The Best Intentions (30 page)

Anna:
Poor Carl.

Carl:
I'll have to sign for a monthly allowance.

Anna:
Is that such a bad idea?

Carl:
You don't think so?

Anna:
You know you're careless with money.

Carl:
Do you want another sip? You're so pale.

Anna:
Please. (
Drinks
.)

Carl:
Stop, for God's sake. You must leave a few drops for me, too. Sit down here. On my lap.

Anna:
I can't sit down. My skirt'll get creased.

Carl:
Then I'll lie down.

Four chairs are standing in a row. Carl lies down, propping his head on his hand and regarding Anna with a sorrowful, cracked smile.

Anna:
Why are you looking like that?

Carl:
When I look at you and delight in your prodigious beauty, Schwesterchen, I have comical visions. I see Milky Ways and galaxies and the insane polka of the planets. And then you are standing there! (
He sighs
.)

Anna:
Are you all right, Uncle Carl?

Carl:
Oh, yes. I'm fine. (
He sighs
.) And then there you are, all earthly beauty radiating around you, and I am dazzled, tears coming to my eyes. Do you know why?

Anna:
You must tell me quickly, because I must soon . . .

Carl:
Well, you see, you contradict meaninglessness. Just now and at this very moment, little sister, you contradict the icy meaninglessness of winter streets and the merciless emptiness of the universe. If I stand beside you like this. No, look now, don't look at the clock. Look at us two! Look at our images in the mirror. I correspond to highly placed demands for galactic meaninglessness. And then we look at you, my flower, and you are overflowing with meaning and content. One could
almost become religious. One could say you characterize God-given thought, a concealed but nevertheless perceived meaning. That was amusingly and nicely put, wasn't it? Do you understand what I mean?

Anna:
It sounded very moving. But I mustn't start crying. You and I are the best of friends, aren't we?

Carl:
Do you think I'm
really
an idiot? Feebleminded?

Anna:
Why do you say such stupid things?

Carl:
Approaching eclipse? Dementia?

Anna:
You're the kindest, wisest, best . . .

Carl:
I'm probably sick, you know.

Anna:
Are you sick?

Carl:
Yes, but that's not a fit subject of conversation.

Anna:
Isn't it as you say?

Carl:
No, oh, no.

Anna
(
cautiously and quietly
): We must go now.

Carl:
If I close my eyes, I can immediately imagine eternal Death. If I open my eyes, I see you and see incomprehensible magnificent Life. That's just it.

Anna:
Come on, dearest brother Carl. Take my arm, and we'll prop each other up. Then we'll march together out to our guests and what is to come.

So they march into the salon. The sun sparkles in the chandeliers and wall brackets. The family is already assembled and chatting cheerfully. The actors know their lines, and everyone is in the right key for the drama. As the bride enters, the players rise with enthusiastic cries and scattered applause. Anna glows from the smiles and bathes in the looks and comments. There is Henrik in his new well-fitting cassock. Tears suddenly come into his eyes. Whether of joy or pain or both is not easy to know.

The wedding night without a honeymoon is discreetly and swiftly transformed into an organizational matter of urgency. Mrs. Karin ordered an extra bed to be put in Anna's childhood room, ignoring all assurances that this would not be necessary. The bright room was decorated with a small fraction of the flowers from the festivities, two small bouquets of lilies-of-the-valley on the pillows,
and a collection of telegrams and letters in a neat pile on Anna's white desk. However, Martha's suggestion of champagne and appropriate sandwiches was decisively rejected.

For a few hours, the disquiet in the house dies down, the streetlight shining through the light, painted blinds, the fire glowing gently. The cathedral strikes the quarters and the hours, followed by the large salon clock far away in the apartment. The beds are a short distance apart. Anna and Henrik hold hands across the chasm.

Anna:
What did it strike?

Henrik:
Four.

Anna:
lean't sleep.

Henrik:
Neither can I.

Anna:
I'm too wound up.

Henrik:
And I — am — probably — too wrought up.

