The Best Intentions (32 page)

Anna:
You'll have to keep your left hand still. How can you do that?

Mrs. Johansson:
I suppose I'll manage.

Anna:
Then I'll phone the doctor and ask him if he wants to see your hand. I wouldn't dare take the responsibility myself.

Mrs. Johansson:
Yes, please.

Anna:
Take some of these painkillers at night; then you'll get some sleep, Mrs. Johansson. But try to put up with it in the daytime.

Mrs. Johansson:
Thank you, thank you, I expect it'll be all right.

Anna:
Shall we go back to the reading?

Mrs. Johansson:
I suppose we should.

Anna:
What's the matter, Mrs. Johansson?

Mrs. Johansson:
I don't know. I don't know whether it's worth mentioning.

Anna sits down. Ernst has withdrawn from the circle of light round the kitchen table and sat down by the sink, smoking a cigarette and cautiously making Jack's acquaintance, with some success.

Anna:
We can stay awhile.

Mrs. Johansson
(
after a silence
): Maybe it's nothing. The children have grown up now. The girl's a nursery-school teacher in Hudiksvall and the boy's in the Navy and called up forever. He wants to be an officer, so he'll probably be all right. Johannes — my husband, that is — and I have been on our own for two years, and that's fine. Just fine. Johannes has had a lighter job since his lungs went bad on him — he's got a job in the Works office, and that's all right. (
Silence
.)

Anna:
But there's something that's not quite all right?

Mrs. Johansson:
I don't know. I don't know how to put it.

Anna:
Would you like my brother . . . ?

Mrs. Johansson:
No, no, heavens no. I'm probably making things more complicated than they are. (
Takes a deep breath
.) It's like this. My niece who's married in Valbo has a little boy of seven. His father went off a few months ago. The marriage probably wasn't all that great. But you never know who's to blame when you're on the outside, so I'm not making judgments. Anyhow, Johannes and I thought the boy could live with us. His name's Petrus. My niece has gone to the father's parents in Gäavle, where she's got work in the kitchen at the big hotel there. The father's vanished without a trace, but otherwise things are fairly good. Now Petrus is to start at the school here in Forsboda, of course. That'll be in the autumn, won't it?

Anna:
He's seven, is he?

Mrs. Johansson:
He'll be a little old for the class, but I've talked to the teacher and she says there shouldn't be any problems. There are children who're even older when they start . . . (
Silence
.)

Anna:
Is
there something about Petrus?

Mrs. Johansson:
I don't know.

Anna:
Does he have difficulties? Is he . . . ?

Mrs. Johansson:
Oh, no. He can read and write and do sums. He's more . . . what shall I say? . . . forward, advanced. He's mostly good and helpful and obedient. And he seems to be fond of Johannes and me. My husband has a little workshop on the farm and likes . . . when Johannes is free, he and Petrus are always together in the workshop.

Anna:
But something's wrong, all the same?

Mrs. Johansson:
The teacher is nice, but she's retiring next year. So I
can't talk to her. I tried, but I didn't get very far and hardly even got started.

Anna:
Is Petrus sick?

Mrs. Johansson:
No, no. (
Uncertainly, quietly
.) He's
tormented.
My husband doesn't notice, but I . . .

Anna:
Tormented?

Mrs. Johansson:
His eyes look confused. Not always, but if you look, so to speak. Runs and runs until he . . .

Anna:
Perhaps you'd like to bring Petrus here, so we could talk to him.

Mrs. Johansson
(
nonplussed
): Yes.

Anna:
It may be his age.

Mrs. Johansson:
Yes.

Anna:
Or that he thinks his mother has . . .

Mrs. Johansson:
Maybe.

Anna:
Bring him here one day next week, Mrs. Johansson. We have the bazaar on Saturday, so at the moment there's . . .

Mrs. Johansson:
Of course, of course. At the moment there's lots to . . .

Anna:
Shall we go in to the others?

Mrs. Johansson:
Don't say anything about this.

Anna:
I must talk to Henrik.

Mrs. Johansson:
Yes, of course.

Anna:
Come now. The pastor will be wondering whether we don't like his reading.

