The Best Intentions (2 page)

Henrik does not answer. He looks at the old man's forehead, his cheeks, his chin, where there is a small cut from his morning shave. He looks at the great ear, at the neck and the pulse beating above the stiff collar.

Henrik:
What do you want me to say, Grandfather?

Fredrik Bergman:
You're very like your father. Did you know that, Henrik?

Henrik:
So they say, yes. Mother says so.

Fredrik Bergman:
I never did understand why he hated me so terribly.

Henrik:
I understand that you have never understood, Grandfather.

Fredrik Bergman:
I became a farmer, and my brother became a priest. No one asked us what we wanted or didn't want. Is that of any great significance?

Henrik:
Significance?

Fredrik Bergman:
I never felt either hatred or bitterness for my parents. Or else I've forgotten.

Henrik:
How practical of you.

Fredrik Bergman:
What? Oh, practical! Well, yes, you could say that. Your father had such vivid ideas about freedom. He was always talking about having to “have his freedom.” So he became a bankrupt pharmacist in Öland. That was his freedom.

Henrik:
You're mocking him, Grandfather. (
Silence
.)

Fredrik Bergman:
What do you say to my offer? I'll be responsible for your studies. I'll pay a monthly allowance for the rest of your mother's life and pay off your loan. All you have to do is to go to ward
twelve at the Academic Hospital and make things up with your grandmother.

Henrik:
How do I know you won't cheat me, Grandfather?

Fredrik Bergman laughs briefly, not a friendly laugh, but it contains appreciation.

Fredrik Bergman:
My word of honor, Henrik. (
Pause
.) You'll have it in writing. (
Cheerfully
.) Let's draw up an agreement. You decide on the sums of money, and I'll sign it. What do you say, Henrik? (
Suddenly
.) Grandmother and I have lived together for almost forty years. It hurts now, Henrik. It hurts most horribly. Her physical torment is terrible, but they can relieve that sort of thing at the hospital, at least for the time being. What's difficult is that she is suffering spiritually. I beg of you for one moment of mercy. Not toward me; I don't ask that. But toward her. You're going to be a minister, Henrik, aren't you? You must know something about love. I mean Christian love. To me, that's all talk and evasions, but to you, talk about love must be something real. Have mercy on a sick and desperate person. I'll give you whatever you want. You decide on the sum. I won't haggle. But you must help your grandmother in her distress. (
Pause
.) Are you listening to what I'm saying?

Henrik:
Go to the woman who's called my grandmother and tell her from me that she lived a whole life at her husband's side without helping Mother or me. Without standing up to you, my grandfather. She was aware of our misery and sent small presents at Christmas and birthdays. Tell that woman she chose her life and her death. She will never have my forgiveness. Tell her that I despise her on behalf of my mother, just as I loathe you and people like you. I will never become like you.

Fredrik Bergman takes the boy's arm in a hard grip and slowly shakes him. Henrik looks at him.

Henrik:
Are you going to hit me, Grandfather?

He frees himself and slowly walks across the room, closing the door carefully behind him and going down the dark corridor, some gas lamps flickering in the faint daylight from three dirty windows high up in the roof.

Henrik has an oral exam in church history with the dreaded Professor Sundelius in the first week in May.

This is Monday, half past five in the morning. The sun is bright behind the tattered blind in the young man's modest lodgings, containing a sagging bed, a rickety table heaped with books and files, a chair, a heavily loaded bookcase that has seen better days but never better books, a washstand with a cracked basin, a jug, a pail, and a chamber pot. A three-legged armchair propped up on four volumes of Malmström's unreadable exegetics. Two paraffin lamps (a surprising luxury!), one hanging from the low ceiling, where damp patches form continents, the other on the table, watching over two photographs: his mother when she was still young and pretty, and as a fiancée, white and good-looking with bright eyes and wide smiling mouth. On the sloping floor, a few rag rugs of the indestructible kind. On the bulging wallpaper, reproductions with motifs from the Old Testament. In the corner by the door, a tall narrow tiled stove with a floral pattern on the tiles. The room breathes poverty, ingrained Lutheran cleanliness scrubbed with soft soap, and stale pipe smoke. The view out to the courtyard is of a blank wall and seven outhouses anxiously propped up against each other and the wall. Small birds are chattering away in the lilac bushes, now almost in bloom. The old wood cutter in the basement has already started sawing. Somewhere, a baby is crying for its mother's breast. As mentioned before, it is half past five, and Henrik wakes with a stab in his stomach — the church history exam. The dreaded Professor Sundelius.

