The Best Intentions (7 page)

The sisters march in in single file: Ebba, Beda, and Blenda. Alma and Henrik are already in place, the mother in a much too tight purple silk dress, tortured by her tightly laced corset, Henrik in a neat but shiny suit and stiff collar and necktie. Blenda at once says dinner is served, and when they have taken their places, she presses a concealed
electric bell. Immediately, two young serving girls appear with a steaming tureen and warm plates. Nettle soup with egg-halves.

After dinner, they have coffee on the veranda. Alma and Henrik are put on the rattan sofa; Blenda takes the rocking chair, strategically placed outside the horizontal sunlight. Beda has sat down on the steps to the terrace. She is smoking a cigarette in an elegant holder. Ebba is sitting with her back to the view with her ear trumpet at the ready.

So the time has come. Alma is wheezing slightly, whether from the tension or the good food and excellent wine is hard to say. Henrik is pale and keeps tying his fingers into knots.

Blenda:
We assume that Alma and Henrik have not come this long way out of family affection. I seem to remember it is three years since we last saw you. The reason for your journey at the time was the loan that would cover the costs of Henrik's studies.

Blenda rocks cautiously in her chair and gazes at Alma with cool benevolence. Beda closes her eyes and allows herself to be exposed to the last rays of the sun. Ebba has her ear trumpet at the ready and is sucking at her false teeth.

Alma:
The money's come to an end. It's as simple as that.

Blenda:
Oh, so the money's gone. It was supposed to last for four years, and not even three have gone by.

Alma:
Everything's got more expensive.

Blenda:
You decided on the size of the loan yourself, Alma. I don't remember haggling.

Alma:
No, no, Blenda, you were very generous.

Blenda:
And now the money's all gone?

Alma:
I reckoned on Henrik's grandfather helping us, because after all, Henrik was to keep up the family tradition and become a priest.

Blenda:
But Henrik's grandfather didn't help?

Alma:
No. We begged for a whole day. We got nothing but twelve kronor for our railway tickets. So that we could get back to Söderhamn. Plus a pittance of a monthly allowance.

Blenda:
That was generous.

Alma:
Times are hard, Blenda.
I
have piano pupils, but that doesn'
t
bring in much, and some of them have stopped taking lessons.

Blenda:
And now you want another loan, Alma?

Alma:
Henrik and I have
thoroughly
discussed whether he should interrupt his studies and apply for a job with the Telegraph Office in Söderhamn. That was our only way out. But then something happened.

Ebba:
What?

Alma:
Then something happened.

Beda:
That sounds plausible!

Alma:
Something pleasant.

Ebba:
What is she saying?

Blenda:
Something pleasant happened.

Alma:
I think Henrik should tell you himself.

Henrik:
You see, I had an oral exam in church history with the dreaded Professor Sundelius. Three of us took it, and I was the only one to pass. After the exam, the professor asked to speak to me alone. He offered me a cigar and was extremely friendly. Quite unlike his usual sarcastic self.

Alma
(
excited
): He offered Henrik a cigar!

Henrik:
I've said that, Mama.

Alma:
Sorry, sorry.

Henrik:
Well, we chatted for a while about this and that. Among other things, he said that anyone good at church history shows industry, good memory, and self-discipline. He thought I had shown unusual talent when
I'd elucidated the Apostolic symbolism. That's quite complicated and requires some scholastic classification.

Ebba:
What's he saying, Blenda?

Blenda:
Not now, Ebba. (
Hoots
.) Later, later.

Henrik:
He suggested I should go over to the academic side. That I ought to write a thesis for a doctorate. The professor offered to be my adviser. Then later on I would be sure to get a fellowship. He said most theologians were idiots and they had to nurture the few talents they have.

Alma:
Flattering for Henrik, you see, Blenda. Professor Sundelius will become archbishop or a cabinet minister any moment now.

Henrik:
Then I told him the truth, that I had no means. I hadn't even enough capital to complete my theology exams. Then the professor said that if I could arrange for the first years on my own, later on I would be awarded something called a postgraduate scholarship. That's quite a lot of money, you see, Aunt Blenda. Nearly all those who get them are married with children and servants.