An hour or so later, Henrik closes the book and gets up. The fires have gone out; the homemade candles, which burn down so quickly, are almost down to the candlesticks; the paraffin lamps have grown sleepy and are smoking slightly. It's nice and warm, and one or two people are dozing. Henrik claps his hands and reads the blessing. Then he suggests that they sing Jesper Svedberg's hymn, “Now the Day Is Over” ... We know that one, don't we? Anna sits down at the piano. Henrik and Ernst sing first, and the assembled company follows
in the heartfelt assurance that the streets of heavenly Jerusalem are paved with gold:

Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh.
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky.
Jesus, give the weary
Calm and sweet repose.
With thy tend'rest blessing,
May our eyelids close.

At half past ten the last guest has wrapped herself up and tumbled out into the night with her handwork bag and emptied basket. Mejan and Mia have cleared everything away, together with Ernst and Henrik. Anna wakes her slumbering son and changes him. As she sits down on the low chair in the bedroom to feed him, the dog lies panting at her feet. His field of responsibility has increased. Previously, two gods had to be defended and attended to, but now they have become three, and that's difficult. Yawning and slobbering, Jack is working on his jealousy.

When Anna and Jack come down from their duties, Ernst and Henrik are sitting at the cleared dining room table, drinking milk and eating crispbread and soft whey cheese. The gramophone, brought from Tradgardsgatan, is wound up and ready with a Victor record of the latest tune on it. “There you are,” says Ernst. ‘A present for Anna, a late Christmas present, really.” “What is it?” says Anna inquisitively. “It's a one-step,” says Ernst challengingly. “The very latest from New York, the very latest dance. It's called the one-step.” Out of the gramophone's red horn leaps Coal Milton's syncopations. “This is what you do. It's great fun,” says Ernst, demonstrating. After a few minutes, Anna imitates him. He pulls her to him, and they dance the one-step together. Henrik and Jack watch, noting the siblings' delight, their affinity, their enthusiasm and laughter. ‘Again, again,” cries Anna, winding up the gramophone. “You and me, now,” she says, overweeningly, tugging at Henrik's arm. “No, no, not me,” protests Henrik, pulling back. “Come on, now, don't be silly, it's fun, I tell you.” “No, no, it's more fun watching you and Ernst dancing.” “Let's all dance,” cries Anna, beginning to insist, her cheeks red. “We'll all dance. You and I and Ernst — and Jack!” “No, no, let me go, Anna. I just get embarrassed.” “What do you mean, embarrassed?” laughs Anna, who has now kicked off her shoes, her hair loosened and down, with some help from Ernst, who has scooped up some hairpins and two combs.
“This is how things should be,” she cries, raising her arms. “This is how things should be! Come on, Henrik, you who were such a one for dancing. Remember the Spring Ball.” “That was waltzing,” protests Henrik. “All right, then, we'll dance a waltz although it's a one-step,” says Anna, embracing her husband. “It's the cassock that's in the way. Let's take it off the pastor!” She starts unbuttoning the cassock from the middle down. Ernst winds up the gramophone. Henrik flings his arms around his wife. “You're squeezing me to death,” she cries, with a touch of anger. He lifts her and drops her, pushing her lightly in the chest so that she takes two steps back and stumbles over a chair. Then he shakes his head, goes out, and slams the door.

Ernst lifts the gramophone head off and smiles with embarrassment. “Henrik's not the only one who doesn't like the one-step,” says Ernst rather lamely, taking the record off and putting it back in its green cover. At that moment the door is flung open and Henrik comes back in again! “I know I'm an idiot,” he says quickly and apologetically. “We were only having a little game,” Anna says gently. “I'm a great spoiler of games,” says Henrik. “I can't help it.”

“Let's get the fire going and sit around and talk,” Ernst suggests as a diversion. “Jack and I were probably feeling out of it,” says Henrik in a feeble attempt at a joke. “Jack and I both tend to be jealous. Isn't that so, Jack?”

