Way of Escape (22 page)

“It means water closet, dear—toilet.” Bonnie was getting anxious herself. “Sture, could we…?”

“
Ja so
,” he actually turned and smiled at them. “There is good restaurant near. We stop. Eat breakfast? She can use the WC.”

“
Jag ocksa
,” Krister added, a grin in his voice.

“Him too,” Sture pointed a thumb at the driver. “It is busy restaurant, all times of the day. We will be safe there. And I can call my…I can make a phone call.” He held up a cell phone.

“Can't you just call from here?” asked Trisha.

“We are not close enough,” the boy pointed toward the lights of Stockholm. “And the police, they not like people to phone in a car.”

Within minutes, they came to a huge complex of lighted buildings, including a gas station, restaurant, and motel. Krister pulled in and up to the restaurant. At seven a.m., it was packed. Krister, Sture, Trish, and then reluctantly, Bonnie turned to look out the back window. The white Mercedes was just coming in the parking lot and behind it, was a strikingly obvious maroon Ford Taurus, with not one, but two very American looking men in the front seat. Their hair was cut in so above-the-ears-proper-style it shouted American agents!

“So, we have company while we eat.” Sture opened his door, “The restaurant, it should give us free food because we bring business.” Yet, despite the humor, he was very nervous. He stuffed the cell phone into his pocket.

Krister asked him something in Swedish and the boy shook his head, replying something. Krister got out and ran around the side of the building toward the WC sign. In moments, he was back and opened the door for Trisha while Sture held Bonnie's. As the two women and Sture headed for the restaurant entrance, Krister got back into the Saab.

Bonnie was going to ask about that, when Sture, holding open the restaurant door, supplied, “He must protect the car.” They stepped into the warmth of the big room and a waitress immediately approached to lead them to a table. She indicated a spot where three other people took up one side and Trisha opened her mouth to object. Her mother hushed her. “This is Europe, dear, we share.”

They smiled at the other sleepy, weary people and sat as the waitress handed them menus. It took only moments to order plates of pancakes and sausage and boiled eggs. The older man of the three original occupants of the table held up a thermos pot of coffee, offering it to them. All three stuck out their cups and coffee as pale as tea was poured in. Trisha looked at it askance.

“Don't judge it by the color,” warned Bonnie, who remembered the Swedish coffee at Lena's. “It's very strong. I think it comes from Indonesia.”

“The coffee?” asked Sture. “Yes, and Africa.” He nodded to the older man, “
Tack so mycket
.”

“
Garna
,” the man replied, stifling a yawn.

Trisha quickly went to the ladies' WC and came back. Bonnie took her turn.

“I take out food for Krister,” said Sture as Bonnie sat and the waitress brought their breakfast. He looked around, out toward the Saab and Trish and Bonnie followed his gaze. The small dark man from the Mercedes was seated near the door, ordering breakfast and the two Americans were at the counter, just pouring their coffee. “So I say,” muttered Sture, “we bring in much business.” He grabbed up a cup of coffee to go, a package of smorgas, and patted his pocket. Both women smiled in acknowledgement as he stood, walked to the door, then out. The agents all started up, then noticed the women in their seats, and sat back down.

Krister accepted his breakfast sandwiches through an open car window and Sture made his phone call. He paced back and forth, conversing with gestures, his breath making big clouds of steam. It didn't take long. He snapped the phone shut, said some words to Krister, and reentered to sit back down at the table. “Do you want to see sights in Stockholm?” he asked in a depressed voice with words that came one by one as if rehearsed.

Trisha regarded her mother for a moment. “I have the energy, but I don't know about Mom.”

“I'm a bit bushed,” she said.

“Eh…tired?” the boy's voice asked hopefully.

“Yes, quite.”

“Good,” he exclaimed, the delight evident, “then we go directly home, to the castle. You can see Vasaskjept, and other famous things another day.” His whole body relaxed. He dove into the pancakes with fork and knife flying. His mouth full, he stated with assured finality, “We will be much safer in the castle.”

