When we’d taken our thirteenth dip and had opened the last apple juice, Edmund put on his glasses and said:
“I have a feeling.”
It sounded serious and his expression was uncommonly earnest.
“You do?” I asked.
“Yes,” Edmund said.
“What kind of feeling?”
Edmund hesitated.
“That it’s all going to hell soon.”
I took a gulp of juice and asked: “What’s going to hell?”
Edmund sighed and said he didn’t know. I waited before asking if maybe he meant what was going on between my brother and Ewa Kaludis. And Berra Albertsson.
Edmund nodded. “I think so,” he said. “Something’s gonna happen. It can’t go on like this. It’s like … it’s like waiting for a storm. Can’t you feel it?”
I didn’t answer. What my father had said that May evening at home in the kitchen on Idrottsgatan popped into my head.
A rough summer. It’s going to be a rough summer.
Then I thought of Ewa Kaludis. And about Mulle, unconscious. About Edmund’s real father. About my mother’s gray hands resting on the hospital blanket. As somber as the color of blueberry-stained gruel.
“We’ll see,” I said in the end. “Only time will tell.”
A couple of days passed. The heat held. We swam, lay on the dock and read, rowed to Laxman’s and to Fläskhällen. Everything seemed back to normal. Henry sat in the shade, writing and smoking his Luckys, and we took care of the meals in exchange for fair compensation. Five or ten kronor. In the evenings Henry left in Killer and often didn’t come home until late at night. He never said a word about Ewa Kaludis and neither did we ask. We bit our tongues and behaved like gentlemen. Like Arsène Lupin. Or the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Or Colonel Darkin.
“If you can’t be anything else, you can damn well be a gentleman,” went one of Edmund’s sayings from Ångermanland, and I agreed with him—period.
The next time she appeared at Gennesaret, it was the fourth of July. I remember the date well because Edmund and I had been talking about George Washington and the Declaration of Independence. And about President Kennedy and his Jackie. It was a little past ten at night; we’d just had our chocolate milk and a buttered rusk, as we did before bedtime; it was a bright evening and Henry always had a cigarette lit to keep the mosquitoes away.
The three of us must have heard the moped at the same time. Edmund and I looked at each other across the kitchen table and the clatter of the typewriter stopped. It took her thirty seconds to reach the parking spot. She revved the engine and then switched it off.
“Hmm,’” said Edmund. “I need a whizz.”
“Well, when you put it that way,” I said.
At first I didn’t recognize her. For one flashing second, I couldn’t fathom that the woman who emerged from the lilacs and ran those few steps across the grass before throwing her arms around my brother was in fact Ewa Kaludis.
Ewa Kaludis/Kim Novak on the red Puch. Ewa Kaludis with the glittering eyes and the ripe, bouncing breasts. With the black slacks and the red hairband and the unbuttoned Swanson shirt fluttering in the wind.
But it was her. And she was wearing the Swanson shirt and the slacks today too. Or a similar pair at least. But no red hairband. No glitter in her eyes and no broad smile. Just one eye, to be precise. The other, the right, looked like it had been replaced by two plums. Or like someone had smashed two plums where her eye was supposed to be. Her lips weren’t themselves either. The upper lip had sort of been flattened and seemed to reach all the way up to her nose. The lower lip was large and swollen and had a wide dark line in the center. One of her cheeks bore a large bluish stain. She looked awful and it took me a moment to realize what must have happened. Somebody must’ve done this to her. Someone had used their fists on Ewa Kaludis’s face. Someone had … that someone …
I think I blacked out as soon as I pieced it together. I hurt my eyes and heard Edmund cursing under his breath beside me. When I looked up, Ewa Kaludis was wrapped in my brother’s embrace; he held her with both arms, stroking her back, and you could see that she was crying. Henry’s head was bowed down, and he was mumbling something into her hair. Her shoulders shook in time with her sobs.
Other than Edmund letting out another trembling curse, nothing happened for a while. Henry helped Ewa sit down at the table where he’d been writing, and then he turned to us.
“Listen,” he said, and his eyes darted between us. “I don’t care what you do, but make damn well sure you leave us alone. Go to bed, or go rowing on the lake, anything, but Ewa and I have to be by ourselves now. Understood?”
I nodded. Edmund nodded.
“Good,” said Henry. “Now, scram.”
I cast a glance at Edmund. Then we went for a piss. Then we went to bed.
She was still there the next morning.
Edmund and I had discussed the situation for the better part of the night and we both slept until late morning. As I staggered down the stairs to get to the toilet before it was too late, Ewa was sitting on one of the chairs under the ash tree wearing Henry’s ragged terry-cloth robe. She seemed to be freezing cold and when she hesitantly raised her hand in greeting, I got a lump in my throat. I had to swallow a few times to clear it.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m just going to do my ablutions. I’ll be back in a flash.”
She did something with her face. Maybe she was trying to smile.
I peed, took a swim, and returned. Edmund was still snoozing. Henry was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed the other chair and sat down with Ewa. Across from her and to the side, quite close.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
She shook her head gingerly.
