The Second Deadly Sin Page 22

  Elina’s heart sinks. Like a stone in black wintry water.

  She asks if he has a lot to do, and he says yes, he certainly has. What she wants to talk to him about is like a living, silent being between them.

  They talk about how the mining company, L.K.A.B., is providing the whole of Europe with steel. A lot of travelling, a lot of business. And things are not made any easier by all the newspaper articles and arguments about the political status of Kiruna. The agitators are still upset after the ballot in 1909. The people of Kiruna wanted the place to be a market town, in which case the local council would receive taxes paid by the mining company, and be able to build the necessary infrastructure. But the management of the mining company wanted Kiruna to become an urban district: that would mean that the company would pay taxes where its headquarters were situated, i.e. in Stockholm. A ballot took place in 1909. Voting was based on how much tax an individual paid – which meant that the more you earned, the more votes you had. Lundbohm himself had the maximum number of votes, a hundred, while an ordinary worker had just one vote.

  Lundbohm voted as his superiors in Stockholm wanted, and the engineers and bourgeois of Kiruna voted in the same way as Lundbohm. And so Kiruna became an urban district.

  The question is still being debated. Passionately.

  “How can they call me a traitor?” he says angrily to Elina, and Elina assures him that deep down everybody knows he is on the side of the people.

  But the mood is restless. People are indignant. That is what happens when so much in the rapidly growing town simply does not work. Protesters gather on every street corner. When the women are not holding meetings agitating for the right to vote, they meet to complain about such matters as water supplies. They wonder, very loudly, how it can be that there are only twelve water pumps in Kiruna, but no fewer than twenty-four alehouses.

  Elina braces herself. She is afraid that he suspects something unpleasant is on the way. That he might suddenly stand up and claim that duty calls, and that the opportunity of speaking up will be lost.

  “I miss you when you’re away,” she says, trying to force her voice to maintain a light-hearted tone.

  “And I miss you,” he says.

  And taps her on the hand!

  “But I’m an inconsistent person,” he says.

  She nods, for she has heard this before.

  He is an inconsistent person. The opposite of what is called a well-organised person. Oh, when she lay on his arm and heard him say all that for the first time! Then his words made her feel almost frantic with happiness. “I can’t,” he had said then, “do like so many other people and adhere to certain regular rules and habits.”

  And now comes the speech about his personality once again. She forces herself to nod and smile as he delivers his – yes, his speech about himself.

  Sometimes he works conscientiously, he tells her. At other times he is lazy and only works on and off. Sometimes he observes the obligations of politeness, makes visits and attends parties, answers letters and writes some himself; but at other times he lives the life of a hermit, declines invitations and neglects his correspondence completely. That is his nature. He will never be like most ordinary folk. He has to keep travelling, not only on business but also because the nomad inside him becomes too strong.

  He looks down at his shoes as he talks. Not so long ago she lay on his arm, kissed him and said: “Never become like other folk.” Most folk, the rest of the world, were boring and colourless. She and Hjalmar were two burning torches in the snow.

  But now, she feels, she is like other folk. Other women.

  “What do you think about us, Hjalmar?” she asks in the end.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you thought about anything more than …”

  She allows a gesture to conclude the sentence for her.

  Now he is under pressure. She can see that. But she must have an answer now.

  “I thought you were a free spirit who was satisfied with the way we conducted our relationship,” he says.

  When she makes no reply, he continues.

  “I’m an old man. You don’t want me.”

  But who doesn’t want whom is perfectly obvious.

  She braces herself.

  “There are going to be consequences,” she says.

  He sits for a long time without saying anything. And already, during this unbearable silence, she knows she ought to stand up and leave. For if he still loved her he would not hesitate, would not need to think. He would simply embrace her.

  He rubs his hand over his face.

  “I have to ask you,” he begins.

  And she thinks: No, no, he mustn’t ask her that. He simply must not.

  “Are you certain it’s mine?”

  She stands up stiffly. Is not sure if she should have a fit of temper, or burst out crying. Shame is clawing at her with its old-crone’s fingers. It’s the other people in her home village that are clawing at her. Pulling at her elegant blouse with their scratchy hands. Standing round her mother’s coffin, and whispering about the girl who could allow her mother to work herself to death as long as she was able to go to that “college”. Talking about girls who go out of their minds because of reading all those books. And end up in a mental hospital.

  What had she been thinking? That she would be able to get away from them? Emancipated?! That is for heiresses and gentlemen’s daughters. Strindberg’s words spring into her mind. It is Jean who says in “Miss Julie”: “Huh, it’s that damned farmhand sitting on my shoulders.”

  A young crofter is sitting on her shoulders.

  Lundbohm has caught sight of that young crofter. And he no longer wants her. He is looking so embarrassed. Panting like a locked-up animal.

  “I shall go now,” she says with all the coolness she can muster. “But there is one other thing.”

  And she tells him about Lizzie’s fiancé being redeployed. She says it is most unjust, but mentions nothing about the role of Fasth – she simply cannot bring herself to do so, her feeling of shame is too great. He would no doubt ask if Fasth is the father of her child.

