Harbour (43 page)

To tell the truth, Anders didn't feel particularly badly affected or upset by what had happened, but realised it was best to adopt a serious expression as the herring flowed out of his hands and the money flowed into his pockets. He even had the sense to avoid mentioning the special offer, which would obviously be inappropriate.

By the time the box was empty there were still a lot of people standing around the harbour waiting to see what the divers might find, and Anders pushed the wheelbarrow towards home for the third time that day. As he approached the Shack he saw a column of smoke rising up into the sky.

His father was crouching by the smoker, pushing juniper branches into the fire. The last box of herring was by his side, but he hadn't started threading the fish yet. He looked surprised when he caught sight of Anders.

‘Back already?'

‘Yes,' said Anders, tilting the wheelbarrow to show him the empty box. ‘All gone.'

His father got to his feet and looked. First at the box, then at Anders. ‘You've sold…sixty kilos?'

‘Yup.'

‘How come?'

Anders told him about Torgny Ek. How he had come walking along, how he had swum out to sea. All the people who had gathered in the harbour. His voice became more and more tentative as the story went on, since he noticed that his father was very upset by the whole thing, for some reason. He was sitting on the bench by the smoker, staring at the ground.

‘And then the coastguard arrived…' Anders' voice died away and silence fell. There was only the crackling of burning juniper branches from inside the smoker. ‘Three hundred and twenty kronor. That's how much I've taken. It's a bit less because I did a special offer.'

His father nodded heavily. ‘Well done.'

Anders picked up a metal skewer and threaded a couple of herring on to it. His father made a slow, dismissive gesture. ‘You can leave that. I don't think we'll do any smoking today.'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, you've…sold such a lot.'

The heavy feeling in his stomach came back, and Anders was drawn down towards the ground. He lowered the skewer he'd started. ‘But…it's always good to have buckling.'

His father slowly got to his feet, and said, ‘I'm just not in the mood.' He made an effort and drew the corners of his mouth up into a kind of smile. ‘It's really good that you've sold such a lot. Now you can afford that boat. Take it easy for a while.'

Without saying any more he went towards the house, his shoulders drooping. Anders waggled the skewer in his hand. The two herring hung there, threaded through the eyes. The eyes themselves were dangling from their heads, attached by thin membranes. Anders pushed the herring right to the end of the skewer, drew back his arm, flicked his wrist. The herring flew off in a wide arch, landing in the sawdust by the woodpile.

That's that, then.

He washed his hands in the rainwater barrel and went back up towards the shop. He didn't know what had happened, but there had been something wrong with this catch from the start.

Except for one thing.

He felt at the bundle of notes in his right-hand pocket, the clump of coins in his left. He might have a funny feeling in his stomach, and maybe the day could have been better in many ways. But there was no denying one thing: he had made plenty of money.

Find the one you love

As long as just one of her young remains, the female scoter

appears to be quite contented, and behaves normally. But it

often happens that the entire brood is wiped out during their

very first hour of life. When this happens, it can be clearly

seen that she is overcome by neurosis. She spins around on the

spot where the young disappeared, returns to the same spot

and searches for them, day after day, and she searches for them

along the route she followed with them—as if their scent were

still there on the surface of the water.

S
TEN
R
INALDO
—T
O THE
O
UTER
A
RCHIPELAGO

Instead of Las Vegas

Simon was woken by a tickling sensation on his upper lip. The next moment two lips were pressed against his forehead, and he opened his eyes. Anna-Greta drew back, and the strand of hair that had been tickling him was gone.

She was sitting on the edge of his bed with her hand on his hip. ‘Good morning,' she said. Simon nodded in response, and Anna-Greta lowered her voice, as if someone might hear.

‘How did it go? This morning?'

When Simon came ashore he had simply told Anna-Greta that he was too tired to talk about what had happened, then he had gone straight home and fallen asleep immediately.

