Shadow (22 page)

J
an-Erik returned the last letter to the cardboard box and leaned back in the chair. He had opened and read the contents of each unopened envelope, becoming increasingly astounded yet ultimately convinced that his father had actually had a lover. None of them was dated, but using the postmarks he had sorted them into a rough chronological order. The early ones were heartfelt love letters, some filled with poetic romanticism, others with burning lust. Some parts made him blush when he pictured his father as the object of the ardent prose. But gradually the tone had changed. A hostile undercurrent seeped in between the lines, and the last letters had been almost threatening – with repeated threats that she was going to publish a short story unless Axel showed up at a certain meeting place.

He wondered why Axel hadn’t read the letters. Maybe he was trying to break off the affair by simply ignoring her. Had his mother known about it? It occurred to him that he may have found the real explanation for why his parents were living on separate floors of the house by the time he returned from the States.

But his greatest fear had been confirmation of an illegitimate son born from the relationship. Thankfully he had discovered nothing of the sort mentioned in any of the letters. And yet the anxiety had not gone. Kristoffer Sandeblom’s strange story still chafed him. A foundling. Precisely during the years when his father was having an affair. His father who had unquestionably ended it and broken off all contact. The woman’s
desperate tone in the letters. Gerda, who had written Kristoffer into her will. The money she had sent him all those years, despite not being rich. He pushed away the thought, realised how unlikely that was. Perhaps it was all a strange coincidence. Kristoffer had mentioned it about the same time he’d found Axel’s old love letters. His imagination had run away with him. His hangover wasn’t helping his thinking, either.

And yet.

He realised what the existence of an unknown half-brother would mean on the day the inheritance was to be distributed. Under no circumstances did he intend to share any of it with some illegitimate guy who had suddenly turned up from nowhere. He was the one who had administered the assets, fought to maintain interest in his father’s books, and above all put up with the old devil for all these years. It was bad enough given what had already been willed directly to Louise.

He returned the cardboard box to the cupboard. Once again he had been sidetracked from looking for a photograph of Gerda. Darkness had fallen, and it was high time he went home. He would have to ring Marianne Folkesson and tell her there were no pictures.

He walked through the house to make sure everything was in order. A lamp was on in the library, and he checked that the timer was set properly, sighing at the sea of books waiting to be sorted. Maybe turning the house into a museum would be the best solution: let everything remain the way it was. He stopped at the photograph of Annika. He saw in his mind’s eye how, desperate and alone, she had climbed up on the chair in Axel’s office. A girl just turned fifteen who should have had her whole life ahead of her.

He stroked his finger over the glass covering her face.

‘I miss you, you know.’

In the upstairs bathroom he found some headache tablets and swallowed them, drinking water straight from the tap.
His mouth was stale. An ancient tube of toothpaste in which the contents had solidified was of little help, but in the bathroom cabinet there was a bottle of mouthwash. He shook a few drops directly onto his tongue and grimaced at the sting. He put the bottle in his pocket; he didn’t want to reek of alcohol when he got home.

Louise still hadn’t called.

He was in the taxi when his mobile rang. Hoping it was Louise, he snatched it up but was disappointed when he saw an unfamiliar number.

‘Yes, this is Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt.’

‘Hello, Jan-Erik, my name is Gunvor Benson and I’m a representative of the Nordic Council. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘I’ve been given the very pleasant task of ringing you to let you know that you’ve been unanimously voted the winner of the Nordic Council’s literary prize this year.’

Jan-Erik was dumbstruck.

‘This is the first time the prize has been given to anyone other than an author, but we feel that what you have accomplished in the wake of your father’s unique body of work is so admirable that we want to acknowledge it.’

‘Oh, my goodness.’

The taxi was passing the London viaduct, and he stared blankly at a huge ferry.

‘The prize money is 350,000 Danish kroner.’

‘Good Lord!’

‘Perhaps you’d like to hear the citation?’

‘Yes, please.’

She read it off. ‘In recognition of Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt’s efforts, through lectures and humanitarian aid work, to transform the achievements of an extraordinary author from the printed page into tangible results.’

‘Oh my.’ It was all he could manage.

She laughed on the other end.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Yes, well, it’s a bit unexpected, I have to say.’

‘I’ll get back to you with proposed dates for the award ceremony itself, but I just want to mention that we won’t officially announce your name until just before the award ceremony, so please keep this to yourself for the time being.’

‘Of course, I will.’

‘I have your postal address, and I’ll send you my contact details in case you have any further questions. Otherwise I just want to offer my congratulations.’

‘Thank you. I really don’t know what to say. I’m overjoyed.’

And he was. After they said goodbye he sat there with a big grin on his face. For the first time in a very, very long time he felt a huge, wild happiness running through his body.

