesn’t take any notice of them. Pulls on her clothes.

  “Where are you going?” asks Lisa again.

  “Those bloody old men,” says Mildred furiously. “How could you? How could you have known about this all along and not said anything?”

  Lisa sits up. She’s always known. After all, she was married to Tommy and Tommy was a friend of Torbjörn Ylitalo. She looks at Mildred, who fails to fasten her wristwatch and pushes it into her pocket instead.

  “They hunt for free,” snaps Mildred. “The church gives them everything, they won’t let a single bloody person in, least of all women. But the women, they work and sort things out and have to wait for their reward in heaven. I’m so bloody tired of it. It really does send out a message about how the church regards men and women, but enough is damned well enough!”

  “My God, you can swear!”

  Mildred turns to Lisa.

  “You ought to try it,” she says.

  Magnus Lindmark was standing by his kitchen window in the dusk. He hadn’t switched on the lights. Every contour, every object both inside and outside had become blurred, begun to dissolve, disappearing into the darkness.

  However, he could still see Lars-Gunnar Vinsa, the leader of the hunting team, and Torbjörn Ylitalo, the chairman of the hunting club, walking up the road toward Magnus’ house. He hid behind the curtain. What the hell did they want? And why weren’t they driving? Had they parked a little way off and walked the last part? Why? He had a really bad feeling about this.

  Whatever they wanted, he was bloody well going to tell them he didn’t have time. Unlike those two, he did actually have a job. Well, okay, Torbjörn Ylitalo was a forester, but he didn’t do any bloody work, nobody could pretend he did.

  Magnus Lindmark didn’t often get visitors nowadays, not since Anki and the boys left. He used to think it was a pain in the ass, all her relatives and the boys’ friends coming round. And it wasn’t his style to pretend and smile sweetly. So in the end her sisters and friends used to clear off when he got home. That had suited him down to the ground. He couldn’t do with people sitting around rabbiting for hours. Hadn’t they got anything else to do?

  They were on the porch now, knocking on the door. Magnus’ car was in the yard, so he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t home.

  Torbjörn Ylitalo and Lars-Gunnar Vinsa came in without waiting for Magnus to open the door. They were standing in the kitchen.

  Torbjörn Ylitalo switched the light on.

  Lars-Gunnar looked around. Suddenly Magnus realized what his kitchen looked like.

  “It’s a bit…I’ve had a lot…” he said.

  The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and old milk cartons. Two bags crammed full of empty stinking cans by the door. Clothes he’d just dropped on the floor on his way into the shower, he should have chucked them in the laundry room. The table covered in junk mail, letters, old newspapers and a bowl of yogurt, the yogurt dried up and cracked. On the worktop next to the microwave lay a boat engine in bits; he was going to fix it sometime.

  Ma
gnus asked, but neither of them wanted coffee. Nor a beer. Magnus himself opened a Pilsner, his fifth of the evening.

  Torbjörn got straight down to business.

  “What have you been saying to the police?” he asked.

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  Torbjörn Ylitalo’s eyes narrowed. Lars-Gunnar’s stance became somehow heavier.

  “Let’s not be stupid, Magnus,” said Torbjörn. “You told them I wanted to shoot the priest.”

  “Crap! That cow of a detective’s full of crap, she…”

  He didn’t get any further. Lars-Gunnar had taken a step forward and hit him with a blow that was like having your ears boxed by a grizzly.

  “Don’t you stand there lying to us!”

  Magnus blinked and raised his hand to his burning cheek.

  “What the fuck,” he whimpered.

  “I’ve stuck up for you,” said Lars-Gunnar. “You’re a bloody loser, I’ve always thought so. But for your father’s sake we’ve let you into the team. And we’ve let you stay, despite your bloody antics.”

  A hint of defiance flared in Magnus.

  “Oh, so you’re a better person than me, are you? You’re superior in some way, are you?”

  Now it was Torbjörn’s turn to give him a thump in the chest. Magnus staggered backwards, cannoning into the worktop with the back of his thighs.

