The Best Intentions (44 page)

Thus clad, the three women and the boy are to celebrate the most deplorable Christmas in the history of the family. The Christmas tree between the windows in the drawing room is decorated with customary finery and numerous candles, despite wartime shortages and rationing. Presents in colorful wrappings lie under the tree. The chandelier sparkles, and the mirrors behind the wall brackets reflect innumerable flames. A Christmas creche of the biblical scene and small figures are set out on a table, a concealed electric bulb covered in red tissue paper letting the light come from the Virgin and Child. A fire crackles, shooting glowing sparks at the protective brass guard.

On the stroke of five, there is thunderous knocking on the door, and Uncle Carl comes tumbling in dressed as Santa Claus. “Isn't it terrible?” he cries. “Isn't it terrible! I'll go mad. What! Well, for God's sake. Are there any good children in this house? Or only bored old women and runaway wives? No, no, Mammchen, I'll be serious, but I nearly die laughing when I see all your efforts. It's quite mad. So,
Eyes front!
Is there a Good Little Boy here?” Uncle Carl turns his terrifying mask toward the four-year-old, who immediately begins to cry. Carl snatches off the mask, takes Dag up on his knee, and plays a tune on his lips as he trumpets with his nose. The boy stops crying and stares with fascination at the swollen benign face grimacing and playing tunes. “I've earned a drink now,” sighs Uncle Carl, putting on his pince-nez. “My God, the way you ladies have got dressed up! I can hardly believe my own eyes.”

“Then let's go and eat,” says Mrs. Karin, taking the boy by the hand. “You're to sit by Grandmother.”

Everything is as it always has been in the kitchen. “No sign of wartime and food shortages here,” says Carl, clapping his fat hands. “We decided not to celebrate Christmas at all this year,” says Mrs. Karin. “But then we had second thoughts. The boy is to feel Christmas is just as usual.”

A few hours later, they have used up all their strength and the masks have cracked, the candles flicker and die in their holders and
candlesticks, the fire dies down and glows, half-light. Dag has fallen asleep in his still-far-too-large bed, surrounded by his Christmas presents. Uncle Carl has collapsed on the green sofa, his speech slurred, and he keeps dozing off. Lisen is sitting on a straight-backed chair, her hands lying on the silk of her dress as she stares at a candle on the tree, which flares and goes out, flares up again, and suddenly the flame is a bluish colour.

Mrs. Karin and Anna are in armchairs around the tiled stove, gazing into the embers, allowing themselves to be enveloped in the warmth, which already smells of ashes.

Karin:
I've taken to having a glass of brandy before I go to bed. It helps, and is also warming.

Anna:
Helps?

Karin:
I find it hard to sleep.

Anna:
But you've always slept well.

Karin:
Not any longer. In the stormy days I slept well. It's more difficult nowadays.
(Drinks.)

Anna:
Thank you for a lovely Christmas, Mama dear.

Karin:
I thought it was quite deplorable.

Anna:
Dag was pleased.

Carl
(grunts
): I'm also hugely pleased, Mammchen.

Karin:
Thank you, Carl dear, it's kind of you to say so.
(Stretches.)
I'm not really particularly sentimental, but I felt like crying. Several times. So I said to myself, Don't be silly, Karin Åkerblom, what are you whining about?

Carl:
One has to be brave.
(Grins silently.)

Anna:
I had a letter from Henrik this morning.

Karin:
I didn't want to ask.

Anna:
He sent his regards.

Karin:
Thank you. Please return them when you next write.

Carl
(sniffing):
I warned him. You bloody well watch out for the Åkerblom family, I said to him.

Anna
(ignoring him):
He's preaching in the big church for the early
service. They've closed the chapel for the time being. The stove's broken down.

Karin:
So things are all right with him.

Anna:
It seems so. He has sent Mejan and Mia home over Christmas. He and Jack go on long skiing trips.

Karin:
How does he manage for food?

Anna:
He's often invited to dinner with the Reverend Gransjö.

Karin:
(
drinks
): I'm glad things are all right.
   (
Anna cries
.)
   (
Listen turns her head and looks at Anna
.)