Blenda:
Well I never!

Alma (
diving in
): Now we've come to you to ask for an interest-free loan of six thousand kronor. Professor Sundelius reckoned that was just about what was needed.

Blenda:
Well I never!

Alma:
We wanted to turn to you
first.
I mean, before we went to the Upplands Bank. The professor promised to write a recommendation. He would guarantee the loan, he said.

Blenda:
What do you think, Beda?

Beda
(
laughs
): I'm speechless.

Ebba:
What are you talking about? Is it about money?

Blenda:
Henrik's going to be a professor! And needs six thousand kronor, apart from the two thousand he's already borrowed. Do you understand?

Ebba:
Have we got that much money?

Blenda:
That
is the big question.

Blenda laughs with a crackling sound. Beda smiles and peers at Henrik from under her long dark eyelashes. Henrik's pallor has turned to scarlet. Alma is breathing heavily. Suddenly, Blenda gets up and claps her hands together.

Blenda:
If we're going to get something done, then we'd better do it at once. Would you mind coming with me into my study, Alma and Henrik?

Blenda's study has a special entrance from the hall and is rather cramped. The shelves are crammed with office books. In the middle of the floor there's a sloping office desk and over by the window an ordinary desk and some chairs of stained wood. In a corner a leather sofa and armchair, a round table with a brass top and everything for the smoker. Blenda turns on the electric light, frees a little key from a
gold chain around her neck, opens the middle drawer of the desk, takes out some shiny metal keys, and opens the safe skulking behind a screen by the door.

Neither Alma nor Henrik can see what she is doing behind the screen. When she appears again, she has a bundle of banknotes in her right hand. She puts the money down on the desk, locks up the keys to the safe, and fastens the drawer key back onto the gold chain. Then she starts counting. Six thousand riksdaler in notes. When at last she stops counting, she hands the money to Alma, who is standing there as if she had been struck by lightning.

Alma:
Maybe I should sign a receipt.

Blenda:
Henrik, please go out to your aunts for a moment. I would like to talk to your mother alone.

Henrik bows and goes to the door. He has a nasty feeling something may have gone wrong. After he has left the room, Alma is asked to sit down. Blenda starts leafing through the telephone directory.

Blenda:
Funnily enough, we have the Upsala telephone directory here in the office. I was going to telephone Professor Sundelius and thank him on behalf of the family for his worthy contribution to the family's promising youth. Yes, here's the number, one-five-four-three.

She lifts the receiver and, smiling, looks at Alma, whose face has turned ashen, tears dimming the wide-eyed gaze. Blenda slowly hangs up the receiver.

Blenda:
Maybe I'll phone another day. It's not very polite to disturb such a prominent man after eight in the evening.

Blenda sits down opposite Alma and looks at her with something that might be described as tender irony.

Blenda:
Alma, you know perfectly well my sisters and I are proud to be able to help Henrik toward a brilliant future.

She pats Alma's plump knee and her plump cheek, where a tear is on its way down to the corner of her mouth. Alma mumbles something about how grateful she is.

Blenda:
You don't have to be grateful, Alma. I'm doing this because your boy is so splendidly gifted. Or perhaps for no particular reason. For your love for the boy, Alma. I don't know. Shall we go back to the
others? I think we should celebrate this evening with a bottle of champagne. Come now, Alma,
don't cry like that.
I haven't had such fun since our brother lost the inheritance case.

At the height of his career, the superintendent of traffic had had a summer residence built close to the river, the lakes, the forests, and the low, bluish mountains. Every year in mid-June, the move to the summer place was made, a massive undertaking, involving a whole host of special procedures. Curtains were taken down, rugs rolled up with moth-proofing and newspapers, furniture covered in ghostly yellowing sheets, chandeliers covered in tarlatan, a wagon loaded with necessities such as Johan Åkerblom's special bed, special cushions for the little girls' dollhouse, Miss Siri's incomparable cake tins, Mrs. Martha's paintbrushes, and Anna's novels.

