The Best Intentions (33 page)

Anna:
Have you any friends?

(
Petrus says rwthing
.)

Anna:
I mean have you any boys to be with?

Petrus:
No.

Anna:
So you're lonely?

(
Petrus says nothing
.)

Anna:
Perhaps you like being on your own?

Petrus:
I suppose I do.

Anna:
And what do you read?

(
Petrus says nothing
.)

Anna:
Have you got any books?

(
Petrus says nothing
.)

Mrs. Johansson:
We've got some old Christmas magazines, and sometimes my husband buys the
Gefle Dagbladet.
So he mostly reads a reference book we've got, though only a part, “from J to K.” It's a trial volume Johannes bought for seventy-five öre.

Anna:
I think I've got some books you'd like, Petrus. Wait a moment, and I'll see.

She goes over to the white, glass-fronted bookcase and hunts along the bottom shelf for a while, then pulls out a fat, red, clothbound book with a gold-worked spine and gold lettering on the front. It is
Nordic Sagas
, “edited and published for children.” There's an illustration on nearly every page, some of them in color. “Here you are,” says Anna. “You read that, and when you've finished it, I've got some more books that are just as good. Take it, Petrus! We'll just make a cover for it, like they do in school, so it doesn't get dirty.”

Mrs. Johansson:
Say thank you properly, now.

Petrus:
Thank you.

A few kilometers south of the parsonage, where the Gräsbäcken flows into the Gävle River, is the Sawmill, which, like the Works, belongs to the estate. The Sawmill employs twenty-two men who live with their families in ramshackle rows of cottages above the timber chute. The sawn timber is transported to the Works harbor along a narrow-gauge railway and all around the timber-roofed sawing sheds that lean toward one another are stacks and stacks of fragrant planks. The dust above the Sawmill is thick, and thin streams of water spurt through the closed hatches all summer and winter.

One day in the middle of February, this is what happens: The foreman announces abruptly that Arvid Fredin has been dismissed on the spot and told to get out of his house within a week. To start with, there are no protests or comments, and work goes on as usual inside the Sawmill and out on the stacks and the freight cars. At the eleven o' clock break, some of the men doing the sorting start talking about the dismissal, and it is considered unjust. True, Arvid Fredin is a loudmouth, and it is also true he's careless with his drink, but he's also a good worker who has never been guilty of absenteeism or drunkenness at work.

Arvid himself is standing in the yard, his arms at his sides, and he is unusually silent, his expression one of astonishment and distress. His wife opens the window at regular intervals and tells him to get going, go on down to the office and talk to the manager, complain to Nordenson. No one should submit to things like this!

During the break and on their way to the afternoon shift, a lot of the men stop by to see Fredin. “You've been sacked for what you said at the meeting on Monday,” says MÃ¥ns Lagergren, one of the oldest men, who has become increasingly involved in social-democratic politics. “I warned you not to let your tongue run away with you.” “I was no worse than anyone else,” protests Arvid. “Maybe not, but you read something you'd written. A sort of
manifesto
, or whatever the hell it's called,” says MÃ¥ns, lighting his cold pipe.

Another ten or so men have assembled in the muddy yard. “They're making an example of you,” says Anders Ek, starting off toward the Sawmill. “Come on now, for Christ's sake; otherwise there'll be more trouble.” No one moves. No one goes.

Henrik is paying a sick call. One of his confirmands is ill with the present rampant sickness and is in bed, coughing and having difficulty breathing. It is probably not just a chill, but something else, and worse. Henrik has just agreed with the mother that he must talk to the doctor and promises to phone that afternoon.

Henrik looks out the window and sees the crowd. “What is it now?” he asks Mrs. Kama. “I don't know,” she says irritably. “There's always trouble these days. I think they've sacked Arvid. Arvid Fredin. I'm not saying anything. He's a real agitator and drinks and fights. He says we should all join world communism and shoot Nordenson or hang him from the bell tower. I don't know, and it's best not to know anything. Last week he sat here jawing away with Larsson, wanting him to sign something. We had to get the neighbor to help get him back up to his place. So I've nothing against him going.”