“Not too bad.”
I swallowed and tried not to look at her.
“It’ll pass,” I said. “In a few days you’ll be the most beautiful person in the world again.”
She tried smiling again, but had as much luck as with the last time. She flinched, presumably because of the pain, and put her hand in front of her mouth.
“I look terrible,” she said. “Please don’t look at me.”
I turned my head away and studied the tree trunk instead. It was gray and rough and not particularly interesting.
“Where’s Henry?” I asked.
“He went to town to buy some bandages. He’ll be back soon.”
“Okay.”
After a long pause, I said: “It’s terrible. I mean, that someone would do this to you.”
She didn’t reply. Just straightened up in the chair and cleared her throat a few times. I guessed she had blood in her throat. The victims in some of the books I’d read had that, and it sounded like she did, too.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Something to drink?”
She blinked a few times with her good eye.
“No, thank you,” she said. “You’re sweet, Erik.”
“Oh, bother,” I said.
She cleared her throat again and wiped her forehead with the sleeve of the robe.
“You have to learn how to take it as it comes,” she said. “You have to.”
“Yeah?” I said.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve had worse.”
“Worse?” I said.
“When I was your age,” she continued. “And younger. I come from another country, as you may know. It was just me and my sister. My parents stayed behind. We traveled across the sea in a boat, not much bigger than your rowing boat … I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Neither do I,” I admitted.
“Maybe it’s because Henry told me about your mother,” she said after a pause. “I know you’re not having an easy time, Erik. I didn’t know before, but I know now.”
I nodded and looked at the pattern o
f the bark. It hadn’t changed.
“You don’t like talking about it?”
I didn’t answer. Ewa studied me with her good eye. Then she leaned forward in the chair and patted the grass in front of her.
“Have a seat here, please.”
I hesitated at first, but then I did as she said. I floundered out of the chair and sat on the ground between her knees. Rested my neck on the chair’s slats. Felt her thighs on either side of me.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
I closed my eyes. She took hold of my shoulders and gave me a slow, gentle massage.
Slow and gentle. Strong and warm. I felt dizzy. With all the new discoveries and experiences this summer, surely a hundred years must have passed since graduating from Stava School.
“Your shoulders are tense. Try to relax.”
I relaxed and became like putty in her hands. I got an erection of course, but I made sure it was hidden in my baggy swimming trunks. Then I gave into the pleasure of sitting between Ewa’s legs, enjoying her hands. I noticed I was crying again, but this time there weren’t any tears. Just a pleasant, gentle buzz behind my eyes, and for one clear, bright second I knew what it was like to be Henry.
My brother Henry.
Eventually Edmund woke up, and eventually Henry returned from his trip to the pharmacy, but that didn’t matter. When Ewa let go of my shoulders and mussed my hair it felt like we’d entered into a sworn fellowship. Or had made some sort of secret pact. We hadn’t spoken much—not at all, actually. We were just sitting on the lawn together, but still it was something else, as Edmund might have said.
Well and truly something else. I thought about it once or twice a day in the time leading up to the Incident, and every time I did, a strong, hot feeling filled me. Hot and strong just like her hands on my tense shoulders.
The feeling of slipping into a nice hot bath after a cold winter’s day, that’s what I was thinking.
Like that, but radiating from within.
-
13
Henry left with Ewa that night. He must have rode the Puch and Ewa drove Killer; when you only have one good eye, it must be harder to drive a moped than it is to drive a car. In any case, the parking area was empty when Edmund and I returned around 10 p.m. from our long bike ride.
Then another couple of days passed. The weather volleyed between sun and rain. But overall it was nice and hot. We tried our hand at fishing, but Möckeln had a reputation for being dead when it came to fish, and anyway neither Edmund nor I were thrilled to be sitting around staring at a float.
Even less thrilled, in fact, by the thought of having to reel in a poor dace or perch and stick a knife in it. Or whack it until it died. Or whatever you did to fish.
As luck would have it, we never needed to come up with a solution to the problem because we didn’t catch a single fish.
But Edmund did catch strep throat. A mild case—according to his own diagnosis; he’d had strep throat a few times before—but he was still lethargic and feverish and preferred to sleep. Or read.
“Read, sleep, drink,” he said. “From these threads, my wellness is woven.”
“Another saying from the heart of Lapland?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Edmund said. “My dad says that.”
“Your real one?”
“No, for Christ’s sake,” said Edmund. “Not him. He’s full of crap.”
Those days it was harder than usual to talk to Henry. When he wasn’t out with Killer running errands, he mostly went around muttering and smoking. His writing didn’t seem to be moving forward either; often he just sat staring at the Facit, as if he were trying convince it to write the existential novel itself. Sometimes I heard him curse and tear a sheet of paper out of the roller. He was constantly grumbling and irate.
Because both my brother and Edmund were busy with themselves—Edmund with his strep throat, Henry with other things—I kept to myself as well. I drew more than ten pages of Colonel Darkin and the Mysterious Heiress and didn’t think the result was too shabby. Since I’d decided to censor all the half-naked female bodies, it was much easier to get on with the story. I guess that’s how it is, I thought with a measure of resignation. As in literature, so in life.