  Lundbohm says it is none of his business to interfere in the way in which work is carried out and distributed. He knows that Fasth can be hard, but never unjust.

  She curtseys and goes to the door. There is nothing more to say. He makes no attempt to talk her into staying. This is the last time they will see each other, but they are not aware of that. Elina cannot get out quickly enough – the tears are now flowing freely.

  Lundbohm watches her leave, and thinks that if he had been the only one, she would have said so.

  Elina walks home thinking: what shall I do? What shall I do?

  What shall I do now?

  Maja Larsson was awake. Martinsson leaned her bike against the crumbling porch and looked in through the kitchen window. Larsson was sitting at the table opposite her boyfriend.

  They could almost have been brother and sister, Martinsson thought when she saw them both in profile on either side of the kitchen table. Larsson with silvery-white hair in a thousand plaits, him with his mop of the same colour, which kept falling down over his eyes.

  She knocked on the door. After a pause, Larsson shouted, “Come in!” She was now alone in the kitchen.

  “Rebecka,” Larsson said, beckoning her towards the kitchen table. “And a dog. How nice!”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten off your friend – what’s his name?”

  “Huh, don’t worry about Örjan. He’s shy. Would you like some coffee? Or a beer?”

  Martinsson shook her head and sat down.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sorry for being so abrupt when you came to talk about my mother and all that. It’s just that I’m … I don’t know.”

  “I understand. Better than you think,” Larsson said, shaking a cigarette out of the packet.

  “How’s your mum?”

  “My little mummy … I keep thinking that she mustn
’t die until

  I’ve learnt to distinguish between what I want and what I hope for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Huh, it’s so pathetic. I’m nearly sixty. But in here …”

  She pointed demonstratively towards her chest, and looked Martinsson straight in the eye.

  “In here is a little girl who wants her to say something before it’s too late.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing much. ‘I’m sorry,’ perhaps. Or that she loves me and is proud of me. Or maybe: ‘I understand that it wasn’t so easy for you.’ You know. It’s so ironic. She left me and moved away when I was twelve years old because she had found a man who said: ‘No children.’ God, but I pleaded and promised that I wouldn’t cause any trouble. But she …”

  Maja raised a hand and whisked it around.

  “I had to live with my aunt and her husband. He was … interesting. He glued decorations onto window ledges and sofa tables so that they were positioned just right. I assume they had some sort of financial arrangement with my mum in return for looking after me. She has spent all her life looking for men who loved her. And I … Well, I’m an old woman now, but lots of men have been mad about me. And I couldn’t have cared less.”

  She tried to smile, but couldn’t any longer. It turned out more of a grimace.

  “What about him?”

  Martinsson glanced up at the ceiling.

  “Örjan. He came one day to read my water meter. And stayed on. Like a stray dog you take in.”

  She tickled the Brat under his chin.

  “He knows that I don’t believe in Love with a capital L,” she said. “But it’s good to have company. And he’s good at distinguishing between what he wants and what he can hope to get. He wants us to live together and be together all the time, but he has the sense not to hope for that. He takes me for what I am. He doesn’t hope that I’m going to change. He’s satisfied. Kind. Calm. Those are grossly underrated qualities in a man.”

  Martinsson couldn’t help laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Larsson said, lighting a new cigarette from the glowing stubb of the first one.

  “My boyfriend, or whatever I should call him,” Martinsson said. “Satisfied, kind and calm are things that come way down the list of his qualities.”

  Larsson shrugged.

  “What’s important for me doesn’t have to be important for you.”

  Martinsson thought about Måns. About how restless he was when he came up to Kiruna. His disapproval. It was always “bloody cold” and “teeming with bloody mosquitoes”. The winters were too dark and the summer nights so light that he couldn’t sleep. The dogs were too filthy and too lively. It was too remote and too quiet. People were too stupid, and the water in the river was too cold.

  She always thought that they had to think of something to do whenever he came. They couldn’t just be themselves.

  “I ought to stop hoping that he’ll change,” Martinsson said.

  “One should always stop hoping that things will change,” Larsson said. “Wanting something is a different matter, as I said. As is the case with my mother. I want her to do what I told you about – to take hold of my hand and tell me that she loves me. But I must stop hoping for it to happen. Because it never will. And when I stop hoping for it, I think I’ll be liberated.”

  “How long does she have left? I don’t even know what’s wrong with her.”

  “Oh, I think she could pass away at any moment. Cancer of the liver. And now she has secondary tumours all over the place. She’s being fed by a drip, but she’s more or less stopped passing water.

  So her kidneys aren’t working any longer. And then … No, I need a beer now. Are you sure you wouldn’t like one?”

  Martinsson declined, and Larsson took just the one can out of the refrigerator. She opened it and took a deep swig straight out of the can.

  Neither of them spoke for a while.

  “My mum also went off with a new man,” Martinsson said.

  She could hear how negative that sounded.

  “But I refused to go with her. She would send picture postcards now and then. The apple trees here are in blossom. So what? Your little brother is the sweetest little creature you could possibly imagine. Not a word about her missing me, or – you know? ‘How are things with you?’ You’re right. Hope was what got at me most.”