Henrik says good-bye and goes out to the yard. The foreman has just come up the slope but has stopped some distance away. He's trying persuasion. “Come on, men. It's high time. We don't want no more trouble than we've already had.” Everyone stands still, some of them to their own surprise. “Wait a few minutes, and we'll be along,” someone says. “Well, then, I'll go on down and wait for the time being. I don't want to hear any more of that rubbish.” “If you go down, you can send the others up.”

The foreman doesn't answer, but turns his back and moves off. He could telephone the office, for there's a sort of local phone, but he doesn't.

“This isn't about Arvid Fredin,” says Johannes Johansson. “It's a matter of principle. We must tell them we won't agree to . . .” “Yes, to what?” says someone. “We won't agree to Arvid getting fired, although he drinks and talks shit?” Disapproving mumbling. “They're making an example,” says Anders Ek stubbornly, his voice hoarse. “Because he can write and express himself. He's dangerous, of course, so they're kicking him out. Not because he drinks and is a shit.”

This is all said in a friendly way; even Arvid is smiling. “Anyhow, we can't accept this Arvid business,” says MÃ¥ns Lagergren firmly. “We must state that clearly, but by all means politely. There's no point in yelling and screaming. We've had enough of that. The agitators from Gävle have been no help. On the contrary.”

They listen to Lagergren and agree with him. Actually, no one really likes Arvid Fredin. He may be good and thorough at work, but he's a loudmouth and reads extracts of books no one's ever heard of.

Nothing is said for a while. They ought to go to the afternoon shift, and it's already very late. The foreman is a decent man, and they all know him well. He is a local. He doesn't make a whole lot of unnecessary fuss, but things may get bad for him if the work doesn't get started. Despite this, they stand around, dispirited and indecisive. “Can't we have a meeting and talk about this properly?” says Johannes. “There are various sides to this question, and we solve nothing by standing around here with our mouths open.” Mumbled approval. “Then the question is, where can we meet?” Johannes goes on. “We ought to get the men down from the Works to meet with us — it shouldn't be just us. If we use any of the Works premises, they'll throw us out, and there'll be trouble about that, too. We can't be out of doors in this god-awful weather, and it's colder in Robert's barn than it is outside.”

“We could use the chapel,” says Henrik, without thinking. “We can be warm in the chapel, at least on Sunday after morning service. The stoves are on all morning. The chapel holds a hundred and fifty people, and that's big enough, isn't it?” Henrik looks around, a question in his eyes. Closed, mistrustful, surprised faces. “In the chapel?” says Johannes. “What d'you think the minister'11 say about that, Pastor?” “I have the right to arrange meetings and assemblies. That's actually my right.” “Oh, yes,” says Lagergren, with surprise in his voice. “Well, shall we accept the pastor's offer? Suppose we could, so long as you don't regret it, Pastor.” “I won't regret it,” says Henrik, as calmly as he can. “Shall we say Sunday at two o'clock?” says
someone. “That's all right,” says Henrik. “Will you be coming, Pastor?” “Yes, of course. I've got the key.”

That same night, Anna and Henrik are awakened by a thunderstorm over Forsboda. It's like continuous gunfire over the Storsjön, the ridges and mountains, hailstorms coming in waves over the roof. “I've never seen such peculiar weather,” whispers Anna. She lights a candle and fetches Dag, who has slept all through the racket. So all three of them are lying in Henrik's bed. “Thunder in February is like the final judgment,” says Henrik.

The racket gradually subsides and is now just flashes of lightning and softly rustling rain. “What's that down on the veranda?” says Anna, suddenly wide awake. “It's nothing. Your imagination.” “Yes, I can hear something, someone knocking on the pane of the outer door.” “Who could that be? A ghost?” “No, listen, can't you hear?” “Yes, you're right. There's someone on the veranda.”

Anna lights a paraffin lamp, and they put on dressing gowns and slippers, the stairs creaking. Now they can hear the knocking quite clearly, faint and irregular. Henrik unlocks the door and opens it. Anna holds the lamp up. On the steps, a dark figure is crouching, faintly outlined against the blurred snowy light of the yard. It is Petrus, in a much-too-long woman's coat, a large peaked cap, and boots. He is just standing there, motionless, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, the peak of his cap hiding his eyes, his mouth half-open. Anna stretches out her hand, pulls him into the hall, and takes off his cap. The blue eyes are expressionless, the face pale, lips trembling. “Are you cold?” says Anna. He shakes his head. “What have you come for?” says Henrik. Another shake of the head. “Come on, I'll heat up some milk,” says Anna, temptingly. “Take your coat and boots off.” Obediently, his head down, the boy slouches along behind her.