The monotony of those days carried over into mealtimes, too. Edmund had lost his appetite and when Henry ate, you got the feeling that you might just as well have set a plate of moss in front of him. He didn’t care what he put in his mouth. Because of this and everything else, we mostly ate potatoes with butter. We put two jars of pickled herring on the table at every meal, but none of us bothered to twist off one of the lids and take a whiff.
It was what it was, and we had a decent stockpile of potatoes.
I’d just finished And Then There Were None and was facing the wall, about to fall asleep, when I heard them on the lawn.
Henry and Ewa. I looked at my self-illuminating watch. Twelve thirty. Edmund was breathing heavily with his mouth open over in his bed. It was a blustery day and every now and then a tree branch whipped the window. I couldn’t help but think how safe and secure it felt lying in a warm bed. How free from danger.
Well, only for as long as you were lying in bed. The reality beyond the bed was another matter. Something else. The simple act of putting your feet on the cold floor and then going out into the world meant you were exposing yourself to countless risks and dangers. There were Henrys and Ewas and Edmunds, of course. But also black eyes and swollen lips and fists as hard and merciless as rock. Decisions to be made and matters to be handled whether you wanted to or not. Dads who hit and Treblinkas and cancerous tumors that grew and grew.
Out in the world. Beyond the bed, on the floor. I rolled over and pulled the blanket around me more tightly. I could hear Henry and Ewa speaking softly down below. No music tonight, apparently. No rhythmic creaking of the bed or lusty whimpers. It wasn’t that kind of night. This night was different.
I wondered what they were talking about. I thought about that trick detectives used in the movies where they put a glass up against the wall. If that really did work, it could work with the floor as well.
There was a half-full glass next to Edmund’s bed. Drinking plenty of liquids was part of his war against strep throat, so if I wanted to find out if I could hear them—if I really wanted to know what Ewa and Henry were discussing down there—it wouldn’t have taken much. All I had to do was open the window and toss out the apple juice, lie on the floor with my ear to the glass, the glass to the wooden boards. Easy as pie.
I couldn’t be bothered. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe I felt it wouldn’t be gentlemanly.
If nothing else, you can damn well be a gentleman.
It wasn’t a bad rule to live by, Edmund and I agreed. The gentility of standing in the flower bed and jerking to Ewa and Henry the other night was debatable, but surely even a gentleman had his off days. Like the sun has its spots.
I was musing from the comfort of my own bed. The voices below were but a distant mumbling and when I finally drifted off, my dream muted Henry’s dark voice. I only heard Ewa’s; she was speaking to me. She was sitting next to me in bed, or rather, behind me and to the side, and she was massaging my tense shoulders again.
My shoulders and other things. If I’d never woken up from that dream, it wouldn’t have mattered.
The next morning, there was a note on the kitchen table that read: Have a lot to take care of. Will be back after midnight. Meatballs and peaches in the pantry. Henry.
It wasn’t like my brother to leave a note about what he was up to, and I guessed Ewa Kaludis was behind it. Henry wasn’t usually away from Gennesaret for more than six or eight hours at a time and now he’d be gone both day and night, apparently, but it still wasn’t like him to leave a note like this. Not my brother.
I checked to see if there really were two cans on the shelf in the
pantry. There were. One with Mother Elna’s moose meatballs in a creamy sauce. One with halved pears in thick syrup. It didn’t sound half bad, even if I didn’t really see the point of the syrup. Assuming Edmund’s lack of appetite held strong, I could—if nothing else—look forward to one square meal later in the day. Shame there wasn’t any cream for the peaches, but biking or rowing all the way to Laxman’s for a splash of cream seemed excessive. Not worth worrying about with the clouds of unease that had been rolling in lately.
It was quite an idle day. At least to begin with. Edmund was on the mend, he said, but only slightly. It would probably take another day or two to be rid of the damn strep, he figured.
So: sleep, read, and drink, then. No outings whatsoever. Not to Laxman’s, not anywhere. There were no two ways about it, he had no desire to get out of bed. He was “convalescing,” as they liked to say in Västerbotten.
I placed two bottles of apple juice on the table, wished him well, and went outside and sat on one of the easy chairs with Darkin and a new Agatha Christie. The last one hadn’t been bad; the new one was called The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and Edmund said it was one hell of a story.
And that was basically how I spent the day before the Incident. Sitting in the sun lounger with Colonel Darkin and Agatha Christie. Edmund came out a few times, but when the sun was shining he thought it was too hot and when it disappeared behind the clouds, he froze. He complained he was having a hard time reading, because he kept forgetting what was on the pages he read at bedtime and had to start from the top when he woke up. I suggested he try rereading Journey to the Center of the Earth—you could make sense of that one backward and upside-down—but he said he wasn’t in the mood for Jules Verne. He needed something like Patrick Quentin and Ellery Queen, and you couldn’t really read crime novels more than once.
There were exceptions, of course.
The Summer of Kim Novak Page 10