I Am Behind You (6 page)

Peter switches off the radio and leans back in his seat, still gazing out across the field. Somewhere someone is sitting in a studio playing these records, broadcasting them into the ether. Who? Where? How? Why?

One
thing is clear from the choice of music: they are still in Sweden. The radio and the GPS are in agreement there. But where is there a place like this in Sweden?

Peter opens the door, gets out of the car and gasps when he looks around. Only now is he able to appreciate the
depth
of the vacuum in which he finds himself. He holds up his hands in front of his face. They are there. He is real, even though he is so incredibly small. He
pats the roof of the car, feeling the metal against his palm. The car is there too.

He screws up his eyes and peers in the direction from which he has come, but he can no longer make out any caravans. Peter and the car are in the middle of a vast green disc, suspended in a sea of blue. He spins around, and lets out an involuntary yell: ‘Hello? Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?'

*

Lennart and Olof have moved their caravan a short distance, stripped and folded up their bed so that it has become two narrow sofas and a table. They are now sitting opposite one another at this table, contemplating a sparse breakfast: crispbread, fish paste and a tub of margarine that has gone runny in the refrigerator, which has stopped working. The gas cylinder is empty, and they have been running on electricity for the past few days. Electricity which is no longer available.

No coffee. This is a disaster. Neither Lennart nor Olof are particularly keen on breakfast; they are happy with a slice of bread cheered up with something out of a tube—soft cheese or fish paste. But they must have coffee. Always.

‘Is there any way of mixing it with cold water?' Lennart wonders, waving at the pack of ground coffee.

‘I doubt it. Maybe if we had instant.'

‘Hang on, didn't we have a camping stove? One of those little ones?'

‘Maybe, somewhere. Although I don't really feel up to looking for it at the moment. Do you?'

‘No. Later, perhaps.'

‘Okay.'

Lennart looks doubtfully at his rectangle of crispbread, with melted margarine dripping over the edge. ‘How are we for food?'

‘Not too bad,' Olof replies. ‘We'll be all right for a few days. We've got plenty of potatoes.'

‘Which means we have to dig out the camping stove.'

‘Right. We can't live on raw potatoes.'

They carry on eating; the sound of crunching is animalistic in the silence. They look at one another and smile, with crumbs at the corners of their mouths. They are like two horses. Two horses chomping their way through their nosebags. The milk they are drinking to wash down the unappetising lumps of food is lukewarm.

‘I'm not too keen on all this,' Olof says when they have finishing chewing and swallowing.

‘No,' Lennart replies as he wipes crumbs off the table. ‘Then again…I don't know.'

Olof waits. He can tell from Lennart's hesitant movements that he is trying to put something into words. When Lennart has tipped the crumbs into the bin and draped the dishcloth over the tap, he leans back against the cupboard, folds his arms and says: ‘But this is just the way things are, somehow.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know what I mean. This is how things are. It's just been… clarified.'

‘Right. I suppose that's one way of looking at it.'

‘Is there another way?'

Olof frowns and concentrates on the situation in which they find themselves. It's difficult. His thoughts refuse to grow, because they have nowhere to take root. There is only emptiness. Eventually he shrugs and says: ‘You're going to have to give me some thinking time, Lennart.'

‘Take as much time as you want.'

Lennart picks up their current crossword magazines and places Olof's in front of him, along with his glasses and a pen. Similarly equipped, Lennart sits down opposite him and places his glasses on the end of his nose.

Olof manages to concentrate on the mega-crossword for only a minute before his thoughts run away with him. He looks up at Lennart, who is chewing on his pen, totally absorbed in the trickiest crossword of them all.

‘What about the cows?' Olof says.

Without looking up, Lennart replies: ‘I'm sure Ante and Gunilla will cope.'

Ante is Olof's son, and Gunilla is Lennart's daughter. An independent observer might easily conclude that the reverse is true. Lennart is always the first to praise Ante's all-round ability and skill with the animals, while Olof cannot say enough about Gunilla's financial wizardry and her willingness to pitch in when necessary.

