Sitting on the freezing bakelite ring I wondered at it. It was the same seat as sixty years ago.
My mind was a mess. I didn’t want any more paintings. Didn’t want to be told more stories that might not even be true.
For the first time since john and I had met I thought maybe he was seriously unwell. That all his stories were made up. Fantasies. I carried the painting up into the coldattic. Put it down between the many boxes stuffed with mother’s embroideries and thought that in future someone might pull the wrapping paper off it and wonder what it was meant to be.
I locked the rifle into the gun cupboard and quickly changed out of bror’s hunting kit.
Smalångerhomecareservices were expecting the presence of janakippo. It was already half past six. I packed a couple of bananas and a pot of yoghurt. Put on one of bror’s clean shirts and a pair of his jeans. Drove to work.
My mobile pinged now and then during the day. A picture of lukas next to a bull elk. Another of eight naked saunalads beaming at the camera. The messages made me happy. Read them several times with a feeling that was new to me. From long habit I kept my distance from groups of every kind. Contented myself with watching their warm togetherness from the other side of the windowpane.
When we all got together in the service office at the end of the day I asked my workmates if they’d like to come to my house for a meal once the elk cows were in season and the hunting had to stop. To my surprise they seemed genuinely pleased. Even märitljungqvist. We fixed a date.
The unaccustomed sense of belonging stayed with me as I drove home on the bumpy smalångerroad.
Petra was sitting on the step. She was smoking and puffed smoke through her nose like an angry bull. Flicked the fag end away to die in the grass.
Hi I said. Help me get some wood into the house. I reckon it’s cold.
We picked logs from what was left in the meagre pile of cut wood. I put one armful in the boiler and another in the kitchen stove.
Then I put water on to make tea. Petra looked around the kitchen.
Everything here looks the way it used to she said. Even the tablecloths are the same. Or it could be that it’s the tablecloths I remember specially. The way there was one of them everywhere.
Mother kept embroidering them I said. So when were you last here.
At least ten years ago. Could be longer. I came along with dad. He sold fish to you. I used to come with him out in the boat. But that was before.
Before what I asked as I poured hot water into the teapot.
Before things became so strange she said.
Wait I said I’ll just light a fire in the bestroom. The bestroom she said. I haven’t seen it.
The box was still on the table but the painting had gone. I had left it on one of the armchairs. Someone had been here. Her dad if that’s what he was had been tidying up.
This is a nice room she said and sat down at the piano. Played a few simple chords on the outoftune keys. They made a dull melancholy sound.
Do you play she asked.
No I said. It was mother’s piano. The book of chorales was still on the music rest.
I turned on the small lamps on the window sills and then thought briefly about the letters. I knew I had locked the door when I left. Or at least I had to unlock it when I came home. There was no spare key on the hook because I was using the spare.
The bestroom was still icy cold. We went back to the kitchen. Hungry I asked. We can share some spaghetti.
I put on water to boil the pasta.
Have you seen dad she asked. Not for a while. Why do you ask.
Because I’ve phoned him lots and he never answers. So next I went to his house and got in with my own key. It seemed to me that he hadn’t been there for quite a while. It was cold indoors. Colder than here.
How did it look I asked thinking about the chair I had hit him with until one of the handcarved legs had come off. The knockedover things.
Apart from some muck on the floor it looked as usual. I checked the bestroom as well. The paintings were gone and the easel was empty.
We ate spaghetti with a jar of pasta sauce and extra ketchup. At first we didn’t talk much or at least not about serious things. It felt good just being together. As if we knew each other well and had no need to keep the talk going.
It’s tough when everybody feels the right to have an opinion about mum petra said. Some people seem to think I’m just like her. Ordinary people I mean. Not just the guy who lives in two cars. It’s infuriating that everyone must have known lots about what was going on but didn’t do anything.
That’s how it is in smalånger I said. People know but keep their mouths shut. And it can be a good thing at times. About that guy jakobstenvall I went on cautiously thinking about the photo of maria I had seen in his car. Did he know your mum.
He must have she said. These days he doesn’t mention her but earlier. He wouldn’t talk about anything or anybody else. About how lovely she was and all that. He came to her funeral. He had even bought a wreath.
What did it say on the wreath I asked.
That was odd too she said. To my beloved maria the card said. As if his wife had died. He wept so loudly during the service people turned to look. He sat right at the back. When he noticed people were watching him he got up and left.
When petra left it was almost nine o’clock. The wind was growing stronger.
Drive carefully I said as one does.
I locked the door. Wished that lukas had been with me. Not even the cat was at home.
Bror was afraid of the dark. Not simply afraid but panicstricken. To cure him of his fear father would send him off at night to the earth cellar or the hay barn. When bror asked for a torch the answer was always the same. Get used to go without a light and your darksight will get better.
But bror’s problem had nothing to do with his eyesight. He dreaded the dark because he sensed that anything might happen and anyone materialise without warning. I felt the opposite because you could become invisible in the dark and disappear off father’s radar.
