Depths (23 page)

He closed in on Halsskär in the afternoon of the following day.

The ice was soft still. The rucksacks he was pulling behind him were sucking up the surface slush and getting heavier and heavier. He avoided going too close to the shallows, round the rocks and skerries. He stopped three times to check the thickness of the ice. The sea was getting closer, pushing up from underneath.

He was trembling when he focused the telescope.

There was smoke rising from the chimney. He had expected that to make him feel relieved. Instead he was nervous.

I will turn back, he thought. I must put a stop to this madness, I will go back.

Then he continued walking towards the skerry. The boat was beached, the sail furled tightly round the mast. The snow had melted away on the path to the cottage, he could see no footprints.

He sat down on one of the large stones used as a sinker and took a bottle of aquavit from one of the soaking rucksacks. He took two deep swigs, and could feel the heat spreading through his body.

He took another drink, then set off for the cottage.

I'll knock on the door, he thought. I'll open it and go inside. When I've closed the door behind me I'll start looking for a way of escape right away.

Before he had time to knock the door opened. Sara Fredrika flung it open. She was wearing different clothes, patched, worn, but clean. Her hair was not in a mess, she had put it up. She was shaking. He had never seen so much happiness.

'I knew you'd come,' she said. 'I have had my doubts, but I had not given up.'

'I said I would come. It took time. But now I've trekked over the ice and here I am.'

They went into the cottage. She had tidied. A lot had been taken away – bits of rag, odd pieces of worn carpet – but the skin of the mad fox was still there. He wriggled out of his rucksacks.

She grabbed hold of him. It was as if she were sticking fish hooks into him. She started pulling and tugging at his clothes. They tumbled to the floor in front of the fire. He burned his back, but the hooks were so deeply embedded that he could not get away.

Afterwards they got dressed in silence. He eyed her back furtively.

When she turned round he saw that her expression was different. He recognised it, he'd seen it before, but on somebody else's face. He knew straight away. She had the same look in her eyes as when his wife told him she was pregnant.

Sara Fredrika told him the next day, as if it were the most straightforward thing in the world.

They were walking along the shore, collecting driftwood for the fire.

'I'm pregnant,' she said.

'I thought as much,' he said.

She eyed him expectantly.

'Will you be disappearing again now?'

'Why should I want to do that?'

'A naval officer and a slut from the sea. What sort of a future is there in that? We're on the edge of a precipice.'

'I came to fetch you.'

'You ought to know that I'd made up my mind. I'm pleased about the baby, even if you hadn't come back.'

'I'm here.'

She was still looking at him. He had the feeling that a rope was being drawn taut around them.

The baby was surrounded by silence.

Sara Fredrika said nothing that was not necessary. Lars Tobiasson-Svartman tried to understand what was happening. Nothing was clear any more. He could feel an unusual sense of peace, but it was misleading. It was frequently broken by a pain that seemed to encroach from all sides at the same time.

He pushed aside all thoughts, put obstacles in their way. When he became too uneasy he clambered round and round the rocks, as if he were trying to erase some pursuers. He told Sara Fredrika that he needed to keep himself in good shape.

They shared her bed at night. Their bodies asked no questions that made him feel ill at ease.

On 19 April a strong south-westerly wind blew up and dispersed the remains of the ice that was still covering the bays.

They went to the highest point on the island and saw that they were now surrounded by open sea. Further in towards the mainland they could still see traces of the broken-up, greyish-white ice.

The next day they launched the sailing dinghy. He was surprised by how strong she was. He stayed on shore while she rowed out to check that the boat was still water-tight, and that the sail smacking against the mast did not have any tears.

'I'll sail around the island,' she shouted.

He stretched out his arms. He did not want to go with her, he stayed on the skerry. He followed her progress through his telescope. She suddenly turned to look at him, smiled and waved. She was saying something, but he could not read her lips. Further out to sea he could see another sail. He could see through the telescope that it was a little cargo boat coming from the east, heading for Barösund.