Anna:
It's like when you were little and it was the night before Christmas.

Henrik:
I feel — well, what do I feel?

Anna:
Just wait. Just think about us occupying the bishop's room. What kisses!

Henrik:
Tonight was more like brother and sister.

Anna:
Best that way.

Henrik:
We'll be on the train in three hours.

Anna:
Marvelous.

Henrik:
Aren't you at all sad?

Anna:
No. Not in the very smallest corner of my heart.

They lie with their eyes closed, holding hands, Anna smiling, Henrik rather solemn, the flowers giving off scents, the fire crackling and glowing. The superintendent of traffic may well be somewhere out there in the hovering darkness.

Henrik:
I've been thinking about your father all evening.

Anna:
Me, too. (
Sits up
.) Damn!

Henrik:
What is it?

Anna:
Damn! Do you know what we've forgotten!

Henrik:
The photographer. The wedding photographs. Damn!

Henrik:
Everyone forgot the photographs!

Anna:
Carl's brandy!

Henrik:
What?

Anna:
Just as we were off to the church, he came creeping in with a glass and said: Take this; it'll calm you down and help. I drank nearly all of it.

Henrik:
I thought I could smell brandy up at the altar. I thought it was the dean . . .

Anna:
And so we forgot the photographs.

Henrik:
Do you mind?

Anna:
Not in the slightest. (
Lies down
.)

Henrik:
We can get ourselves photographed in Gävle. (
Lies down
.)

Anna:
We have an
inner
photograph.

Henrik:
I do believer I'm falling asleep.

Anna:
Me, too.

In front of me on my desk are two photographs dated spring 1914. One of them is of Mother and Father, Mother smiling with soft lips, as if often kissed, her hair in slight disorder, her head against Father's shoulder. Maybe she doesn't feel too well, for she must be in her fourth month. Father is grave and obviously proud, standing very upright in his neat cassock. His figure, which used to be rather thin, has become more solid. He is holding a protective arm around Mother's shoulders (you can't see that, only suspect it). The photograph expresses harmony, growing self-confidence, and modest happiness. The other photograph is of Mother sitting in an uncomfortable armchair, leaning slightly forward, as usual elegant in an ankle-length skirt with buttons down the side, handmade high-heeled boots, a finely patterned blouse, and a gold brooch at her neck. Her hair is neatly done, but nevertheless unmanageable. In front of her is Jack, a rather muscular, almost square Lapland dog.

The expression on his face is that of a samurai devoted unto
death. Mother and Jack are looking smilingly at each other. On all previous photographs, Mother has never been laughing. On this one she is cheerful, relaxed, amiable. From these testimonies, one can draw the not too dangerous conclusion that Anna and Henrik got on relatively well together during those first years, something which in fact was confirmed by both my parents.

What possibly spoiled their pleasure was that Anna's mother never went to see them at the parsonage. In her letters, she pleads various obstacles. In July, the young couple pay a short visit to the summer residence. Dag-Erik was born in October at the Academic Hospital in Upsala. After a few weeks' convalescence, the family returns to Forsboda. Their firstborn is healthy and yells at night, a fact mentioned in letters with weary cheerfulness.

On New Year's Day, 1915, brother Ernst announces that he is coming to see them. He intends to go to Stockholm from Christiania, but takes the route over Falun, changes to a narrow-gauge track at Mackmyra, and arrives at Forsboda at about two in the afternoon.

Huge drifts of snow, clear and windless, the sun going down in burning mist, footsteps crunching, the engine billowing smoke, the heating pipes in the train cars hissing, the whole little train enveloped in damp steam. Because of that, Anna can't see her brother, and he embraces her from behind, a violent, wordless joy. They have both changed, but not that much: handsome, kind, decorative, warm, still untouched.