I was practically anaesthetised with tiredness but even so sleep wouldn’t come. And when I was finally dozing off I got a text message. It was from john.
Can we meet up he wrote. No I wrote back. Why. I don’t want to be with you.
Are you still angry.
What do you think. I called diana. Her number is not in use.
Maybe I can help you. How.
I’ll tell you. Where are you. Outside.
I pulled a cardigan over the nightdress and went downstairs telling myself I’m not afraid of john. But before opening the front door I went to the kitchen and pocketed a fruitknife.
He stood outside hunched up and looking cold. There was a cut on his forehead and his cheek was slightly bruised after the blow from my fist. Oddly enough my fist was allright. Not even tender.
We looked at each other for a while before he decided to come inside. I wanted to be angry with him but couldn’t. Seeing this odd man with his kafkaeyes made me feel warm inside.
Hi jana he said. It will be freezing soon. A cold wind followed him into the house.
I put on water for tea. He built a fire. Where would men be without fires to tend.
We sat at the kitchen table warming our hands on mugs of tea. I had never seen a more unhappy man. I wanted to ask him about many things but no sensible sentences formed in my mind.
So we went upstairs. When I took the cardigan off the fruitknife fell out.
He saw it and his sad face cracked in a smile. You’ve always been a warrior he said.
I’ve always been fearful I thought.
He went to lie in my girlish bed as near the wall as he could. I crept in next to him. I shouldn’t have but lacked the strength of mind to resist. I let my fingers stray across his chest and down over his belly. Everything was hard and angular and hairy and rough. I moved over to lie on top of him. The edge of the bed grazed my knee. Breathed in his skin. Deep breaths that mad
e me dizzy from excess oxygen. He pulled his fingers through my hair. Held my head tightly to see.
I want to see you he said but I didn’t want to be seen. Only to feel. My body rubbed itself against his hardon until I found the right place and pushed myself down on him until it hurt inside like period cramps. We lay still for a while. Like mating beetles. Or maybe like nothing other than a pair of excited people in a bed. I started to move. He groaned beneath me. Pleaded with me to go slowly but I didn’t want to slow down and upped my speed instead. I wanted him to come. Wanted to hear him howl in my narrow girl’s room and feel that I freely decided to make him do it from sheer desire to feel his large coarse cock chafing against my moist inner membranes.
Afterwards I slipped off him. I wanted to be beside him because I never could resist the pleasure of lying embedded in someone’s body.
Then I put my hand in his like a child. As I had many times before. Then we slept.
On an ordinary day the tapeworm’s whining would have woken me up at four but this morning I slept. I woke when the alarm clock rang at six but went back to sleep. Woke again at quarter past six called the homecare voicemail service and said I was unwell. The next time I woke it was because I had registered a noise I didn’t recognise.
John had got up. I dressed and went downstairs.
The noise came from outside. Looking through the window wasn’t helpful so I pulled my jacket on and went out. John had dragged the splitter out to cut the blocks of wood into halfmetre billets. He was working with his back turned my way and didn’t notice I was there.
Once split chopping the billets into shorter logs in the woodshed would be straightforward. He had his release. I got a pile of cut wood. We were both satisfied.
I made coffee and went to pick up the paper from the letterbox outside. He carried on splitting. The pile was growing large. He would be a while.
I turned the pages randomly in vk the local paper. It seemed thin and dull or perhaps it was me who was thin and dull. Local news never interested me much. Just reports about little people who had done little things. Cultivated a special tomato. Created lampshades from ostrich feathers. Won a beauty competition in the bahamas. The culture pages weren’t exciting either. The book reviewer penned uninteresting reviews about uninteresting books. He liked crime novels best. The opening of the picture exhibition at the adult education institute. A painter of icons had painted icons.
And then I saw a small rectangular advertisement framed in black and tucked in between ads for antique shops and mushrooms for sale on the second last page. It announced an art exhibition.
Works by johnbäckström at valedalen art gallery. Opening tenth november twothousandandsixteen.
The coffee was going cold. The fire had gone out in the cooker.
The door creaked. John stepped inside. His face had reddened from cold and hard work. Now his eyes were shining with vitality.
Are you exhibiting in valedalen. That’s news. Is it my life you’re showing off I asked.
Not just yours he said. Mine as well. And other people’s.
But we have things to talk about.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite me.
I took a couple of paintings with me when I travelled to town. Just wanted to show them to somebody. You said yourself that I could paint.
And that’s the truth I said. He could. I had never seen anyone like him.
The battalion of drunkards was lined up as always but I had carried on kneading. Shaping new memories.
We went upstairs and into the yellowroom. He turned on the overhead fluorescent strip light.
My creatures looked even uglier in the cold light. Eight dried cracked dirtybrown dwarfs.
He sat down on the floor and I sat down next to him.
He picked them up one by one. Placed them on the palm of his hand. Touched them with a finger before going on to the next one.
The still damp creatures were standing on a separate piece of cardboard. He leaned over them. His hair fell forward across his face.