It is now early July, and a quiet sleepiness combined with shimmering heat has descended on people and the reflections in the water. The croquet balls roll listlessly. Someone is playing the piano, a sentimental romance by Gade. Miss Lisen is dozing on the viewing bench without noticing that her ball of wool has fallen to the ground. Mrs. Karin, the ruler of the household, is sitting on the upper veranda, white-clad and mild, in a broad-brimmed hat to shade her eyes. She is busy with a letter that doesn't get written, her gray-blue gaze lost in the light above the hills. The superintendent of traffic himself is asleep in a hammock, his glasses on his forehead and a book on his stomach. Nevertheless, in the kitchen a certain limited industry reigns.

Miss Siri and Anna are preparing the strawberries. It's a burden, of course, but they are making good headway. The atmosphere is confidentially talkative: some chat and some silence. Flies buzz on the sticky yellow strip of the flypaper, and the fat cat is purring half-asleep on the windowsill.

Miss Siri:
. . . well, I came to the house when you were born, Anna. I was to help Stava, but she was already ill, so I had to take over from the very start. She spent most of the time in bed in the maid's room, issuing orders. No one knew how ill she was, so it was rather annoying, I'll have you know, Anna. Then suddenly one morning she was dead. I was quite good at things, even then, though I was no more than twenty. But there was an awful lot to do. Mrs. Åkerblom wasn't much older, either, and her stepsons were really unruly, yes, indeed. And the master didn't do much to help with their upbringing, either. He was much too busy with his railway bridges. Then Rike and
Runa — they were nice, willing girls but as thick as two sticks. So Mrs. Åkerblom and me had to take the responsibility and clear up the mess. We did that, too, although when the missis got with child again she was really ill, I'll have you know — so I said to her . . . don't wear yourself out, Mrs. Åkerblom, but get as much rest as you can, and I'll take care of everything as long as you tell me how you want things. Well, that's what I did. And then the missis got better again, and it's been like that ever since, I mean, how things are to be done. The missis and I don't always agree, but we both wage war on carelessness, dirt, and disorder. We don't tolerate disorder in any way, if you know what I mean, Anna. (
Pause
.) Well, that's how it's been and that's how it is.

Anna:
Have you never been in love, Miss Siri?

Miss Siri:
Oh, yes, there was someone at first who tried to pull my skirts over my head. But we had so little time, I never found out whether he had intentions or not.

Then Ernst saunters through the kitchen, pulls his sister's pigtail, kisses the nape of Miss Siri's neck, and asks if there's any orange juice, then sits down at the table and greedily starts eating the finished strawberries. Miss Siri waits on the boy. She even hacks a piece of ice off the perpetually dripping block in the icebox, and then the glass of juice is on the table together with currant cakes. Ernst yawns and says he is going for a bicycle ride to the Gimmen. “Coming, too, Anna?” “In this heat!” cries Anna as Ernst takes the opportunity to tickle her. “We're going swimming, too. Come on, lazybones! We must just tell Mama that we're off.”

They go to the stairs leading up to the first floor. “Mama!” cries Ernst. Karin Åkerblom wakes from her dreams over the half-written letter, goes out to the stairs, and says sternly, “Ernst, what a noise. You'll wake Papa.” “We're going to the Gimmen for a swim. Are you coming, too, Mama?” “Anna, have you asked Miss Siri if there's anything to do in the kitchen?” “Nothing for the moment,” says Anna. “Anyhow, the girls might help a bit more. They've gone and hidden themselves in the playhouse and are reading
Countess Paulette's Secret Lovers.
Lovers in the plural, please note.” “Oh, yes,” says Mrs. Karin, resignedly. “That's not my responsibility. Martha will have to deal with that.” “We're off, anyhow,” says Ernst, rushing up the stairs and embracing his mother. “Thank you, that was nice of you,” says Karin Åkerblom, giving her son's hair a tug. “You must get your hair cut. You're inappropriately shaggy.”

So off they go on their shiny bicycles, first a few kilometers along
the main road, then at right angles in among the trees. It's a winding, sandy forest trail running along the shallow and stony Gima River, even now in the hottest summer months racing and tumbling wildly along.