He shook out a few more drops of mouthwash on his tongue before he unlocked the door to the flat. With renewed courage and hope for the future he was in great spirits. He would tell Louise, share his success with her, see to it that this award marked a turning point. He would get a grip on his alcohol problem and devote himself more to his family.

It was quiet in the flat, but the lights were on.

‘Hello?’

He set down his baggage and hung up his coat.

‘Hello.’

It was Ellen who answered. Jan-Erik went over to her room and stood in the doorway.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

She was sitting at her computer. Jan-Erik walked over to see what she was doing. A woman in black with a tiny waist and enormous breasts was massacring enemies in a wasteland. Ellen’s fingers tapped on the keyboard at the same speed as the shots firing on the screen.

‘Hey, that game doesn’t look so nice.’

‘Just leave it.’

He clammed up, afraid to provoke his daughter’s anger. He moved away a few steps and sat down on the bed. Ellen kept playing and took no notice. The anguished screams emanating from the computer were accompanied by a pounding rock melody.

‘Where’s Mamma?’

‘She went to bed. She’s got a headache.’

On the screen blood was spattering everywhere; he was amazed by how lifelike the animation was.

‘How was school today?’

‘We had a study day.’

‘I see. So you had the day off?’

Ellen didn’t answer. The battle onscreen continued.

Jan-Erik was again struck by how awkward the conversation was. It was so difficult to communicate with his daughter. What did you talk about with a twelve-year-old girl? Her world was as incomprehensible to him as an alien’s.

‘Do you want to know a secret?’

‘Mmm.’

‘But you can’t tell anybody else.’

Enemy after enemy was mowed down and annihilated.

‘I’m going to get a huge prize, for all the work I do with Grandfather’s books and stuff. You know, those clinics and things I’ve started up.’

‘Oh, right.’

He might as well have been telling her that he sometimes ate sandwiches. Ellen’s total lack of interest seemed genuine. She wasn’t even trying to pretend that she was impressed.

‘It’s called the Nordic Council Literary Prize, a very prestigious award. And 350,000 kronor. They’ve only given it to authors, before me.’

The music changed tempo. The woman in black was now inside what looked like some sort of church, but it didn’t dampen her ardour. The massacre continued.

Jan-Erik got up.

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yeah.’

He left the room without another word.

The bedroom door was closed. He went up to it and listened before he cautiously peered in. She was lying on her side with her back to him. He stood still and waited a moment, but nothing happened.

‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered.

There was no response.

As quietly as he could he pulled the door shut and went to the kitchen. The table had been cleared after dinner. He opened the fridge; there were no leftovers, but he made himself a caviar sandwich. Only now did the thought of food seem appealing again.

He would never again have a hangover. His promise was sincere. Today’s had just passed, but the memory of the torment was still with him.

When he finished eating he sat down in his office. The pile of letters and junk mail had grown, and he spent half an hour taking care of the most urgent items. Fan mail addressed to Axel Ragnerfeldt he set aside; at the moment he didn’t feel like being reminded of his father’s accomplishments.

He suddenly remembered Marianne Folkesson. It was just a little past nine, not too late to call.

‘Marianne here.’

‘Hi, it’s Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt. Listen, I’m afraid I couldn’t find any photo of Gerda.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘No, I searched everywhere.’

‘Okay, then I’ll have to use the one I found in her flat, even if it is blurry. Thanks for trying.’

‘There’s nothing to thank me for, it was the least I could do. Sorry.’

‘We did what we could. I’ll see you at the funeral then.’

‘Yes, okay.’

Jan-Erik said the words slowly. There was more he wanted to discuss but Marianne didn’t pick up on his hesitation.

Just as she was about to hang up, Jan-Erik said, ‘You know, now that I have you on the line, I’m a bit curious. I was thinking about that Kristoffer Sandeblom who came to my lecture yesterday. You haven’t found out any more about why Gerda left her estate to him, have you? What sort of connection they have to each other, I mean.’

‘I’ve no idea, but I did find a letter for him. I went to her flat today to pick up some things for the funeral.’

‘A letter?’

‘Yes, I put it in the mail today. He should have it tomorrow.’

‘So you have no idea what it said?’

‘No, no clue. I didn’t open it.’

‘Hmm.’

‘We’ll have to ask him at the funeral. I’m rather curious myself.’

Nothing she had said lessened Jan-Erik’s unease. He couldn’t convince himself that his suspicions were improbable. Annika’s suicide had seemed improbable too, until it was confirmed.

A half-full water glass stood on the table. He poured the contents into one of the flowerpots in the window, got up and took the bottle out from behind the books on the shelf.

