Shadow (4 page)

She hung up her coat in the alcove behind the counter and took out her mobile phone. Jan-Erik still hadn’t called, even though she’d left a message to remind him of their daughter’s show that night. She gave a heavy sigh and dialled Alice Ragnerfeldt’s number instead. It rang many times, but that was not unusual. Her mother-in-law sometimes suffered from vascular cramps and claimed that the doctor said that a capful of whisky each morning was good medicine. Louise had no idea how big a cap was on the doctor’s bottle, but the one on her mother-in-law’s was clearly enormous. After the twelfth ring she answered.

‘Alice Ragnerfeldt.’

‘Hello, it’s Louise. How are you feeling today?’

There was no reply at the other end. Louise regretted her choice of words. She already knew the answer.

‘Fine, thanks, pretty much as usual.’

Louise hastened to reply before the detailed report began.

‘I wondered whether you wanted to accompany me to a play at Ellen’s school this evening.’

‘This evening?’

‘Yes. At seven.’

There was a long silence. Louise could hear her motherin-law’s heavy breathing. And then the question that she knew would follow.

‘Is Jan-Erik going?’

‘I don’t know whether he’ll be home in time. He gave a lecture in Göteborg yesterday, so he’ll be coming back by train sometime in the afternoon or evening.’

Even as she answered she wondered why she didn’t just tell Alice the truth. Why did she always instinctively defend him? It was as though a switch was thrown in her head each time she was confronted with her in-laws. A pretence that needed to be maintained to avoid insidious attacks and to prove that she fitted in. If her relationship to Axel was nonexistent, then her relationship to Alice was more highly charged. At first openly displeased, over the years her mother-in- law had resigned herself to accepting the marriage. It was better than nothing, and something in Louise strove for that acceptance, to be admitted in earnest. To be a real part of the Ragnerfeldt family and not merely basking in their radiance.

For the moment Alice Ragnerfeldt could not give an answer and asked Louise to ring back that afternoon.

As expected, Jan-Erik did not show up at the play. Her maternal heart was filled with holy fury when, as so many times before, she saw her daughter survey the audience expectantly, how her eyes searched for him, her hopes extinguished when his seat remained empty. The anguish Louise felt afterwards, as she tried to reduce the sense of betrayal and soothe her daughter’s disappointment. Her anger and power lessness had thwarted all possibility of enjoying the performance.

She couldn’t live this way. Not really. Not if she ever again wanted to be able to use the word ‘excellent’.

He didn’t show up until around eleven. Ellen had gone to bed, and Louise was sitting with an anaesthetising drink in the easy chair by the bay window.

‘Hello!’ she heard the cheerful voice from the hall.

She wished she were in bed already, hiding in the dark with her back turned so she could avoid seeing him. She was so utterly sick of what she’d become.

She heard his steps approaching and then he appeared in the living room. He looked tired. His face was puffy.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

She looked down and hastily brushed some non-existent fluff from the arm of the chair.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Ellen’s play. The train was late.’

‘You seem to have bad luck with trains. I thought it was last night you gave the lecture.’

He went over to the little gilt table with the bottles of spirits. With his back to her he poured himself a whisky. He was doing that more often lately. At night when she returned to the bedroom from the toilet, she would be met by the distinct odour of his breath. But considering what she was holding in her hand it was hard to raise objections.

‘I had a couple of meetings booked today with some companies in Göteborg. About fundraising for the clinic in Somalia. Anything new here?’

No. Not if you ignore the fact that you’ve broken your daughter’s heart again, she wanted to say.

‘What clinic?’

He turned to her in surprise.

‘Don’t you know? The clinic we set up last year.’

‘No, I don’t know. How could I know if you never told me?’

Her voice was hard and prickly. She hated the bitterness that had crept into her, so slowly and silently that she didn’t discover it until it had already taken root.

‘Then I apologise. I thought I’d told you, or perhaps I thought you wouldn’t be interested.’

She looked out the window across the tops of the trees towards the church tower. It was true what he said, she wasn’t particularly interested. She knew that financially they depended on his work and it was useful; that the foundations and orphanages he established in Axel’s name saved lives out there in remote places. But to be interested in his work was like legitimising her own tormentor. To always be rejected. Something else was always more important and took precedence over what she and Ellen had to offer. Maybe she was selfish. Otherwise she might have been able to set Ellen’s and her welfare aside for a greater cause. But she was not that better person.