Carl:
The time has now come for Santa Claus to take himself off to his hotel. Thank you for this evening, Mammchen dear. Thank you for this evening, Miss Lisen. Thank you for this evening, Anna, little crybaby
(tenderly).
You really are a muddle. There you are, a big wet kiss. Cry away, my heart! Women cry so that their eyes are more beautiful. Yes, yes, Mammchen, I'm going. We won't see each other tomorrow because I'm taking the early train to Stockholm. No, no, I can manage. Stay where you are, for God's sake. I'm not very drunk. I'll leave the fancy dress at the hotel. Regards to the brothers, by the way, and wish them a Happy New Year from me. No,
don't
give them my regards. There is a limit to my capacity to lie. This evening has reached it, gone beyond it. I have no more allowance until the new year.

The front door slams, and Carl goes whistling down the stairs. Lisen gets up on a chair and blows out the last candles on the Christmas tree. Then she wishes them good night and disappears into the kitchen, where she cleans up and puts things away. Karin holds out her hand and takes her daughter's.

Karin:
Are you cold?

Anna:
No, no. I'm warm.

Karin:
Your hand.

Anna:
Yes, I know. Whenever I'm miserable, my hands and feet get icy cold. You remember, don't you?
(No pause.)
I'm so upset about Henrik. I have such a terribly guilty conscience.

So Henrik has sent Mejan and Mia home for an indefinite period of time. At the same time, he shows some practical and organizational
talents, among other things by contracting his living space and moving into the abandoned maid's room off the kitchen, thus enabling him to combat the cosmic cold. The fire in the stove is on all day and night, and the stove wall and the tiled stove stay warm. His household routine is otherwise meticulous. The dishes are done every day, the sofa bed made, the paraffin rationed and topped up, his cassock brushed, trousers pressed, and he eats a properly cooked meal in the middle of the day. Necessities of life are brought by his neighbor, who goes to the store daily. Every morning, Henrik makes his way to the pastor's office on skis, a half-hour journey if the going is fairly good; then he sets off for home at dusk. The dog Jack goes with him and stands guard, though he does indeed grieve over Someone's incomprehensible absence. But he fulfills his duties.

Henrik writes his sermons at the kitchen table, in his usual everyday clothes, a large cardigan with long sleeves and collar that is as warm as a fur coat, his trouser legs tucked into gray socks and wooden shoes on his feet. He has let his beard grow, but trims it with Anna's nail-scissors, which she has left behind. He has brought a bookcase into the room and filled it with important books. Tolstoy, Rydberg, Fröding, Lagerlöf, Walter Scott, Jules Verne, Albert Engström, and Nathan Söderblom.

His alarm clock measures the time, an ancient monster of tin and brass, its bell capable of waking the dead, but at the moment ticking peacefully, the fire roaring in the stove, the pastor sitting at the kitchen table preparing his New Year's Day sermon. It's about the reluctant fig tree and the conscientious vineyard worker. “Lord, let the tree stay this year as well, and meanwhile I can dig around it and manure it, so maybe in that way it will bear fruit next year.”

He lights his well-broken-in pipe: he has real tobacco, a Christmas present from Gransjö, who has just given up smoking, and he breathes in the mild, sweetish smell. Jack is asleep on his piece of matting under the table, his legs twitching, and he is growling faintly. Suddenly he leaps up and goes over to stand by the door. Someone is approaching by the gate, someone on a sled. Henrik opens the kitchen door to the porch and closes it behind him to keep the warmth in. Magda Säll jerks open the outer door, for the kitchen steps have become a snowdrift during the night's bad weather.

Magda:
Hello, Henrik, and may the rest of this holy week be as good. I've brought you and Jack some goodies. Uncle Samuel sends his regards and says you are welcome to celebrate New Year's Day with us. We won't be all that many, seven or eight perhaps.