Yes, Ernst has married, a dark, plump beauty of upper-class extraction, accepted from the very first moment by Mrs. Karin and the rest of the family. They live in the neighboring country and are seldom seen; even their wedding was not allowed to be a family affair. They had a civil ceremony, a new idea at the time, and at once went to Egypt. The families received the news in the mail. Comments were surprisingly good-tempered. Well, Ernst has his own ideas. You can't decide things for him. Alternatively, Maria has gone her own way. One has to accept that. Ernst and Maria were established favorites. They all shook their heads, but smiled at the same time. Now Maria is pregnant and is staying behind in Christiania, so Ernst is alone. After his trunk has been checked out and loaded onto the back of the sleigh, brother and sister bed down in the fur rugs, a tall red-haired girl sits up on the driver's seat, and they are quickly and lightly carried off into the ice-blue dusk.

I presume their conversation is slightly exalted — it has been such
a long time. Expectations have been great. There's so much one doesn't write in letters and trivialities fly, but that doesn't matter, for now they have four days together and that's a long time!

Anna:
Henrik sends his regards and says I must give you a special hug from him and say you are
his
brother, too, and he's very pleased to be seeing you again, old Laban. By the way, is it true your friends called you Laban? I never knew that. Just like you and all your women. I never even knew about half of them.

Ernst:
Maria sends her love, too. She has terrible morning sickness, so doesn't want to travel. We want you to come and stay with us next summer. We've got a summer place in Sandefjord right by the sea. Well, it's Maria's place, of course. Her father gave it to her as a wedding present. You'll like Maria, I promise you. She's very much like you, but taller. Since I couldn't marry you, it had to be Maria. And so far I've had no reason to complain. You'll see. I have some very good photographs.

Anna:
Are you cold? Yes, your ears are cold. You silly . . . take my shawl and wrap it around your head. It was twenty-three below this morning and is going to be colder this evening, at least thirty below. No, stop it. Take that silly hat off, and then I can wrap you up in the shawl. Now you look fine. You always look fine. I wonder whether you're not the best-looking creature in the world. I've missed you terribly, you can't imagine! Just because things are so good for me, you see. When you're as happy as this, you become insatiable!

The parsonage welcomes them with burning torches on the gateposts and the steps, lighted candles in the windows, the smell of Christmas still hovering. “Welcome to my home,” says Anna after they have stepped over the threshold and are peeling off their outdoor clothes and boots. “You're to have my workroom,” she goes on and opens the door. Inside, a paraffin lamp sends a flickering light on the pale furniture and wallpaper, and anyone with eyes in his head can recognize various items from Anna's room as a girl in Tradgardsgatan. The huge trunk is maneuvered in by red-haired Mejan and dark-haired Mia, big girls, sisters, neatly clad in blue, giggling cheerfully, industrious, and perspiring. “You must have some coffee now, and some of Mia's fresh buns,” says Anna. “But first you must come and see Dag-Erik. Come on, come and have a look at your nephew.”

“He's fine, isn't he?” says Ernst without interest. “I think he looks like brother Carl. Only the pince-nez is missing.” “He cries all night and sleeps all day,” says Anna. “Just wait, you can hear him all the way
down here, too.” “He must have got his night habits from Carl as well,” says Ernst. “You may not look at him any more,” whispers Anna, pushing him out the door. “Come on, now! You didn't appreciate him enough and I'm rather hurt, but you can have some coffee all the same. Henrik's the kindest and best papa one could wish for. If I
didn't stop him, he'd be changing his son's diapers.” “Why shouldn't he, if he enjoys doing it?” says Ernst. “Oh, no, that wouldn't be right,” Anna rebukes him. “Come and sit here! We'll light the candles on the tree after dinner.”

Outside the windows and their airy curtains, the northern lights are swirling and looming, the rapids can be heard like a distant organ note, and there's a rumbling resonance behind the doors of the iron stove, the warmth smelling of Christmas and birchwood.

Anna:
And how's Mama?

Ernst:
I went to see her last month. In the middle of December, actually. She seemed in good spirits, I thought.

Anna:
Did she seem lonely?

Ernst:
I don't know what you mean by lonely. Miss Lisen was there. They were very busy with all the Christmas presents that had to be sent off.

Anna:
So she was going to be alone over Christmas?