By eight a.m. they were back on the road, their little entourage behind them. The miles, or kilometers rather, flew by. They drove very fast; Bonnie figured around ninety miles an hour in the straightaways. Even with the moments of worrying about the black ice and packed snow, she did sleep, though fitfully, awaking to find them going much slower along a narrow road bordered by broad, flat expanses of sparkling snow. Dawn was breaking. She glanced at Trisha's wristwatch; it was ten thirty. She'd forgotten that so far north the sun would stay up only a couple hours this time of year. And a bleak sun it was, though the faint light made the entire world around them a fantasy of white: white trees, white fences, white roads and trails. Only the occasional passing car or person on cross-country skis had color, and then not much as the car would have snow on it and the person would be covered with frost from frozen breath. Trisha pointed out the big dogs in harnesses, guarding their sleds in front of a small grocery store.

About fifteen minutes later, the Saab slowed to a crawl to negotiate a turn into a very small lane, through a huge gate that opened by Krister's electronic command and closed after them. Bonnie noticed on the wrought iron of the gate a large circular coat-of-arms, the same one that had been on the official letter that had brought her here. This was the entrance to the Hermelin castle. Her castle. She owned a whole castle. The jet lag was making her feel lightheaded and silly, and perhaps also, it could be the most unusual circumstances.

Bonnie couldn't see any cars behind them. No, there they were—far, far behind, holding back, trying to be as invisible as possible. They would have to stop at the gate. Down the tiny lane the Saab went, huge snowdrifts as high as the car on each side, up to where the drifts parted and a small roundabout allowed the car to park at the entrance of an immense mansion. The face of the building was flat, even the twin front doors, exactly in the middle, opened onto the gravel drive with only the smallest of steps between the ground and the jamb. Windows, the same width and height as the doors, paraded outward on both sides, and each window had the exact same curtains, same color, same eighteenth century style. Drear was the only word to describe the shade of the natural yellow-gray stone. The roof, almost free of snow because of its steep peak, was of black slate. Except for the crystal glitter of the original glass in the windows and gaslight fixtures on the entrance, Hermelin Slott was ugly. Far to the right near a small door at the end of one wing, two cars were parked and plugged into heating posts.

“Welcome to the Hermelin Slott,” Sture smiled. “This is where we live and,” he nodded his head toward the right, “that is the birdwatchers' hostel. Not so busy this time of year.”

Krister jumped from the car to open the doors for the women. Sture, without pausing, slid out and went ahead. The huge front doors opened and an old man in dark wool trousers and white wool shirt, stepped out, coatless. He saluted Sture who said something in Swedish and motioned toward the trunk of the Saab. As if in second thought, Sture turned and said loudly to Bonnie and Trisha, “Here is Gustav. He takes your baggage. Okay?” And the young man dashed into the castle. Krister was pulling out suitcases and Gustav was easily picking them up.

Bonnie and Trisha, freezing, shrugged at each other, grabbed up their jackets and half slid, half walked to the doors where a girl of about eighteen dressed in a dark blue uniform with white apron, met them and smiling, motioned them in. The vestibule was large, chilly, and lined with what looked like wooden pews. A steam heater in the corner burped and grumbled. Sture's recently worn boots lay next to the heater, along with rows and rows of other boots and shoes.

“
Din skon, har, tack?
” The girl pointed to a pair of boots which looked like they could be hers, then pointed to the slippers on her feet, then to Bonnie and Trisha's feet. “
Ja?
”

“Sure, yes,” said Trisha as the girl took their jackets to hang up on a wooden peg. Trisha slipped off her new boots. Bonnie looked around first, at the well-worn heavy wooden furniture, the exquisitely carved inner doors, the slate floor. An outer door opened and Gustav stepped in with the first load of baggage. Bonnie could hear the Saab drive off, crunching on the icy gravel, going toward the back of the castle. The old man saluted her.

She nodded in return as she set to work taking her new boots off. Of a sudden, the memory of her father religiously putting his shoes and boots by the front door came back, and how her mother would carefully clean them before putting them into the hall closet. It was their unspoken negotiated settlement, like so much else in their lives; unspoken, loving compromises. So now Bonnie was in a real Swedish home and now she saw how shoes and boots were left at the door, not put in a closet. And the shoes and boots were all clean, probably cleaned by the maid, Bonnie guessed and smiled at the girl.