Justus Bark comes in without knocking. He is Henrik's contemporary, but small and stocky, with dark eyes, a large nose, and black hair. He speaks with a Hälsinge accent and has bad teeth. He is clad in a dark suit, white shirt, loose collar, loose cuffs, black necktie, and frenziedly polished but worn shoes.

Justus:
Ecclesia invisibilis, ecclesia militans, ecclesia pressa, ecclesia regnans, and,
last but not least,
ecclesia triumphanus.
You know what's the worst thing about old man Sundelius? Gyllen told me last night. He flunked ecumenics because he didn't know the Roman Catholic Church had held twenty assemblies, but that the Greek Orthodox Church only approved the first seven. Which assemblies did the Greeks approve?

Henrik:
Nicaea in 325
A.D
., Constantinople in 381
A.D
., Ephesus in 431, Chalcedon in 451. Constantinople again in 553
and
in 680, and Nicaea in 787.

Justus:
Bravo, bravo. Gyllen failed, and the dreaded Sundelius threw him out. First question, wrong answer, out. We're scared now, scared stiff.
I have consumed far too much coffee or something called coffee. Can you lend me some tea? My stomach's burning like Gehenna.

Henrik:
The cupboard, Justus. See you in ten minutes. At the bottom of the stairs. Fully conscious.

Justus:
Gyllen is wealthy. He'll be chucked out by Sundelius in three minutes, will shrug his shoulders, and will take a summer holiday after the Spring Ball. Then he'll scrape through church history at Christmas. Would you like to be . . . ?

Henrik:
No thanks.
Amicus.

Justus:
What are those blue marks on your chest?

Henrik:
That's Frida. She bites.

Justus:
See you in ten minutes.

Henrik:
Pax tecum.

After Justus has left, Henrik stands naked for a moment in the bright sunlight, trying to breathe calmly, then says quietly: “Lord, are you going to help me? If it goes badly today, it'll be a catastrophe. Old man Sundelius could be a little unwell, couldn't he, and will send his kindly senior lecturer instead. It's happened before.”

But on this particular morning, the dreaded Professor Sundelius is not the slightest bit ill. At ten to eight, the three candidates are sitting and waiting in the spacious hall. The professor has married into money and lives in a handsome twelve-room apartment in Vaksala Square. The door to the dining room is open, and two servant girls in blue and white are clearing away breakfast. For a few moments, they glimpse the professor's wife, handsome but lame. She briefly raises her lorgnette to the three young candidates and their pale faces. They rise to their feet and bow respectfully with ingratiating smiles — as if that would help. The salon clock dully strikes eight. “Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell,” thinks Henrik, quoting
Macbeth,
act 2, scene 1. The secretary to the professor (he actually has a secretary, so he is very wealthy; it's rumored he will be a minister in the next cabinet shuffle) is a fairly dusty creature with psoriasis and watery eyes, secretly enjoying the terror he is spreading as in humble tones he summons the three young men into the professor's study.

Professor Sundelius is an impressive man in his fifties, with an open face, ruddy complexion, thick hair, and beard streaked with gray. He is wearing a well-fitting frock coat, which enhances his
well-proportioned figure. He walks swiftly across the oriental rug, smilingly holding out a muscular hand and heartily shaking the hands of the delinquents.

His study is spacious though rather dark, for heavily draped curtains keep out the brilliant spring day. The fragrance of books and silence prevail. A desk, huge as a fortress. Leather upholstery. Three dark-stained chairs set out, with cane seats and straight backs; glittering armatures; dark pictures in gilt frames and faintly shimmering bodies of women.

The professor sits down at his desk and invites the three of them to be seated on the proffered chairs. He chooses a cigar (first cigar after breakfast) from a silver cigar box, tops it carefully, and lights it.