‘I asked your mother if she wanted to go to the play with us.’

‘That was nice of you.’

‘No, not really. It wasn’t for her sake, it was for Ellen’s. But she couldn’t come. She had to stay at home and take care of her leg cramps, her bad hip and the tinnitus in her ears.’

Jan-Erik drained the last of the whisky in his glass and poured another one.

‘It’s not easy for her. She did turn eighty this year. We’ll have to hope that all three of us can go next time.’

She looked out of the window again. Wishing instead that she were on the other side of one of the windows across the street.

‘Yes, that would be nice. A real Ragnerfeldt onslaught. Ellen would certainly appreciate not being the child who draws the smallest crowd for once.’

She loathed every syllable that came out of her mouth. Hated having turned into someone whose last chance for satisfaction was to think she had the right to utter those words. Often they were trivialities that actually meant nothing; she used them merely to vent her frustration. Complaining about the way he left his shoes in the hall, the way the
crockery was arranged in the dishwasher, the way the cushions on the sofa weren’t in the right place. What she hated most was that Jan-Erik refused to be provoked. Like one of those invincible figures in Ellen’s computer games he would rise unscathed after each mortal blow, always ready for more. His equanimity drove her crazy. She wasn’t even important enough to cause a row.

He set down his empty whisky tumbler on the glass table top.

‘I’m going to bed now. I have to see Mamma tomorrow. Gerda Persson has died.’

‘Oh, really? And who is Gerda Persson?’

For a moment he looked surprised.

‘Our old housekeeper.’

Gerda Persson. She had never heard the name before.

‘Somebody called from the council wanting to discuss the funeral. I presume we must be the closest acquaintances she has. Or had. She was part of our household for my entire childhood and stayed there until 1979, maybe 1980. So it’s not too much to ask that we help out with what we can. Mamma knew her better, so I’ll have to discuss it with her.’

He walked out and soon she heard the bathroom door close and lock. As if he were making sure that she wouldn’t suddenly storm in and assault him.

She was living with a stranger. Gerda Persson had lived in his house for his entire childhood. And he had never before mentioned her name. Yet another sign of his success at keeping her out of his life. Present and past. And she had no idea what he thought about the future.

Her life was divided into two compartments: one was full of longing to recapture her own dreams; the other of bitterness over the way everything had turned out, including Jan-Erik’s complete indifference. It was between these millstones that everything was being ground into a fine dust that was slowly settling over her life. Of course there was a way
out. Many people had chosen it before her. Divorce figures were so high that grocers were giving out queue tickets for packing boxes. But there was a chasm one had to cross between
I would really like to
and
Now I will.
Ellen was part of that chasm. How could she allow herself to make a decision that would also affect her daughter so much? The other aspect was financial. Everything of value in her life belonged to the Ragnerfeldt Corporation, and its owner was still Axel Ragnerfeldt: the flat, the car, the shop. In a divorce she would be left destitute. But only as long as Axel was alive. She thought about it sometimes, and more and more often lately, the fact that her situation would be different the day the inheritance was divided up. She had begun to sense what was actually lurking beneath the bitterness; sometimes it would stick out a rough hand and grab hold of her. A tremendous sorrow over their unforgivable failure.

If no decisive change occurred, divorce would be the only way out, as soon as Axel died.

The alternative was to stay and for ever eradicate the word ‘excellent’ from her consciousness.

H
e had learned to breathe so it sounded as if he was asleep. As he lay in his pyjamas on his side of the double bed he listened to Louise’s bare feet padding across the oak parquet floor, then her hanging up her dressing gown, sitting down on the edge of the bed and removing her necklace, rings and earrings. He heard the clatter when the jewellery landed one by one in the little crystal bowl on the night-stand. He heard her pull out the drawer, unscrew the lid of the moisturiser and finally the sound of her rubbing it carefully on her hands. Night after night – the same routine. If the word ‘boredom’ could be visualised, this was a precise example.

He hadn’t slept much the night before, yet he couldn’t get to sleep. His heart was pounding unpleasantly, and he wished that he could sneak out of bed unnoticed and have another whisky. And besides, even though Louise thought him incapable of it, he felt guilty at having missed Ellen’s play. Again. It hadn’t been on purpose. He had planned to take an earlier train. But then the woman had asked him to stay another few hours, told him that she could get off work, and he hadn’t been able to resist. As usual, his judgement had slipped down between his legs, and for a couple of hours he had watched with delight the effect of his talents, felt the satisfaction of his own ability when he made her whimper in ecstasy. The instant it was all over, he had been filled with self-disgust. A distaste so strong it was as if she’d suddenly sprouted tentacles.