There was the chapel with jesus the prophets the apostles and maria. A family on a beach. A boy on fire inside a barn.
A girl screaming underneath a wild man who would soon be chopped to bits.
In the grass under a tree a woman was lying down deep in prayer. And someone had picked up a baby and wandered away.
I think it was drops of sweat that fell onto the cardboard. He pulled me close to him. Clung to me like a comfort blanket.
I cannot think how you get the fine detail right he said. You’re the one who should exhibit in diana’s place. Not me.
What was that name I asked.
Diana. Your daughter. Or maybe she is our daughter. Anyway she is the owner of the gallery.
How did you find her.
Phoning the same number as you. The woman who answered gave me another number. Said she knew her.
And you went along to see her I said.
Yes. And to see the art. She wasn’t there. I asked but the staff there said she wasn’t around all that much so I asked for her personal number. They wouldn’t let me have it. Said she had a secret phone number. But I could leave a message for her if that was allright.
By the way have you had a look at the painting I left for you on the veranda he asked.
No I said. I’ve had it with your paintings. For now. It must wait. What happened when you got to speak to her.
I figured that the only way to tempt her to talk to me was to bring some of my paintings to the gallery. If she thought they made sense as artwork she might talk to me. If she thought they were rubbish I’d have to think again.
But she took the bait.
She did. Called me the next day. What did she sound like.
Like you. I thought it was you at first.
Have you met her. Yes I have. A while ago. She wanted to see my entire collection.
What does she look like.
Like you. Except for her eyes.
And her eyes are like yours.
Yes they are.
Was she nice to be with.
Not especially. A little like you. Withdrawn. Curt. At least not jolly. Impatient.
Like petra I said. Yes rather like petra.
When we finished talking about diana we had agreed that I should write her a letter for him to give to her. We could have gone on to other things but that was that.
I have learned more about maria I said. Like her parents didn’t die in an accident.
Not really he said. Does it matter.
Yes of course it does I said and got up from the floor. My legs had gone to sleep. You lie about everything to do with maria. Why can’t you just tell it the way it was.
Because I can’t.
How do you mean you can’t. That I can’t remember. I try to remember but can’t.
But you must remember it was you who crashed into the milklorry. Not maria’s family.
Yes. But something happened to my brain after the crash.
Like what. We’ll talk about it some other time he said. It’s complicated.
He got up turned the light off and went downstairs. Picked up the jacket he had left on a chair in the kitchen. Stood still deep in thought.
I don’t trust myself he said. After that scene in the bestroom I blamed that father of yours at first. You had snuck in to have a look at the paintings that was all. But it wasn’t your father’s ghost who terrified you. It was me. I grabbed your arms. Shook you. Wanted to hurt. If you hadn’t peed yourself I would’ve carried on.
I know you would I said. I knew how violence works. So now what I asked.
The gap between us yawned. Should we pretend that nothing has happened and carry on with our lives as before. I suppose so he said. I’m sorry jana.
He looked sad. I felt sad. Wanted to touch him. Scratch at the driedup scab on his cut forehead. Cut logs at his side. Lie on his arm in bed and just chat. But it was not possible. I couldn’t live with a ticking timebomb. I
owed myself a decent ordinary life.
Thank you for the wood. I said. Say hello to diana from me. I have no idea what I should write in a letter to her. It was all too late anyway.
Our goodbye was friendly. We hugged. I went from window to window following him with my eyes until he disappeared out of sight. Work had bent his body. He clenched his fists now and then as he walked downhill.
THIRTYSIX
A dance band would be playing in the rotunda in the evening. I had promised to go out with a few people from work who went dancing every second Saturday. It was to be my strategic start to an ordinary life.
Their tradition for an evening out was to meet up at jeanette’s for drinks and pizza. The drink was hooch mixed with lingonberryjuice and the pizzas came from the pizzaturk. His proper name was papparastapopoulos at least if one was to believe the huge neon sign that covered the front of his shop. Because no one could pronounce it he was known as the pizzaturk or just the turk. It mattered not at all to smalångerfolk that he was greek.
I dropped by in the jeep and ordered a few different pizzas. Papparastapopoulos or pappa for short swung the dough above his head like a juggler and made an attempt at small talk.
I haven’t seen you here before. Have you just moved here he asked.
Not exactly I said. But I haven’t been living here for quite a long time. I came back a while ago.
You remind me of somebody he said. I told him that my brother was one of his customers.
He snapped his fingers. That’s the one. Bror. How is he. I hope he’s still alive.
Yes he’s alive I said. I guess he must’ve gone off pizza for a bit.
Pizzapappa leaned across the counter and gestured at me to come closer. I held my breath. Just a habit of mine and not because he smelled badly. The skin of his cheeks was covered in pale prickly stubble. He reminded me of the dalton brothers.
Your brother owes me money he said. Quite a lot of money even.
He pulled a notebook out of a drawer and leafed through his entries of how much smalångerfolk owed him for pizzas. He found bror’s name and keyed the sums into his calculator. It took him a while.
My Brother Page 16