Professor Sundelius:
Nothing as good as a breakfast cigar. With confidence, I can tell you that this is a genuine Cuban cigar. Look how nobly it glows. Look how the fine veins of the tobacco leaf absorb the fire and how gently they are turned to ash.

For a few seconds, the professor and his candidates contemplate the beauty of cigar smoking, then, in silence, Sundelius leans forward and reaches out a large hand. The students at once realize they are to hand over their examination books. The professor places them in a row on his blotter.

Professor Sundelius:
Which of you gentlemen would like to start? Who'll take the first shot? As you gentlemen are sure to know, I am considered exacting. Not from pettiness, but from a reasoned attitude, which has brought on me a great many less flattering epithets over the years. Well, never mind about that for the moment. We have far too many lazy, stupid, and ignorant theologians. By making reasonable demands, I am able to help you improve your reputation and raise your status. It is often said that a priest is a spiritual guide, whatever benefit his congregation gains from the good pastor's knowledge of Boniface VII and his works. That's a seductive but faulty argument. A thorough knowledge of church history requires industry, interest, a broad view, a good memory, and self-discipline. Qualities that are good for a priest. I hold up a net and ensure that the idiots, the slackers, and the drivelers are caught in it. That's always a sight to behold, don't you agree, gentlemen?

Three bleak smiles and some silent agreement. Then silence. Baltsar, the third man in the trio, clears his throat. There's not much to say about him. He is one of the diners at “Cold Märta's” restaurant, is thin, and has a sickly yellowish complexion, protruding eyes, and bad breath.
Baltsar is not destined to last long on this earth. In a few years, he will put a cartridge of dynamite into his mouth and explode among the town's famous fritillaries, right after they've burst into bloom. Nothing much is left to bury.

Professor Sundelius
(
soberly
): Good, good, Mr. Bejer. Let us talk about Scholasticism, a broad and sustaining subject, and let us begin with what is called Early Scholasticism, the foremost representatives of which were . . . ?

Baltsar:
Johannes Scotus Erigena, and Anselm of Canterbury. Early Middle Ages. Tenth century.

Professor Sundelius:
Well, yes, roughly. And what was characteristic of those two gentlemen?

Baltsar:
Johannes Erigena maintained that true religion and true philosophy are identical. Anselm of Canterbury said that general concepts, that is, ideas, are realities and not just words.
Credo ut intelligam.

Professor Sundelius:
. . .
nihil credendum nisi intellectum.

Baltsar:
Anselm did not say that, but his opponent, Abelard, did to some extent. To him, reason played a decisive role. He wanted to limit authoritarian belief, which he thought risky. That meant he acquired powerful enemies.

Professor Sundelius:
Let's go back to High Scholasticism and Thomas Aquinas for a while. Mr. Bergman, your subject will be the “Apostleship.” Would you name a few of the Apostolic Fathers? Which authors are considered to have been immediate apprentices of the Apostles?

Henrik:
Barnabas.

Professor Sundelius:
That's right. But there are other
very
important figures, are there not?

Henrik:
Clemens of Rome. (
Pause
.) Polycarpus.

Professor Sundelius:
Three more, Mr. Bergman.

Henrik:
No.

Professor Sundelius:
What is meant by the Apostolic Assembly?

Henrik:
They are the assemblies the Apostles themselves instituted in Rome, Ephesus, and Corinth.

Professor Sundelius:
More?

Henrik:
Ephesus.

Professor Sundelius:
You've already mentioned Ephesus.

Henrik:
Alexandria.

Professor Sundelius:
No, but Antioch. Jerusalem.

Henrik:
Yes, of course.

Professor Sundelius:
What is meant by
Symbolum Apostolorum?

Henrik:
Something to do with profession of faith. I don't know any more.

Henrik studies his nails. The catastrophe is a fact. Baltsar and Justus have stopped breathing. Professor Sundelius says nothing. A drowsy spring fly buzzes in the narrow ray of sunlight coming through the gap in the heavy window draperies.

Almost thirty seconds vanish into infinity. The professor looks attentively at Candidate Bergman, then turns back to his desk, leafs through the examination book, and finally hands it to Henrik.