He still didn't want to talk about the morning's outing, so he just said it had gone as well as it could, and asked what time it was.

‘Half-past eleven,' replied Anna-Greta. ‘I didn't know whether to wake you, but…I have a suggestion. You might not like it. In which case, feel free to refuse.'

‘What kind of suggestion?'

Simon thought he'd probably had enough surprises to last for some considerable time. Anna-Greta's posture, the way she was picking at her cuticles, suggested she was about to ask a difficult question. Simon sighed and flopped back on the pillow; he was about to say that the answer to all suggestions at this particular moment was
No
, when Anna-Greta asked, ‘Do you still want to marry me?'

The
no
would have to wait a while. Simon gave the opposite answer, but added, ‘Why do you ask?'

‘Do you want to marry me
now
?'

Simon blinked and looked around the room as if to check whether there was a priest hiding somewhere. There didn't appear to be. He didn't understand the question.

‘
Now
? What do you mean by
now
?'

‘As soon as possible.'

‘Is it…urgent?'

Anna-Greta rested her chin on one hand. There was sorrow in the look she gave Simon, her eyes fixed on his for a while until she said, ‘Perhaps it is. You never know. And I want to be married to you if… if anything happens.'

‘What do you mean?'

Anna-Greta traced the lifeline on her palm with her index finger, not looking at Simon as she replied, ‘You know I'm not particularly religious. But still. There's something in all that. I want us to be…' She took a deep breath and expanded her chest, as if she had to make an effort to get the big words out, ‘…to be married in the sight of God. If anything should happen.' She looked at Simon apologetically. ‘So there.'

‘OK,' said Simon. ‘I understand. What's the suggestion, then?'

Anna-Greta had made a number of calls that morning. In order to marry, it was necessary to have proof that there was no impediment to the marriage. That had to be obtained from the national registration office in Norrtälje. It would normally take a week or two to receive the papers, but it was possible to obtain them more quickly if it was urgent. The same day, in fact.

‘I said we'd booked the church for tomorrow,' said Anna-Greta. ‘But that we'd forgotten this one detail.' She glanced out of the window. ‘We'll just make it if we catch the one o'clock boat.'

Simon had forgotten that he was going to say No, and started to take off his pyjama jacket. When he was halfway he stopped and let the jacket fall back down over his head. ‘And have you? Booked the church?'

Anna-Greta laughed. ‘No. I didn't know if you'd think this was a good idea.'

She moved up so that Simon had room to get out of bed. He took off the jacket and stood up, using the bedpost for support. ‘I'm not so sure about good, but I understand the reasoning. Would it be possible to have a cup of coffee before…the wedding trip?'

Anna-Greta went into the kitchen to make the coffee. Simon leaned against the bedpost. He wobbled as the morning's events hurled themselves at him from behind. He suddenly felt dizzy, and sat down on the bed again. With hands that felt unreal he took off his pyjama trousers and pulled on his underpants and socks. Then he came to a full stop. He held his hands up in front of his eyes.

These fingers of mine.

His entire life's work had been built on what he could do—or what he used to be able to do—with these fingers. Thousands of hours in front of the mirror, polishing the tiniest movement to make it look natural, even though it was hiding something else. He had trained his fingers to obedience, and had had them under control.

Earlier that morning those same fingers had wound his old chain around a dead person, those same hands had tipped a pair of feet over the rail and let a young woman disappear into the depths. To escape awkward questions. To avoid problems. These things his trained fingers had done.

The thought wouldn't go away. As he got up from the bed and opened the wardrobe door, he was looking at his hands the whole time as if they were prostheses, alien things that had been screwed on to the ends of his arms while he was asleep.

He took out a pair of trousers, a shirt and a jacket. His best clothes. He put them on. Perhaps the disruption to his normal daily routine had done something to his head, but it really did seem as if his fingers were behaving as if they had a will of their own, and it was only with some difficulty that he could get them to do as he wished. Fasten his buttons, buckle his belt.