  “Right, now you just listen!”

  “I’ve put up with you,” Lars-Gunnar went on. “Going out shooting at road signs with your new gun, you and your pals. That bloody fight in the hunting lodge a couple of years ago. You can’t hold your drink. But you carry on boozing and do such stupid bloody things.”

  “What the fuck, the fight, that wasn’t me, that was Jimmy’s cousin, he…”

  A new thump in the chest from Torbjörn. Magnus dropped the can of beer. It lay there, the beer trickling out onto the floor.

  Lars-Gunnar wiped the sweat from his brow. It was running past his eyebrows and down his cheeks.

  “And those bloody kittens…”

  “Yes, for fuck’s sake,” Torbjörn chipped in.

  Magnus managed a foolish, drunken giggle.

  “What the fuck, a few cats…”

  Lars-Gunnar punched him in the face. Clenched fist. Right on the nose. It felt as if his face had split open. Warm blood poured down over his mouth.

  “Come on then!” roared Lars-Gunnar. “Here, come on, here!”

  He pointed at his own chin.

  “Come on! Here! Now you’ve got the chance to fight a real man. You cowardly little bastard, tormenting women. You’re a fucking disgrace. Come on!”

  He beckoned Magnus toward him with both hands. Stuck his chin out to entice him.

  Magnus was holding his right hand under his bleeding nose, the blood was running up his shirtsleeve. He waved Lars-Gunnar away with his left hand.

  Suddenly Lars-Gunnar leaned heavily on the kitchen table.

  “I’m going outside,” he said to Torbjörn Ylitalo. “Before I do something I might regret.”

  Before he went out through the door, he turned around.

  “You can report me if you want,” he said. “I don’t care. That’s just what I’d expect from you.”

  “But you’re not going to do that,” said Torbjörn Ylitalo when Lars-Gunnar had gone. “And you’re going to keep your mouth shut about anything to do with me and the hunting team. Have you got that?”

  Magnus nodded.

  “If I hear you’ve been opening your big mouth again, I personally will make sure you regret it. Understand?”

  Magnus nodded again. He was tilting his face upward in an effort to stop the blood pouring out of his nose. It ran back into his throat instead, tasted like iron.

  “The hunting permit will be renewed at the end of the year,” Torbjörn went on. “If there’s a lot of talk or trouble…well, who knows. Nothing’s certain in this world. You’ve got your place in the team, but only if you behave yourself.”

  There was silence for a little while.

  “Right then, make sure you put some ice on that,” said Torbjörn eventually.

  Then he left as well.

  Lars-Gunnar Vinsa was sitting out on the steps, his head in his hands.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Torbjörn.

  “Fuck,” said Lars-Gunnar. “But my father used to hit my mother, you know. So it just makes me furious…I should have killed him, my father, I mean. When I’d finished my police training and moved back here, I tried to get her to divorce him. But back then, in the sixties, you had to talk to the priest first. And the bastard persuaded her to stay with the old man.”

  Torbjörn Ylitalo gazed out across the overgrown meadow bordering on to Magnus’ property.

  “Come on,” he said.

  Lars-Gunnar got up with some difficulty.

  He was thinking about that priest. His bald, shiny pate. His neck, like a pile of sausages. Fuck. His mother, sitting there with her best coat on. Her bag on her knee. Lars-Gunnar sitting beside her to keep her company. The priest, a little smile on his face. As if it were some bloody joke. “Old lady,” the priest had said to her. His mother had just turned fifty. She would live for more than thirty years. “Will you not be reconciled with your husband instead?” Afterward she’d been very quiet. “That’s it, it’s all sorted,” Lars-Gunnar had said. “You’ve spoken to the priest, now you can get a divorce.” But his mother had shaken her head. “It’s easier now you youngsters have left home,” she’d replied. “How would he manage without me?”