Not that Lennart or Olof would wish for things to be different, but they find it easier to praise each other's child rather than their own. They have discussed the phenomenon and decided that it is probably only natural, and if it isn't, there is nothing they can do about it.

‘Cynthia fifteen is due to calve in a couple of days,' Olof says.

‘Ante will be fine.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I'm sure.'

They sit in silence for a while, with Olof's pen doing the most scratching since Lennart is tackling the most difficult puzzle. After a few minutes Olof puts down his pen and says: ‘Do you think something might happen? Between them? During our absence, so to speak?'

‘Time will tell.'

‘Yes. It would be a great help, though.'

‘It would.'

Lennart smiles and strokes the back of Olof's hand. Then he taps his teeth with his pen as he stares at his crossword. His face clears as he suddenly sees the solution to one clue, which in turn unlocks a couple more, and he sets to work with renewed enthusiasm. Olof gazes out of the scratched plexiglas window, which distorts the view. Not that it matters, since all there is to see is the grass and the sky, the sky and the grass. He thinks about the other people who are seeing the same thing, and says: ‘Things could get a bit tricky before long.'

‘In what way?'

‘I don't know, but most people aren't capable of dealing with a situation like this. And that could lead to…trouble.'

‘You're probably right. The question is how much trouble.'

Olof's gaze is once again drawn to the window. The empty sky, the empty field that would make him feel utterly abandoned if Lennart wasn't here beside him. He says: ‘Quite a lot, I should imagine. A hell of a lot, in fact. Trouble.'

Lennart also looks out of the window. He nods. ‘You're probably right. Unfortunately.'

*

Stefan connects the stove and heats up a pan of water so that he can make himself and Carina a cup of instant coffee. Fortunately the refrigerator also works on gas, and the milk carton is cold against his fingers. He pours a generous splash into his coffee and a dash into Carina's, then carries the cups over to the table and sits down opposite his wife. He takes a sip, then says: ‘We have a bit of a problem.'

‘Oh?'

‘I was going to ring the supplier today. They've been sending the same amount of herring since midsummer.'

‘Why is that a problem?'

‘Well, we're going to be stuck with half a pallet that nobody wants to buy.'

‘If we get back.'

‘Yes, but I'm sure we will. Sooner or later.'

‘Really?'

‘What's the alternative?'

Stefan knows what the alternative is, but has decided that it is pointless to acknowledge it until they know more, until Peter returns. It's no good assuming the worst, nor brooding unnecessarily about what has happened; that can only lead to unpleasantness.

If he avoids looking out of the window, there is nothing strange about the situation. Quite the reverse. He and Carina are sitting here
with their hands around their coffee cups chatting about the minor problems of everyday life. Nothing could be more natural.

‘We'll have to run some kind of campaign,' Carina says.

Stefan has been working so hard to imagine that everything is normal that he has lost the thread.

‘Sorry? Campaign?'

‘To get rid of the herring. A sales campaign.'

‘Absolutely,' Stefan says. ‘Good idea.'

*

Peter gets back in the car, starts the engine and gently depresses the accelerator. His perception of isolation is so complete that even his inner voice has fallen silent, and is no longer keeping him company. On the leather-upholstered seat is the shell of the man who was once Peter Sundberg, about to collapse in on himself and disintegrate into the empty field.

The GPS screen flickers and turns blue. Peter taps it a couple of times, even though he knows there is no point. He stops the car, turns off the GPS, turns it back on again. Nothing. Only blue, as if he were out at sea.

He randomly presses all the buttons, bringing up menus and settings, but no map or position indicators. Strangely enough this does not frighten him; it actually feels quite good, as if he has
escaped
.

On a whim he puts the car in reverse. After thirty metres the map reappears. He brakes and something shifts inside his head. The playfulness is gone. He rests his chin on the steering wheel and stares out of the windscreen. There is some kind of border a few metres ahead of him. He opens the door and gets out, walks towards the point where the map disappears.