The fire crackles with renewed vigor, the little doors of the tiled stove are open, the paraffin lamp glowing faintly on the round table by the window. They sit in a row on the sofa, Ernst, Anna, and Henrik. Ernst fills his pipe and slowly lights it. Jack has fallen asleep at a suitable distance, occasionally raising one eye or directing an ear, keeping his two gods and their untrustworthy friend under supervision.

“I've flown in an airplane,” says Ernst suddenly. “Our institute hires a Farman Hydro from the Norwegian Defense Forces. It's a twoengine biplane that takes off and lands on water. Our people go up daily and make observations on weather fronts and measure temperatures and air pressure. They also photograph cloud formations from above. Sometimes they go up to a height of three thousand meters, but then we have to have oxygen — otherwise it's hard to breathe. One day we went up to four thousand meters and the sky was dark blue, almost black. There was no color left, and the sound of the engine got fainter and fainter.” ‘Aren't you scared when you go up?” says Anna. “Scared? No, the opposite. It's an incredible feeling of . . . well, I don't know what to call it . . . a feeling of power. No, not power. Of being perfect. Of being almost crazed with joy! I want to throw myself
out into that sea of air and sail on my own. And I think, this is what the Creator felt on the seventh day, when he found his work good.”

It may be appropriate to relate here how the seven-year-old Petrus Farg came to stay at the parsonage. It was at the end of January, and the cold had turned to a gray icy thaw with sudden sharp showers of rain and beating snow. What strange weather! One night they had a thunderstorm, and the Works transformer was struck by lightning.

One morning, Anna comes down to breakfast at half past seven (Henrik has already gone off to the village to be on duty at the pastor's office, which opens at eight). When Anna comes into the kitchen for breakfast, Mrs. Johansson is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and some bread and butter, and Petrus Farg is sitting on a stool by the woodbox. Mejan is going in and out of the larder. She has a big baking day ahead and is only moderately amused by the visit. Mia is cleaning somewhere, and they can hear her singing. She likes to sing when she's in a bad mood. Mrs. Johansson at once gets up and makes a little bob. Her hand is still bandaged. Petrus gets up and bows when told to. Anna has completely forgotten her promise and is a little confused and rather short, at which Mrs. Johansson immediately apologizes for intruding. Anna collects her big cup and saucer and some bread and butter and urges her guests to come with her into the adjoining dining room.

Petrus Farg is standing at the end of the table with his hands behind his back. He is slim and gangling, with thick lips and large expressionless eyes, a high forehead, straight protruding nose, cropped hair, and large red ears. He is properly dressed in a thick jersey with too-long sleeves, dark blue shorts with a large patch in the seat, and well-knitted long stockings. His boots are on the porch. He is sniffling with a cold, and out of one nostril runs snot, which he discreetly licks up whenever necessary.

Mrs. Johansson again apologizes. She hasn't announced her visit. She has come far too early in the morning. Anna drinks her tea and mumbles politely that it doesn't matter in the slightest, she had promised, and it's good that Mrs. Johansson has at last decided to come, and asks about her hand.

Yes, the hand is better; she can move her fingers, and the doctor was pleased with what the pastor's wife had done.

Anna puts down her teacup and calls to Petrus. He at once turns around to her and steps forward, but still with his hands behind his back. He looks at her without fear or shyness, but at the same time
almost blindly, as if he really were blind. “May I look at your hand?” says Anna. He holds it out and puts it in hers, a long hand, long fingers, clear veins, dry rough skin and bitten nails, the middle fingernail chewed right down to the flesh. Mrs. Johansson shakes her head. “It's terrible the way he bites his nails. I put mustard on them and I reprimand him and I promise him rewards, but nothing helps.” Anna doesn't answer but turns the boy's hand over: the inside is crisscrossed with faintly red patterns and lines, an old man's hand.

Anna:
So you're starting school in the autumn?

Petrus:
Yes.

Anna:
What do think about that?

Petrus:
I don't know. I haven't been yet.

Anna:
But you can already read and write?

Petrus:
And do sums. I know my multiplication tables.

Anna:
Who taught you?

Petrus:
I taught myself.

Anna:
Didn't anyone help you?

Petrus:
No.

Anna:
Not Uncle Johannes?

Petrus:
When we're in the workshop together, Uncle Johannes asks me questions and I answer.