I Am Behind You (22 page)

*

As Carina and Isabelle get into the Toyota and start the engine, Peter remembers the sweets that are still in his pocket. The car moves off and he starts to run after it, then stops and watches as it grows smaller.

She's not your wife any more.

The actual divorce will be messy, with papers and lawyers and a whole load of crap, but as far as Peter is concerned it is already a reality, because he has made the decision. He is no longer Isabelle's servant. He doesn't have to do anything she asks him to do, he doesn't need to care about her wellbeing, and he doesn't have to give her any sweets if he doesn't want to.

He can hear how childish his thoughts sound, but they excite him, and he laughs to himself as he takes out a sweet, removes it from the wrapping with his teeth and begins to chew.

Yumyumyum.

This is the sword slicing through the Gordian knot, the apple falling before Newton's eyes, the long putt dropping into the hole. One small event that changes everything.
Not being with Isabelle.
Being free. Peter feels like clapping his hands at his own cleverness. Life stretches ahead of him, wide open like the field, and he realises that he is starting to get a hard-on. The thought of going to bed with someone who
wants
to go to bed with him, to lie in someone's arms, to thrust into…

‘Peter?'

He hears Stefan's voice behind him and forces himself to think of roadkill. Squashed badgers, foxes with their guts hanging out. It works, and after a few seconds he is able to turn around without
covering his crotch as if he is about to face a free kick. He waves the sketch in the air: ‘Okay, shall we go and speak to Donald?'

Stefan glances towards the field; his wife is no longer in sight. ‘I've got an idea,' he says gloomily. ‘About who we can call.'

They walk towards Donald's caravan, and Peter waits for him to go on. He is clearly in need of some encouragement, so Peter says: ‘Great—who?'

‘It's a bit weird.'

Peter waves his arm towards the vast expanse of grass. ‘Can't be any weirder than this. Tell me.'

Stefan stops a couple of metres from Donald's caravan, takes a deep breath, then says: ‘I think we should call the campsite. Where we were.'

‘Because…'

‘Because then we can check if we're still there.'

Stefan looks at Peter as if he is expecting a dismissive laugh, but Peter is not laughing. He has been thinking along the same lines himself, but without formulating the concrete idea of calling the campsite. The possibility makes his head spin.

‘And if we are there? As well as here? What do we do then?'

‘Haven't a clue,' Stefan says. ‘But it might be helpful to…have access to that information. If that's the case.'

For a long time they stand and look at one another, at the field, at the caravans. What if Molly is bouncing up and down on the trampoline right now while Isabelle texts her agent, and Peter, the other Peter, the real Peter…

‘I can't think about that right now,' says the Peter who is here at the moment.

‘Nor me, actually,' Stefan agrees.

Together they step inside Donald's awning, where the radio is still switched on. Peter picks up the piece of paper on which Majvor has made a list of all the songs that have been played.

‘It's Beginning to Seem Like Love', ‘Keep to the Right, Svensson', ‘You Know Where I Am'. And so on.

The artists are many and varied. Towa Carson, Rock-Boris, Jan Sparring, Mona Wessman and Hasse Burman, among others. But thanks to his mother's taste in music, Peter can see a common denominator.

Stefan is about to knock on the door when Peter says: ‘Have you heard of Peter Himmelstrand?'

Stefan frowns at this apparently irrelevant question. ‘Wasn't he the one…who smoked himself to death? And wrote about it?'

‘Yes, although he was a songwriter too.' Peter points to the sheet of paper. ‘It looks as if these are the songs that have been on the radio. He wrote every single one.' Peter nods at the radio, from which Hasse Burman's spiky Norrland tones can be heard. ‘Including this one.'

It is a song about Stockholmers, how they should all be shot with specially poisoned gunpowder, or sprayed with DDT to get rid of them all.

‘Not exactly overflowing with the milk of human kindness,' Stefan says.

‘Not really. But don't you think it's strange?'

Stefan looks at the little box, from which Hasse Burman continues to hurl abuse at the residents of the capital city. Then he shrugs: ‘The strange thing is that the radio is broadcasting. At all.' Then he knocks on the door.