Magda holds out the basket she has with her. This tall, broad-shouldered creature fills the kitchen porch, her graying hair sticking out from under her shawl and curling down over her forehead, her cheeks and the handsome nose red with cold. Her very dark eyes are looking at Henrik with no dissembling, her mouth smiling: “Surely we don't have to stand out here,” she says, laughing in a friendly way. “Have you got something warm to offer, Henrik?” She pulls off her felt boots. “My toes are frozen stiff. Despite my boots. Can I put them in front of the stove? It's nice and warm in here. Oh, so Henrik's moved into the maid's room and made the kitchen into his study. Oh, and I can see you were preparing your sermon, and I'm sure I'm disturbing you, but I won't stay long. I must just sit down for a moment or two and get my breath back. Is the coffeepot warm? Do you think it'd be all right if I take a cup? I see you're keeping the place neat and tidy, Henrik. And you do the dishes, too.”

She has wriggled out of her thick winter coat and the shawl crossed over her chest. “I stole this jersey from Uncle Samuel, and my skirt's twenty years old but is just right for this weather. Why is Jack growling? Is he angry because I'm disturbing you?”

Magda:
How are things?

Henrik:
Fine. Excellent.

Magda:
(
smiles
): That's good.

Henrik:
I see from your smile that you don't believe me.

Magda:
But, Henrik dear . . .

Henrik:
How
could
a lone man manage on his own, abandoned by his wife? Out of the question, isn't it?

Magda:
It was only a polite inquiry.

Henrik:
And so you'll be given a polite answer. Fine. I'm well. Things are all right. I have adapted.

Magda:
You sound angry.

Henrik:
I can't help my tone of voice. You come storming along on your sled, up to your eyebrows with compassion. That embarrasses me. I cannot fulfill your expectations.

Magda:
Henrik, my dear . . .(
Laughs.
)

Henrik:
I'll tell you something, Magda. I am the loner type. In fact, I've always been alone. The time with Anna and my son confused me. For
instance, I imagined that there was special happiness intended just for me and always waiting round the corner. Anna made me believe in something of that sort. Anna and Dag. I was almost comically grateful. And as I said, confused.

Magda:
You sound convincing — but nevertheless I think . . .

Henrik:
There is no “but,” Magda! As you see, I am quite calm and am speaking calmly. If I seemed irritable, that's just temporary. I don't like anyone pawing at me. If you keep your paws off me, I'll be nice and conversant.

Magda
(smiles):
I must admit I'd expected a sad, disconsolate fellow human being, whom I could console with friendly words and the remains of the Christmas ham.

Henrik
(smiles):
It was kind of you to go to all that trouble. I'm glad you came.

Magda puts her coffee cup down on the stove, gets a chair, and sits down opposite Henrik, then looks at him thoughtfully.

Magda:
I've had a talk with Uncle Samuel. You know that I like you. He's beginning to be rather poorly. Well, we talked about you, and we've begun to realize that you are determined to stay here in the parish, despite all the difficulties. (
Henrik wants to say something.)
Wait a moment, Henrik. Let me finish. Uncle Samuel and I came up with a suggestion. Now you're supposed to ask what kind of suggestion, and also appear slightly interested.

Henrik:
(graciously):
What kind of suggestion?

Magda:
Quite simply, that you should move in with us down at the parsonage. Without too many complications and very little expense, we could turn the right wing into a place for you to live in.
(With controlled eagerness.)
You'd have a living room and kitchen down below, a bedroom upstairs, and a study with a view over the lake across the landing. We could arrange for some help with the cleaning and cooking. She could live in the big house. We've several rooms in the attic.
(Controls her eagerness.)
I think the Church Council and the old boys on the Parish Council would be terribly pleased. Then they could close the chapel without a guilty conscience and also shut up this parsonage.

Henrik:
Is the chapel to be closed?

Magda:
At least for the winter.

Henrik:
I hadn't heard that.

Magda:
Jakobsson came to see Uncle Samuel yesterday. They talked about the possibility of closing it. For the winter. The heating costs so much.

Henrik:
That's astounding news.

Magda:
Don't be offended. It's not news, just discussions. Nothing will be decided without consulting you. You must know that?

Henrik:
And if Anna comes back?

Magda:
Do you
believe
she's coming back?

Henrik:
Nothing's definite. She's gone to Upsala for a few months. The child is due in July.