He was standing in the inlet waiting for her to round the headland. She was rowing now, with the sail furled round the mast.

They beached the boat and he fastened a rope round one of the big stones.

'She's completely dry. Shipping no water at all. Did you see that I was talking to you?'

'Yes, but I couldn't understand what you were saying.'

'You will do next time.'

'What about that cargo boat?'

'It's on its way here.'

They walked up the path to the cottage. Spring flowers were starting to appear, moss campion and sand couch.

'It's a sailor from Aland,' she said. 'He always comes here in the spring. He says he knows when the sea is open. In fact, I think he hangs around in one of the pools where the ice never forms.'

'What do you mean, pools?'

'Holes in the ice. That never freeze over.'

He had never heard of any such thing before. 'Have you seen them?'

'How on earth could I have seen them? But others have. They are like big gills in the ice. The sea has to breathe when it's covered in ice. This man who's on his way here, ask him, his name's Olaus, he usually rows over to the island and asks if I need anything from civilisation. Or if I have any letters he can post for me.'

'Letters?' He looked at her in surprise.

'Olaus is a nice man. He thinks there might be somebody for me to write to. He thinks he's doing me a favour when he offers to post letters for me.'

They went into the cottage.

1 have a letter,' he said.

'I haven't seen you writing anything.'

'I haven't written it yet. Now that I know there's somebody who could post it, I can write it.'

'Who do you have to write to?'

'The hydrographic engineers, my superiors in Stockholm. I have various observations to report.'

'What have you seen that I haven't seen?'

That made him angry, but he did not show it. When she had gone outside he took writing paper and an envelope from one of the rucksacks and sat down at the table. He found it difficult to produce the words.

The letter was one long prevarication. It was about why it had been posted on the east coast and not from the part of Sweden where he was supposed to be. Complications, sudden changes of plan, tasks that had been cancelled, all of them secret. He ought not really to send this letter, but he was writing it even so. He would soon be going back to the fortress in Karlsborg; no doubt by the time she received this letter he would have left the melting ice of the Baltic Sea.

He finished by saying:
'I'll soon be home again. Nothing is fixed, but it will be before summer. I'm always thinking of you and the baby'

* * *

He went over to the window and looked at the woman outside.

For one brief moment the faces fused, one half was Kristina Tacker's, the eyes, the hair and the forehead were Sara Fredrika's.

She came in and sat down on the bed.

'Read it to me.'

'Why?'

'I've always dreamed of receiving a letter one day.'

'It's secret.'

'Who is there I could tell it to?'

He unfolded the paper and read aloud: '"The ice has melted away, the channels are navigable once more, meteorological forecasts suggest lower water levels and an increased risk of mines drifting into our waters. No sightings of foreign warships. Lars Tobiasson-Svartman."'

'Is that all?'

'I only write the bare minimum.'

'What's secret about that? Ice and water levels? I don't know what mines are.'

'Mines are a sort of iron driftwood that can explode. They blow ships and people to pieces.'

'Can't you write a letter to me?'

'I shall write a letter to you. If you leave the room. I have to be alone when I write.'

She left him alone. He sealed the letter to his wife and then wrote a couple of lines to Sara Fredrika.

'I'm so happy at the thought of having a child, after the tragic loss of my daughter Laura. I'm dreaming of the day when we can go away together'.

He did not sign the letter, but put it into the envelope and sealed it.

To Sara Fredrika. Halsskär.

The man whose name was Olaus lay to anchor north of the skerry and rowed into the inlet. He was an old man with stiff joints who showed no sign of surprise when he saw Tobiasson-Svartman. It was a short visit, a sailor had gone ashore to make sure that the lady who lived on the skerry was in good health.

He did not seem to notice the signs, only slight as yet, that Sara Fredrika was pregnant. Tobiasson-Svartman gave him the letters, and money for the stamps.

'She wants a letter,' he said.

'Of course Sara would like a letter,' Olaus said. 'I'll post them in Valdemarsvik.'