The next morning, Mia is sent with a message to the Johanssons, who have awakened to find the boy gone. There is a very early meeting in the parsonage kitchen. Johannes and his wife are standing in the middle of the floor apologizing. As one of them draws breath, the other starts up. Mia is seated at the table eating her breakfast porridge; Mejan is busy at the stove. In vain Henrik begs his two guests to have a cup of coffee or at least sit down. Anna has gone to the guest room to wake Petrus, which turns out to be unnecessary, for he is already awake, curled up at the head of the bed wrapped in a red blanket. Above the blanket is a bloodless face and two wide-open, watery eyes, a blind whirlpool right in the center of his gaze, the dry lips clamped
together. Anna takes a chair and carefully sits down opposite her strange guest. “You must come now,” she says kindly. “Your parents have come to fetch you.”

Petrus:
They're not my parents.

Anna:
They're like your parents.

Petrus:
No, they're not.

Anna:
They're nice to you, Petrus.

Petrus:
Yes.

Anna:
Things couldn't be better for you, Petrus.

Petrus:
No.

Anna:
No one's angry with you, you know.

Petrus:
Why should anyone be angry?

Anna:
No, no, you're right.

Petrus:
But I don't want to.

Anna:
You can't decide that for yourself, Petrus.

Petrus:
No.

He gets up meekly. Anna lets him keep the blanket. Obediently and sorrowfully, he trots along behind her through the hall and the dining room, then out into the kitchen. When he sees his foster parents and the others in the kitchen, he stops and draws the blanket tighter around him. Anna is behind him and tries to push him forward, but with no result. He stays put, immovable.

Mrs. Johansson has been saying something meek and sorrowful, but at once stops. “Come, now, Petrus,” says his foster father, taking a step toward Petrus, who at once turns to Anna and clings to her, pressing his face into her stomach. She stands still, nonplussed, gently stroking the back of his neck. Johannes carefully tries to loosen his hold, but when the boy persists, the man takes a firmer grip and Anna falls forward welded to the boy. Then Johannes grabs hold of him, pries loose his arms, takes him around the waist, and lifts him up. Without a sound and with fierce strength, the boy tries to fight his way free, wriggling and jerking, kicking and scratching, trying to bite his foster father's hands.

“Let him go,” says Henrik. “Let him go. That's not the way to do it.” Johannes lets the boy go, and he at once clings to Anna again. Mrs.
Johansson is rigid, as if paralyzed, her hand to her mouth. Johannes is breathing heavily, his face red and tears in his eyes. “I don't understand” is all he can say. “I don't understand. We're such good friends, Petrus and me. Aren't we, Petrus?” But the boy doesn't answer or even move, simply clutches Anna. She has her hands around his head. Mia is sitting there openmouthed, her porridge growing cold, and Mejan forgets to rake the ashes out of the stove.

“Perhaps Petrus had better stay for a few days,” says Henrik in the end. “He needs time to calm down and think.” “He's welcome to stay a few days,” says Anna. The foster parents look helplessly at each other, perhaps humiliated, anyhow deeply embarrassed. They accept the pastor's offer with no signs of gratitude.

The community consists of four small parishes around the much-too-large church built at the beginning of the nineteenth century. The parish office has been in the west wing of the minister's house for many years. The actual office is a long bare room with three desks in a row along the window wall, accommodating the assistant minister, the pastor's curate (Henrik), and the clerk, who sits nearest the entrance. Along the opposite wall are a long wooden sofa covered with worn leather, two chairs, and an oak table. On the table is a carafe of water and church magazines. On the far wall, an iron stove wages war on the drafts from the old windows, and the three gentlemen have permission to wear their overcoats, overshoes, and felt boots. There's another door by the sofa, leading into the minister's private room, and a short corridor that leads into the records office and a small library. Worn linoleum on the floors, a picture on the wall above the sofa in a black wooden frame of the Good Shepherd with a lamb and a lion. There is a smell of damp, mold, and thick outdoor clothes.