He had vowed never to have a hangover again, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t treat himself to a little nightcap.

A
lice was sitting on the sofa watching TV. It was a baffling programme about a rich American woman who wanted to get an operation to make herself look like a cat. Since they’d had cable TV installed in the house, she’d gained insight into so many odd things that she no longer knew what to believe about humanity. But in the absence of other companionship the TV was most often on, and occasionally something would come on that was worth looking at.

She had almost given up hope when the telephone rang. She’d been trying to reach Jan-Erik all day to ask him to give her a lift to the clinic tomorrow. This time she was sure. It wasn’t her imagination; there was something strange going on in her body. Despite her worry she was looking forward to the examination, as if she were going on an exciting adventure.

‘Jan-Erik?’

He got straight to the point.

‘I have a couple of questions about some things I found in Pappa’s cupboard.’

No greeting, no ‘How are you?’ Jan-Erik’s voice was curt, and she didn’t like it when he sounded that way. Their previous conversation still hovered in the air, despite all her efforts to drive it away. His accusing stare burned in her mind, just as strongly as if he’d put it into words.

You’re the one who bears the blame for what Annika did. It’s your
fault she didn’t want to live. As her mother it was your responsibility
to prevent what happened.

But what about Axel! she had wanted to scream, why didn’t
any blame fall on Axel? With his inconsiderate belief in his sole right to existence, he was the one who had created her powerlessness.

He had been given everything.

Simply everything.

An invincible battleship that, unconcerned, steamed forth in the hunt for honour, while everyone else around him went under.

But she had sat there in silence. And the old feeling of guilt, long absorbed, had been drawing in nourishment.

‘What are you doing rummaging about in that cupboard? All you’ll find is misery.’

‘It’s about letters from somebody called Halina. Is that someone you know?’

The name hit her like a punch in the stomach. So many years had passed during which it had never been mentioned, an unspoken agreement to eradicate it from their consciousness. But through the silence it had remained, festering like a malignant tumour. Thirty-one years later she still didn’t know the truth about their relationship. Whether it was only that one single time or whether it went on for much longer.

Afterwards, when it all became irrelevant, she hadn’t wanted to know. As though in a haze they had tried to recreate all the routines in order to contain the truth. A forced need to map out their daily lives in order to expel the consequences. But how did you take up the threads of a life you didn’t even know you wanted?

‘No, I’ve never heard that name.’

‘The letters are from the seventies. So you’ve never heard of anyone named Halina?’

‘No.’

He kept the letters! So typical of Axel! She would have to go to the house some day and see whether the idiot had saved anything else that should never be found.

‘They were unopened, so he can’t even have read them. I just thought you might know who she was.’

‘No, I have no idea.’

Three times Halina had now been denied. With each time, she came all the more alive in Alice’s mind.

Everything had seemed so surreal. One moment of her life had suddenly become decisive. A tiny parenthesis that was lifted out and became the headline.

Until Halina rang the doorbell the whole day had been so ordinary, if one ignored the unusual episode in the library with Axel. Normal time was being counted down, although no one had realised. Soon they would eat dinner, she would watch
Rich Man, Poor Man
on TV; everything had been completely normal.

An instant of madness.

She had been so afraid. So terribly afraid. Not when it happened, not when Axel ran out to the hall after Halina and she remained humiliated on the sofa. Not when she heard Halina’s continued threats about what she intended to do to destroy their lives. Not when she grabbed the heavy silver candlestick and headed for the angry voices. Not even when she stood there with the candlestick in her hand, looking down at Halina’s lifeless body had she been afraid.

All she had felt was amazement. She had looked at her hands holding the candlestick and was amazed that they were hers. They had obeyed instinct, an instinct as old as humankind – the readiness to kill in order to protect what is ours.

Somewhere inside her she had unknowingly carried the ability.

She had sacrificed so much for the little she had succeeded in achieving. A life in the shadow of the man so admired.

For that little bit she had shown herself capable of killing.

Not even then was she afraid.

Gerda’s shrieks of despair. Soundlessly they hit her ears.

Axel, who sank down next to Halina.

‘What have you done? What have you done? What have you done?’

Like a mantra he kept repeating the question, and not until she heard the sound of Axel’s voice did it come slinking in: the horror of the irrevocable.

Terrified she had looked at his hands trying to shake life into Halina in an attempt to save their future. The blankness that descended when his efforts proved futile.

The realisation entered her consciousness, striking her like a club and forcing her to her knees. What he had done she could never forgive.

That man, whose children she had borne, had turned her into a murderer.

She gave a start when she heard Jan-Erik’s voice on the phone.

‘Okay, I was just wondering. I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow morning at ten past eight.’