“I am Mrs. Ixey,” said Bonnie slowly.

“
Hej
,” said the girl, curtseying again and blushing, touched her bosom, “
Frida
.” Turning, she led them into a huge hallway that immediately opened into a giant entry room. Plush carpets covered the floor and went up the two curving staircases. A vast and delicate chandelier filled the room with soft light. It was now electric but was obviously made for candles. Imagine, thought Bonnie, the time it took to lower the chandelier and light all the candles and raise it back up again.

Large dark paintings of, Bonnie assumed, Hermelin ancestors lined the walls. This room was little warmer than the entryway.

Frida hurried along and guided them around the staircase and down a short hallway to a small room that was a den made into an office. It was warm, toasty in fact. Sture, sitting at the desk, hung up the black dial phone. The maid bowed and was about to back out, when Sture said something to her in Swedish. She stopped, waiting patiently, hands folded on her apron.

To Bonnie and Trish, he said, “You would like food? Astrid makes lunch soon. You want to rest?” He smiled tensely at Trisha, “Now you want a bath?”

“Yep, a bath would be great,” said Trish, “and a nap, ‘cause my body says it's evening.”

“Yes, a nap,” Bonnie agreed, “and a bath. Could we wait for lunch until your dinner hour? Then our jet lag will be better.”

“
Ja so
,” Sture nodded and made it clear to the maid that they were to go to their rooms.

Bonnie came closer to the desk, “When can I talk with that attorney, Ms. Person? I would really like to get the paperwork finished as quickly as possible.”

As if he didn't expect this, Sture slid the big chair back, “My father says to wait for…it is rather, you must wait until tomorrow? That is better.”

Bonnie noted Sture's use of the present tense again. Internally, she shook her head. Surely, it was just a language problem on the boy's part; he didn't know the past tense of English verbs, right? She continued to Sture, “Tomorrow? We couldn't see Ms. Person later this afternoon?”

“No, no. We will wait,” Sture insisted.

“Wait for what?” Bonnie leaned over the desk making the young man very uncomfortable. He knew future tense, that was for sure, she thought. On the desk, she noticed the stacks of papers addressed to Carl-Joran, the bank statements and sympathy cards. There was a puzzle here, she was certain. “If I insist on seeing Ms. Person today, what would you do?”

The big shoulders shrugged, “It is a long walk to Norrkoping.”

“She can't come here?” Bonnie picked up some of the papers. They were all in Swedish.

Sture reached forward and not too gently, but carefully, extracted them from her hands.

“If my mom decides she's gonna do something,” Trisha volunteered, “you can bet she'll do it quick.”

“Your mother does not know what this is all about,” Sture shot back, “there is much she does not know, much to explain. I do not explain it. You will wait. And we must stay in the castle. It is dangerous to go.”

“You mean the agents out on the road?” Trisha laughed, “They won't stay out there long in that cold.”

The tall young man shook his head, “But they will wait in Norrkoping. And Krister is tired now. He must drive, he must protect the car.” He held up the phone receiver, “You can call Ms. Person?” His tone was hopeful.

Bonnie nodded, “I will call her. Later, after my nap.” Sture sighed with relief and set the receiver back in its hook as Bonnie went on, “Why must Krister protect the car?”

“This car today, it is a new car.” Sture grimaced, “No, we stay in the castle until, until tomorrow.”

Perhaps it was the jet lag, perhaps her own irritation and anger at being followed and harassed, but Bonnie put her hands on her hips and said, “Tomorrow and no postponing it. Sture, I know you are grieving for your father, but I want to see the attorney and I want to get the paperwork out of the way. That will make things easier for you too, won't it?”

“Also must you talk with the
tik
Algbak.” Sture scowled. “Old moose's behind.”

“What?” Trish interrupted.

“Algbak, the woman at the Pastorkirche. Her name means moose's behind,” the young man explained, a smirk starting at the corner of his thin lips.

As one, suddenly, they laughed, all three of them, even Frida giggled. It broke the confrontational mood and Sture's face lightened.