*

Donald is sitting on the bed and suffering. There has to be an end to this soon, otherwise he fears for his sanity. The temperature inside the caravan has begun to rise since Majvor switched on the oven, and the mere sound of her humming as she messes about with her cinnamon buns is enough to drive a person crazy.

He longs to be back in the lumberyard, moving among his seven employees and making sure that everything is running smoothly, chatting to a regular customer who doesn't like to deal with anyone except Donald, helping out a new arrival who wants to replace his guttering.

He usually values his holidays—he has no problem with sitting around and doing nothing for a few weeks, drinking beer and catching up with old friends, letting the days slip by. Recharging his batteries while the yard runs itself and the money comes rolling in during the high season for DIY enthusiasts, hallelujah.

But this. What's all this?

Donald interlaces his sweaty fingers, his head slumping between his shoulders. He closes his eyes and silently begins to count. When he gets to one hundred he will open his eyes and everything will be back to normal. Otherwise he doesn't know what he's going to do.

Ninety-eight, ninety-nine. One hundred.

Donald opens his eyes. The oven is humming away, blowing yet more heat into the caravan. The satin coverlet on the bed is sweaty and slippery beneath his thighs. Majvor is creaming butter and spices on a plate. A whining sound passes Donald's ear, and for a second he thinks it is the dentist's drill of insanity boring into his skull.

But it's a mosquito. A real live mosquito. It hovers above his linked hands before landing on the back of his right hand; it pierces the skin with its proboscis and begins to suck. Slowly Donald brings his hand up to eye level and studies the insect.

There is something unsettling about this detail of his dream, because it is so ordinary compared to everything else that has happened; a visitor from the real world, its rear end bobbing up and down as it pumps blood from Donald's system into its own.

Something flickers before Donald's eyes like the brief darkness between two slides, and it seems to him that the mosquito is the protagonist here, the subject. That he, Majvor, the caravans and the field are just part of the mosquito's dream. He dare not pursue that thought; instead he forces his mind back to the original image.

A mosquito. Here.

It must have been hidden away in some corner, and now it's woken up, gone hunting. With great success! The rear half of its body is now swollen like a balloon, and through the thin skin Donald can see the drop of his own blood which is now the property of the mosquito.

If he raised his left hand and slapped it down, the whole enterprise would be for nothing. Instead of a happy, successful mosquito there would be nothing but a sticky smear. He has the power.

There is an empty schnapps glass on the window ledge next to Donald. As the sated mosquito slowly begins to withdraw its proboscis, Donald captures it beneath the glass. He holds the glass in place with two fingers as the mosquito makes a couple of vain attempts to escape, then it resigns itself to the situation and once again settles down to rest on Donald's skin, the back of its body heavy with blood. He glances over towards the kitchen area and sees that Majvor is now greasing baking trays, and is taking no notice of him. He is free to have a little fun.

On the back of Donald's hand is a little bloodsucking terrorist, an invader into his kingdom. Or perhaps…Perhaps! The omnipotent God whose dream we are all a part of. Or simply another creature in Donald's power. Whatever.

Think of the decisions one must make as president. Sending troops to kill and be killed. Giving the go-ahead for this or that air strike, where this or that number of civilians could be killed. Should we secretly liquidate this spy? Yes or no? Thumb up or thumb down?

When there is emptiness all around us, and everything else has fallen away, it boils down to this and this alone: I have a life and you have a life, however different they may be. The question is: who has the power?

Donald brings the glass as close to his eyes as possible without losing focus, and studies the miracle of nature that a single mosquito actually is. The precision in the fragile limbs, the almost invisible membrane of the wings, the tiny head turning from side to side as if questioning, wondering.

You and me
, Donald thinks.
You and me.

For a moment Donald sees himself and the mosquito as two equals on the earth. He picks up a playing card and carefully slides it under the glass, then turns the glass over and places it back on the window ledge with the card as a lid. The mosquito's legs scrabble at the smooth
walls; it makes an attempt to fly, then settles on the bottom of the glass once more.