Something happens, something striking. It reminds him of arriving in Thailand and walking out through the airport doors after spending many hours in an air-conditioned environment: the wave
of heat and humidity that strikes him, the instant change. It is just as powerful here, but completely different in character.

Peter sits down on the grass five metres from the car, his knees drawn up and his hands loosely linked over his shins. Total silence surrounds him. He is at rest. No Isabelle with her capricious demands and constant air of discontent. No Molly, hiding her nastiness beneath the guise of a princess. No one pulling him this way and that, wanting something from him.

Nothing. Just nothing. The perfect stillness when the free kick from thirty metres curves over the wall, half a second away from landing in the goal. When everyone knows. In half a second the opposing team's shoulders will slump as they accept the inevitable, his own team will raise their arms in celebration, but it hasn't happened yet. Right now the ball is hanging in the air, the whole stadium holds its breath, in awe. That moment.

Here he sits, Peter Sundberg. Over the years he has made hundreds of women feel better. And a few men, to be honest. But mostly women. They are sent to him if they are undecided. Is joining the gym, taking up aerobics really for them? After fifteen minutes with Peter, they usually sign up for annual membership. He does his best to meet their expectations. He remembers their names, always has a few encouraging words for them.

‘How's it going, Sally? Looking good!' ‘How's your foot, Ebba? I'm impressed to see you back so soon!' ‘You can do it, Margareta, I know you can!'

They often fall for him. When he can't make their dreams come true in that respect, many want him to be their confidant instead, particularly those who have him as their personal trainer.

When they are relaxing after a training session, sitting together and assessing the client's progress, a sense of closeness can often arise, a bubble that forms around the two of them. Sometimes they want to tell him who they are, what their lives are like.

Peter is no psychologist; he rarely has any advice to offer beyond nutrition and stretching. But he knows how to listen. He can nod, he
can shake his head, he can say ‘mmm'. And that seems to be enough. He has received many bunches of flowers during the four years he has worked at the gym.

But that's not the most important thing. What gives him real satisfaction is to see a woman in her forties or fifties turn up at the gym looking like a sack of potatoes, an unhappy sack of potatoes, and then to watch the same woman walk in a year later looking like a different person. Not perfect, not necessarily happy, but with the strength to live, both physical and mental. A straighter back, a glint in the eye. That's what makes his job worthwhile.

Peter nods to himself and looks at his forearms, sinewy and muscular, covered in fine blond hairs. He feels a kind of vibration inside. And not only inside; as he gazes at his arms the hairs stand up, and he can feel his scalp crawling.

He gets to his feet, pictures the empty field before him filled with women. His women. The women he has steered out of incapability and apathy. He feels their gratitude pouring towards him, their love.

Eva, Aline, Beatrice, Katarina, Karin, Lena, Ida, Ingela, Helena, Margareta, Sofia, Sissela, Anna-Karin…

They are all wearing identical work-out clothes. Black tights, black tank tops. Their faces are radiant, and he feels a shudder of sensual pleasure. The vibration increases in strength; it has to find an outlet. He jumps up and down on the spot, shouting ‘Yes! Yes!'

He rushes back to the car and switches on the radio. Mona Wessman's voice emerges from the speakers and he turns up the volume until the bass rattles. He doesn't lose heart, but shouts ‘Okay!' and dashes back to his starting point.

Right leg lift, bam-bam-bam, other leg, bam-bam-bam, arms up, bam-bam, and again, bam-bam.

Everyone follows him, keeping to the beat, copying his movements; the group grows bigger and bigger until it fills the entire field. All the women in the world are obeying the smallest gesture, working with him. Their pulse is his pulse, the sweat running down his back is their sweat.

‘Come on, ladies! Terrific!'

He increases the tempo, working twice as fast, and no one drops out, everyone is keeping up. This is the class he has dreamed of, but never achieved. The synchronised dance, the total unity. When the chorus comes along he just has to join in.

He has never been happier.

As the song fades away he releases his stiff cock from his shorts; it only takes a couple of tugs before he is overcome by an orgasm so powerful that his legs give way as his semen spurts across the grass.