But he missed the train.

He heard Louise’s breathing deepen and presumed she was asleep. But maybe she could fake it as well as he could. They really ought to get separate bedrooms; then at least they could read in peace in the evenings. But to achieve that they would have to lay their problems on the table; open confrontations were something he hated. They could easily overflow and suddenly involve something altogether different from what one had intended in the beginning. It was much too risky.

The guilt he felt was hard to describe. He wouldn’t be able to stand his home at all if he couldn’t travel so often. And yet he had the same sense of relief each time he came back. On the verge of tears and with a heavy conscience, he wanted more than anything to be on good terms again. Like a boxer’s punchbag that silently takes blow after blow, he was willing to endure her sarcasm. So often he vowed to himself that everything was going to be different; he was going to be a better person, drink in moderation, keep his cock in his trousers. But despite all his good intentions, restlessness soon caught up with him, and the itchy sensation in his body was impossible to quell. Then he would go out and it would start all over again. It was his only means of relief.

He took a swallow of water from the glass on the night-stand. A strip of light from a street-lamp came through the Venetian blinds and fell across the bed. He looked at Louise, who seemed to be sleeping, turned away from him.

Thirteen years ago, he had been certain. After an endless series of brief affairs and one-night stands, he had finally found the woman he was looking for. The one who would take away the grinding feeling of emptiness and make him whole. He had tried before, but those women had never come up to expectations. This time everything would be different. He was tired of the life he was leading, and more and more often he would see that look in the eyes of younger women – he was starting to become pathetic. Thirty-seven years old. It was high time he ended this late teenage rebellion that had started
when he came home from the USA as a twenty-one-year-old. All the nights in bars, the drugs, the money that was frittered away as fast as it appeared. All the strangers lying next to him when he woke up in the morning, never as attract ive in the morning light as they’d been in the intoxication of the night before. Louise would be the armour he needed. The one who would make him want to create some sort of structure in his life and finally prove that he could do more than shelter in the shadow of his illustrious surname. She had fitted perfectly. Stylish, beautiful and a celebrated poet. His father would be impressed. His mother, of course, would never be satisfied.

He cautiously pushed back the covers and with a wary look at her back got up with infinite slowness so that he wouldn’t rouse her. She didn’t move. He took his robe and quietly closed the door behind him. He had learned how to sneak across the squeaky floorboards. Ellen’s door was ajar and her red lava lamp was on. For a moment he stood looking at her, not really knowing why. It was just so much easier to release the love he felt for her when she was asleep. Her duvet had slipped down, and he tucked her in carefully before he moved on.

He had a bottle of whisky hidden behind the books in his office. He left the door open so he could hear if anyone was coming and took a few gulps straight from the bottle. He looked through the business post but left it unopened. Two of the letters looked like fan mail. His father still got a couple every week. Jan-Erik usually answered them with a photograph and a rubber stamp of Axel’s signature.

In the bathroom he brushed his teeth, carefully scrubbing away the smell of alcohol. Then he moistened a little toilet paper and wiped off the white spots on the bathroom mirror. A simple effort to avoid being reprimanded.

Then he crept back into bed.

Everything had started so well. He couldn’t get enough of her. For the first time he thought he’d found the woman
who could hold his glance like a magnet instead of letting his eyes stray to look at other women. Louise was his grand passion. Enveloped in mystery, she had at first rejected his advances, and her resistance had brought him to the edge of insanity. It was like throwing himself into a whirlpool. Everything about her intensified his ardour. He always wanted to be near her, to know what she was thinking when she was silent, to smell her scent, make love to her, hold her tight and never let her go. Finally she had capitulated.