He stopped dead as he was fastening the top button of his shirt.

Is this what it feels like? To be possessed?

He looked at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. Not that he knew how it was supposed to feel, but he didn't think that was what was going on here. It was more like the English expression: he was
beside himself
. One person carrying out the actions, another looking on, side by side.

He pushed back his long grey hair, pulled on his jacket and looked at himself in the mirror again.

Here I am.

He tried to recall the feeling that had come over him when a maple leaf had crossed his path. Without success. But still he made a slight bow to the mirror, said thank you for the divided life that had been given to him, in spite of everything.

Clap, clap.

Anna-Greta was leaning against the doorframe watching him, and she brought her palms together a couple more times. ‘Very elegant. Coffee's ready.'

Simon followed her into the kitchen. Once he had drunk the first cup of coffee, his thoughts began to clear. He looked out of the window and his eye caught the spot on the grass where Marita had sat that time. When he had stood in front of her with a shotgun, considering whether to execute her.

On that occasion too he had felt as if he had been thrown outside himself, standing beside himself and looking on.

It's all just excuses, he thought, pouring himself another cup. We talk about being out of our mind, that we weren't ourselves, that we lost control. Different ways of saying the same thing. But we are always ourselves. There are no imaginary friends carrying out actions in our name.

Except…except…

‘What are you thinking about?' asked Anna-Greta.

Simon told her what Anders had said to him in the boat. That Maja had entered into him and was influencing him, guiding his hands at night. That he was possessed, just as Elin had been.

When he had finished, Anna-Greta sat quietly for a while, looking over towards the Shack. Eventually she said, ‘Poor little soul.'

Simon didn't know if she was referring to Anders or Maja, and it didn't really matter which it was. Everything suddenly seemed utterly impossible, and Anna-Greta's simple compassion merely intensified the feeling.

‘Do you really believe that's what's happening?' he asked. ‘That the souls of the dead come up from the sea and…and…'

‘There's no guarantee they're dead. We know nothing. Nothing. Not for certain.'

‘But what can we do?'

Anna-Greta reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his. ‘What we can do right now,' she said, ‘is to take the one o'clock boat over to Norrtälje and sign some papers so that we can get married.'

Simon glanced at the clock. It was twenty to one, and they would have to leave right away if they were going to get there in time. He picked up the matchbox from the windowsill and said, ‘Yes. This is our day. Let's do it. Could you just…wait outside for me for a minute?'

Anna-Greta raised her eyebrows enquiringly, and Simon showed her the box. ‘I have to…'

‘Go on, then.'

‘I'd prefer to be on my own.'

‘Why?'

Simon looked at the white silhouette of the little boy on the box.
Why?
He could have come up with reasons, but instead he told the truth, ‘Because it's embarrassing. It would be like…having an audience when you go to the toilet. Can you understand that?'

Anna-Greta shook her head and smiled. ‘If we're going to grow even older together, there's a good chance that one of us will have to wipe the other's backside before it's all over. Go on, do what you have to do.'

Simon hesitated. He hadn't realised how suffused with shame his relationship with Spiritus was, and he felt dirty as he pushed open the box. He glanced at Anna-Greta and saw that she was kindly looking out of the window.

The insect really didn't look healthy. It's skin, once black and shiny, was dull and parchment-like. It was beginning to look more and more like the dead specimen he had seen in the great magician's display case. Simon cleared his throat and gathered up spit.

The clock was ticking. Time was passing. The boat was getting closer.

Let go.

The bubble of spit emerged, fell and spread across the dry skin. The insect moved, absorbed the liquid and came to life a little. Simon looked up. Anna-Greta was watching him.

‘Shall we go?' she asked, pointing at his chin. Simon wiped away a string of saliva, stood up and put the box in his pocket. When they got outside, Anna-Greta took his hand and said, ‘That wasn't too bad, was it?'