Donald scratches the back of his hand, where a faint redness is beginning to appear. He stands up and his perspective shifts. On the window ledge is a glass containing a drop of his blood, enclosed within an alien.

My blood.

He rubs his eyes; he can't really remember what he's been thinking about over the last few minutes. What it's like to be the president, perhaps. To be the one who decides. That's what he usually thinks about, so it's a reasonable assumption.

The president's blood.

There is something radically wrong about this whole situation. As soon as he manages to gather his thoughts, he's going to do something about it, but first of all…

With another glance at Majvor, who is still busy with her baking, Donald takes a lighter out of a drawer full of bits and pieces. He sits back down on the bed, then presses the button and brings the flame close to the glass. After a couple of seconds the mosquito starts to move.

In a desperate frenzy it rushes around the enclosed space, and Donald smiles as the drop of his blood catapults between the glass walls, until it lands on the bottom as the mosquito lies there with its wings burnt off. One of its legs waves helplessly as smoke rises from its body, then it is still. Donald extinguishes the lighter and nods.

That's the way it goes. Be under no illusions.

There is a knock on the door. Majvor looks enquiringly at Donald and he shakes his head. He doesn't want to engage with any more figments of his imagination; he just wants to be left in peace.

When the knock comes again, Majvor says: ‘Enough of this nonsense, Donald. Open the door.'

Donald runs a hand over his breast pocket and feels the key. At that point a very simple idea comes into his mind. Strange that he didn't think of it before; habit, no doubt.

When Majvor comes over to him and says, ‘Give me the key,' he grabs hold of her arm, gets to his feet and drags her along behind him. With his free hand he unlocks the door and flings it open. He catches sight of Stefan and Peter outside, opening their mouths to talk, talk, talk, then he pushes Majvor outside, slams the door and locks it.

There you go. Peace at last. He places his ear to the door to listen to what they are saying out there,
what they are saying in his dream, in his imagination.

*

However close Stefan thinks he and Carina are, however intertwined their lives might be, there is something of the stranger about her, something he cannot reach. She never wants to talk about her childhood or youth; she is like a film where he has missed the beginning, and therefore cannot understand certain parts of the action.

He knows that this is to do with darker elements than the eternity symbols on her arm and the longing for a love that will last. There was a hunger in her eyes when she said she was taking the car, a hunger that is alien to him.

And his father is dying. As the key turns in the door in front of him, Stefan thinks that everything is being taken away from him, and he doesn't know what he can do about it. Then he has other things to think about.

The door is flung open, and before Stefan or Peter have the chance to speak, Majvor comes tumbling out. They catch a glimpse of Donald's florid face before he slams the door. Peter reacts quickly and catches Majvor before she falls headfirst to the ground.

The lock turns. Peter helps Majvor to her feet and asks: ‘What happened?'

Majvor pushes a few strands of sweaty grey hair out of her face and says: ‘My buns.' She staggers forward and hammers on the door, shouting: ‘Donald! The buns need to go in the oven in ten minutes—I don't want them to over-prove!'

There is no response from inside the caravan, and Majvor turns to Peter and Stefan. ‘I was making cinnamon buns.'

‘Right,' the two men say simultaneously. There is a brief silence. Majvor moves to pat the dog, who is lying in his basket and watching them, but changes her mind.

‘I'm sorry—was there something you wanted?'

‘The thing is…' Peter says, his eyes taking in the wooden flooring before he explains about the poor mobile phone reception, the need to get higher up. Majvor listens and nods. When Peter has finished describing the tower they hope to build, she says: ‘That's all very interesting, but what can I do?'

‘We need wood,' Stefan says, nodding towards the floor. ‘And the only planks of wood around are…these.'

Majvor seems taken aback as she stares at the teak floorboards. No doubt she has never thought of them as anything other than the floor of their awning; the fact that they are also planks of wood that could be used to build something else has probably never occurred to her. ‘You mean you want to…?'