  “That’s what’s so difficult,” Maja said, contemplating her own reflection in the dark window. “Coming to terms with the way things are. What other people are like. What you are like deep down inside. You’re sad. Annoyed. Scared. Happy and cheerful sometimes, if you’re lucky.”

  “Yes,” Martinsson said. “I ought to go home now. So that your poor bloke dares to come down from upstairs.”

  Larsson said nothing. Smiled somewhat wearily and drew at her cigarette. Martinsson found it hard to leave the peace and quiet that had taken possession of the kitchen. They sat there in silence together for a while longer.

  Dead women, mothers, grandmothers – all of them sat down on the empty chairs around the table.

  *

  Maja Larsson’s boyfriend stood in the darkness upstairs, watching Martinsson leaving the house and taking up her bicycle.

  That bloody dog was digging around by the compost heap.

  He heard her calling to it.

  “Come on! Come on now!”

  The dog was still scratching around. In the end she lay her bike down on the slope and went to fetch the dog. Pulled it along by the collar.

  She had some difficulty in holding on to the dog and at the same time pushing her bike towards the road. The dog kept staring longingly at the compost heap as she dragged it along.

  Clear off now, thought the man upstairs as he watched the dog. Otherwise you’ll end up in there as well.

  “Ninety-eight, ninety-nine … a hundred. Now I’m coming.”

  Krister Eriksson and Marcus were playing hide and seek. It was Eriksson’s turn to seek, and he was wandering around the ground floor, yanking open wardrobe doors and shouting: “Gottya!” Only to add in disappointment: “No, by Jove, not there either.”

  Then he heard clearly a little voice upstairs say: “Go away, Vera, you’re spoiling everything.”

  While he was looking, he sent a text message to Martinsson. We’re playing hide and seek. And you?

  He had to smile at himself, at his efforts to show himself in the best possible light in Martinsson’s eyes. He had even been known to bake, purely in order to be able to send her a text message: “Am baking fruit cake, v. good for me. And you?”

  He found Marcus in the bathroom.

  “How can you make yourself as small as this?” he asked in admiration as he helped the boy to scramble out of the laundry basket.

  “Again!” Marcus said. “Can we play outside?”

  Eriksson looked out. It was dark. And late. With lots of marvellous new snow. The moon was licking the heavily laden trees with its silver tongue.

  “Just for a short while. You said you wanted to go to school tomorrow.”

  They played hide and seek for a while, but there were not so many good hiding places. Then they threw snowballs for the dogs, but the snow was cold. They had to thaw it slightly in their hands before they could make it into balls. It made their fingers very cold. The dogs could hardly believe their luck to find their boss playing so much.

  Tintin’s fur suddenly stood on end, and her tail disappeared under her stomach. She started growling, pursed her lips and lowered her head. Eriksson looked at her in surprise.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  She barked towards the trees over by the cycle track.

  Then all the dogs raced off towards the wire fence surrounding his garden as if they had been given an order. They jumped up at the wiring, barking frenziedly.

  “Hallo,” Eriksson shouted into the darkness among the trees. “Is there somebody there?”

  But nobody answered. The dogs went b
ack to the house.

  “Come,” Eriksson said, lifting Marcus up in his arms. “It’s time to go in.”

  “But I want to lie down in the snow and become an angel,” Marcus protested.

  “Tomorrow, my little Wild Dog. Will you please do me a big favour and feed the dogs?”

  When everybody was safely inside he locked the door and lowered the blinds. Somebody had been lurking in the darkness among the trees, watching them.

  A journalist, of course, he told himself.

  He ought to have taken his service pistol home with him. Never mind that it was against the rules.

  Somebody had planted that torch inside the dog kennel.

  But they had caught the murderer. He was in hospital.

  It must be a journalist, he thought as he resolutely poured water into his chewing tobacco tin and slung it into the rubbish bin. This time he really was going to give it up.

  “Tonight all the dogs are going to be sleeping indoors,” Eriksson said to Marcus. “Do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Because they’re going to be allowed to sleep in my bed. And that’s the most luxurious thing they can possibly imagine.”

  “Wild Dog also wants to sleep in your bed,” Marcus said.

  *

  It was quite hard to persuade Vera, Tintin and Roy to dare to jump up onto Eriksson’s bed. He coaxed them and urged them to leap up and lie down. He could see what they were thinking as they put their heads on one side; he understood what their dark doggy eyes were saying.

  Oh no, they said. We’ll be in trouble. The bed is a forbidden area.

  But they all jumped up in the end. Agreed that this was something they could easily get used to.

  Years of strict training straight down the plughole, Eriksson thought before falling asleep with Marcus on his arm.

  TUESDAY, 25 OCTOBER

  Eriksson woke up before the alarm clock went off. He reached for his laptop, which was lying beside his bed. The internet editions of both Aftonbladet and Dagens Nyheter reported that the police in Kiruna allowed a traumatised child to sleep in a dog kennel.

  There was no mention of the fact that he had been sleeping in a tent next to the kennel.