  * * *

  Magnus Lindmark watched the two men disappear down the road. He opened the freezer and rummaged about. Took out a plastic bag of frozen mince, lay down on the living room sofa with a fresh can of beer, placed the frozen mince on his nose and switched on the TV. There was some documentary about dwarves, poor bastards.

  Rebecka Martinsson is buying a packed meal from Mimmi. She is on her way down to Kurravaara. She might stay there tonight. When Nalle was there, it felt fine. Now she’s going to try it on her own. She’s going to have a sauna and swim in the river. She knows how it will feel. Cold water, sharp stones beneath her feet. The sharp intake of breath when you jump in, quick strokes as you swim out. And that inexplicable feeling of being at one with yourself at different ages. She’s bathed there, swum there as a six-year-old, a ten-year-old, a teenager, right up until she moved away from the town. The same big stones, the same shoreline. The same chilly autumn evening air, pouring like a river of air over the river of water. It’s like a Russian doll with all the little dolls safely inside, so that you can screw the top part and the bottom part back together, knowing that even the tiniest is safe and sound inside.

  Then she’ll eat alone in the kitchen and watch television. She can have the radio on while she washes up. Maybe Sivving will come over when he sees the light.

  “So you were off on an adventure with Nalle today?”

  It’s Micke who’s asking, the bar owner. He’s got kind eyes. They don’t really go with his muscular, tattooed arms, his beard and his earring.

  “Yes,” she replies.

  “Cool. He and Mildred were often out and about together.”

  “Yes,” she says.

  I’ve done something for her, she thinks.

  Mimmi has arrived with Rebecka’s food.

  “Tomorrow evening,” says Micke, “do you fancy working here for a few hours? It’s Saturday, everybody’s back from their holidays, the schools have gone back, it’ll be packed in here. Fifty kronor an hour, eight till one, plus tips.”

  Rebecka looks at him in amazement.

  “Sure,” she says, trying not to look too pleased. “Why not?”

  She drives away. Feels full of mischief.

  YELLOW LEGS

  November. The gray light of dawn comes slowly. It has snowed during the night, and feather light flakes are still floating down in the silent forest. From somewhere comes the croaking of a raven.

  The w
olf pack is sleeping in a little hollow, completely covered in snow. Not even their ears are sticking up. All the cubs but one have survived the summer. There are eleven members of the pack now.

  Yellow Legs stands up and shakes off the snow. Sniffs the air. The snow has settled like a blanket over all the old scent trails. Swept the air and the ground clean. She sharpens her senses. The keen eye. The alert ear. And there. She hears the sound of an elk rising from its overnight resting place, shaking off the snow. It’s a kilometer away. Hunger makes its presence known like an aching void in her stomach. She wakes the others and gives the signal. There are many of them now, they can hunt such large prey.

  The elk is a dangerous quarry. It has strong hind legs and sharp hooves. It could easily break her jaw with one kick, like a branch. But Yellow Legs is a skillful hunter. And she is daring.

  The pack trots calmly in the direction of the elk. Soon they will pick up the scent. The cubs, now seven months old, are told with irritated silent yelps and nudges to stay behind the rest of the pack. They have already begun to catch small animals, but on this hunt they are allowed to come along only as observers. They know something big is happening, and are quivering with suppressed excitement. The older wolves are saving their strength. It is only their noses, raised in the air from time to time, that reveal the fact that this is not just a normal relocation, but the beginning of a demanding hunt. It is more likely that it will fail than succeed, but there is a determination in the way Yellow Legs moves. She’s hungry. And these days she works hard for the pack, all the time. Daren’t leave to go off on her own as she used to do. She senses that she is on the way to being driven out. One fine day, she may not be allowed to return. Her half-sister, the alpha female, keeps her on a tight rein. Yellow Legs always approaches the alpha pair with her hind legs bent and her back low in order to show them her submissiveness. Her backside drags along the ground. She crawls and licks the corners of their mouths. She is the most skillful hunter in the pack, but that no longer helps. They can manage without her, and somehow they all know that her days are numbered.