He rowed back to his boat. When Tobiasson-Svartman got up the next day, it had already sailed. He had not asked any questions about the ice-free pools Sara Fredrika had spoken about.

It was 9 May, warm weather, calm sea.

They got up early in order to bring in the nets that had been laid close to the little rocks that did not even have names. They rowed into the morning sun, she had unbuttoned her blouse and he was in his shirtsleeves. He rowed, she sat in the stern. He enjoyed the morning atmosphere, wanted for nothing, and just for now was liberated from all measurements and distances.

She reached for the cork float, stood up, braced herself and started pulling.

The net snagged immediately.

'Hang on,' she said. 'We've got snarled up in something.'

She tweaked and pulled. The net started to come in. But it was heavy.

'What is it?' he asked.

'If it's a fish, it's a big one. If it's crap from the seabed, it's pretty heavy.'

She hauled in most of the net, but it was almost empty, just the odd bullhead, an occasional cod. He leaned over the side to see better. Just then she let go of the net and screamed. She slumped down on the stern seat and buried her head in her hands. Caught up in the net were the skeletal remains of a human being and something that might have been a piece of leather from a jackboot. He didn't need to ask what it was. He knew without asking. She had caught her dead husband in her net.

It sounded as if she was howling. An animal in distress.

The net with the bits of skeleton had been snagged by the rail. She stood up and tugged at it as if fighting with a big fish. But she didn't want to have it on board, she wanted the net to sink back down to the bottom of the sea.

He sat motionless, holding the oars. What was happening was beyond his control. The net came loose and started to sink down to the bottom.

'Row,' she screamed. 'Let's get away from here.'

She flung herself at him and started to row herself. He could see her fear, feel the power in the strokes.

They were a long way from the spot where they had caught the bones when she slumped back on to the stern seat.

'Turn,' she said.

'Turn to where?'

'I was wrong. I must bring him up. I must bury my husband.'

Her fear had now become despair.

'There's no sign of the net,' he said. 'But I know where the place is.'

'How can you know when there's nothing to see?'

'I know,' he said. 'That's my special skill. I can read the sea, see what isn't visible.'

He turned the boat round, rowed nineteen strokes, then changed direction slightly to port and rowed twenty-two more strokes.

They had a little drag anchor in the boat. He knew that the depth here was between fifty-five and sixty metres. The anchor rope was only thirty metres long.

'It's here,' he said. 'But the rope is too short. I can't reach the bottom.'

'I must get him up.'

'I know where it is. We can come back to this very spot. You have a length of rope in the inlet and we can tie it to the anchor rope. That would give another forty metres, which would make it long enough.'

He didn't wait for her to answer but started rowing back to Halsskär. She sat quietly on the stern seat, hunched up, as if she'd just been exerting herself.

When they got to the inlet he fetched the rope and put it in the dinghy.

'Let me do it,' he said. 'Let me bring the net up. You don't need to be there.'

She said nothing. When he rowed out again she stood watching him.

He let the anchor sink to the seabed.

He felt something at the fourth attempt. He stood up and pulled in the rope. The net reappeared, and in it the bits of bone and the piece of leather. It was part of a jackboot, with a rusty stud still attached to it. He pulled the net on board. There were fish wriggling away in it, a sign of life amid all the death. He removed the fish and the seaweed, and threw the net back into the water.

He was reminded of the piece of drift net he'd seen that morning on board the
Blenda.
The soundless, lifeless movements, the freedom that meant always being on the move. Now another net had achieved freedom.

He examined the pieces of bone. There was part of a forearm, a broken rib and the remains of a left foot.

The foot upset him. There was something shameless about this well-preserved section of a man's skeleton, the only thing to remind an observer so vividly that this person had drowned in a state of inconceivable terror and loneliness.

He rowed back to Halsskär. At one point he stopped rowing and felt his forehead to feel if he had a temperature. His forehead was cool.

When he got back to the cottage he found it empty. He put the bones down, walked back to the spring and drank deep. Then he went to look for her. She must be there somewhere. Even so, he suddenly felt all alone on the skerry.