The enemy had held back a bit longer this time. It had prowled about once in a while and then retreated. Jan-Erik had believed that he had finally won. He didn’t notice how it slowly but surely tightened its circles until once again he was surrounded. She began to demand too much, take up far too much room. He felt a greater and greater need to dilute her. Phone calls came when he least expected them. Intimate dinners by candlelight, when she inquisitively dug for secrets and without being invited shared some of her own. Little presents and surprises that compelled his gratitude. There were longer and longer detours to sort out day-to-day trivialities before he was given a chance to demonstrate his prowess in the bedroom. His suspicion grew; he saw clearly how she was trying to wriggle her way farther and farther in to make herself indispensable. And then it was all over. As always, the mystery was transformed into knowledge, and everything exciting became routine. Her secret underwear, which had occupied his fantasies for entire days, suddenly hung on the clothesline under fluorescent light when he shaved in the morning. Her beauty that had cap tivated him was organised in small labelled jars and bottles in the bathroom cabinet. Her thoughts that filled him with such wonder turned out to be just as ordinary as everyone else’s. A woman was like a distant city in the night. From far off the lights glittered like magical jewels, tempting and enticing with all their promises and possibilities. But close up the city looked like all the others. Full of buildings that
needed renovation and with rubbish along the kerbs. It was not companionship he sought; that gave him no relief. What he wanted was glowing passion and uninhibited sex, and he was furious with her because she had duped him. His love had once again turned out to be a disappointment. Like a cocaine buzz. He had been high for a while, and then irrevocably plummeted even further into restlessness.

He had planned to break off the whole thing without explaining why. Just go out for cigarettes and never come back. That same evening she asked him to sit down on the sofa, took his hand, and with a happy smile told him they were going to have a baby.

He woke up before the alarm clock rang. Quietly he went over to Louise’s side and turned it off before he went to wake his daughter. He wanted so much to have a moment alone with her, have a chance to ask her forgiveness for missing the play.

‘Ellen?’

She stirred a bit.

‘Ellen, it’s time to get up.’ He put his hand on her head and patted her awkwardly. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

‘Hi.’ She sounded truly happy and started to stretch up her arms. He gave her a smile and wanted to say something.

‘I’m making a little breakfast. What do you usually have?’

‘Just some milk and a piece of bread. With cheese.’

He intended to apologise now but couldn’t find the words. He stood there for a moment, searching, before he gave up and left the room. Once again he was struck by how hard it was to know how to behave. He loved his daughter, but she also scared him. Her obvious dependence and need of him made him feel anxious. As if he were forced to defend himself. He was incapable of giving her what she wanted from him. He simply didn’t have it in him. She was an ever-present reminder of his inadequacy.

He made her bread and cheese then fetched the morning paper. When he returned she was sitting at the kitchen table. He sat down opposite her. Now. Now he would apologise.

‘How’s school, then?’

‘Fine.’ She kept eating.

‘Do you have a lot of tests?’

‘Some. Not that many.’

She drank her milk and got up to get more from the fridge. He realised that time was running out. He made another stab.

‘I just wanted to say that, that, uh, if you want another piece of bread I can get you one.’

‘No, thanks. Where’s Mamma?’

‘She’s still asleep.’

‘I can’t find my green hair-slide.’

In a single gulp she finished her milk and put the glass in the dishwasher. Before he could say anything else, she vanished towards their bedroom and he could hear murmuring voices. Private conversations that never included him.

Ellen was one of the reasons why he had stayed. He would lose her if they separated. The bond between them was much too fragile to compete with the chain that Louise had managed to forge. But there was also another reason, so secret that only he and his father knew about it. It had to do with appearances.

Ragnerfeldts did not get divorced.

At the time Ellen was born, his father had not harboured particularly high hopes regarding Jan-Erik’s talent for marriage, and even though the criticism could now only flash like lightning from his eyes, it would become quite clear the day he died and the inheritance was distributed. Jan-Erik could not be denied his legal right of inheritance, but his father had always been clever at manipulating the law. With his deft pen he had seen to it that Jan-Erik’s share would be as small as possible if he wasn’t living an honourable life on
the day the will was read. Jan-Erik himself had been allowed to read the document. It was dated on Ellen’s first birthday, and in impeccable legal language his father had confirmed his supremacy. With words oozing with contempt he had bequeathed large sums to Louise and Ellen. As long as the marriage was intact nothing would change; Jan-Erik would remain the executor with the obligation to render accounts to the auditor. But in the event of a divorce, everything would be disclosed, and Louise would be the major beneficiary.

‘It’s for Ellen’s sake,’ his father had explained. ‘She’s our bequest to the future.’ They had returned to the dinner table, and Jan-Erik had got drunk on vintage wine. He had joined half-heartedly in the harmless chatter that hid the rage he was feeling. Why had the important future heritage skipped a generation?

That evening he had tried to overcome his aversion and have sex with Louise.

It had felt like fucking his jailer.