If it had been summer I could have understood it more easily; some kids paddling kayaks might have spent the night there. But in late autumn? It couldn’t be any of the permanent residents of the islands either.
Before I rowed back, I placed a little brown stone shaped like the point of an arrow just beneath the edge of the tent flap. If anyone undid the zip, the stone would move. It was safe from the wind, and no one would suspect that it was a trap.
I made myself something to eat. From time to time I went up the hill and looked over at the skerry through my binoculars, but there was no one there. When I had finished my meal I sat down at the table and turned my attention to one of the crossword books, but I couldn’t concentrate. I tore up the paper grocery bags and tried to make a list of things that had happened over the past few weeks: the fire, the suspicion of arson and, not least, Louise’s pregnancy.
I sat there scribbling until I noticed that I had started drawing grotesque, swollen faces. I screwed up the piece of paper and threw it on the draining board.
I went up the hill one last time. It was too dark to use the binoculars, but I wanted to see if someone had lit a fire by the tent. Nothing.
Once again I wondered who could have been there, and suddenly I remembered the made-up bed in the empty house in Hörum.
I took one of my sleeping tablets and went to bed. The scent of Louise hit me as soon as I put my head on the pillow, bringing me to the verge of tears; I missed her.
I thought about her unborn child; I hoped she had gone to the man who was its father.
Just before the sleeping tablet began to take effect, my parents came into my mind. When I was a child, I once hid underneath the dining table. My parents thought I was asleep. I did it because I thought it would be an exciting adventure, not because I suspected something was going on that might affect me. I sat there looking at their shoes and bare feet. My father, whose legs ached after a long day and evening at the restaurant where he was working, always took off his shoes and socks when he got home — before he had even taken off his hat or coat. It was as if he couldn’t bear to have anything on his feet. After a particularly hard day my mother would prepare a footbath for him, and he would sit there with his feet in a bowl of water while they ate or had a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. My mother, on the other hand, always wore shoes. I can’t recall ever having seen her bare feet during my childhood.
It was on one of those footbath evenings that I hid under the table. I could hear the clink of wine glasses. Then I heard my mother say that she would really like me to have a brother or sister. I remember trembling inside. It had never occurred to me that I might have a sibling. I had always thought of myself as an only child, and I had expected the situation to remain unchanged. There was no need for any more children. When I heard my mother express her wish, I felt as if it wasn’t a sibling she hoped for; she wanted to swap me for another child. I was a failure, I wasn’t enough for them.
My father didn’t reply, but the wine glasses clinked once more. I realised I had to protect myself against my mother’s attack on me. I sank my teeth into her leg just above the shoe, and I bit her as hard as I could. She screamed and tried to pull her leg away, but I hung on. She got up, still screaming, knocking over her chair in the process, and dragged me out from under the table, where I was still clinging on. She was finally able to free herself. I remember looking at my father. He was holding his glass of red wine, his hand frozen on the way to his mouth. He was staring in surprise, or perhaps it was horror, at his son, who had blood all around his mouth like some repulsive vampire.
That was the only time my mother hit me. She did it not out of viciousness, but out of fear. I can understand how unexpected and frightening it must have been to be bitten on the leg while she was sitting quietly with her husband, enjoying a glass of wine.
I yelled out in pain and terror when she hit me, but I was most scared of being given away.
That evening I changed from being a child to something else, although I didn’t know what it was until many years later. I wasn’t a child, I wasn’t an adult, I was someone living in a land that didn’t exist. My mother felt guilty for the rest of her life because she had hit me, even though we never talked about it. Every time she looked at me, I could see that she was wondering whether I had forgiven her or not. When she died, all our questions remained unanswered. All I know today is that I never had a sister or brother. Perhaps my violent protest under the table played its part. My father spoke of it only once, when I was thirteen or fourteen years old. He had just been sacked from a restaurant where he had fallen out with the maître d’ over certain routines. He had applied for a new job at one of the restaurants in the Tivoli amusement park, and took me with him to Copenhagen. My mother had merely looked at him with heavy eyes when he announced that the family might be moving to Denmark.
When we arrived at Tivoli, we had an hour before he was due to meet the maître d’. It was May, warm when the sun was shining, chilly as soon as it went behind a cloud. We drank lemonade and shivered when the sun disappeared. Without any warning, he asked me about that evening when I had been sitting under the table: why had I bitten my mother? His tone was friendly, calm, almost tentative. He didn’t usually sound like that when he asked me questions; he might as well have been wondering what I would like to eat or drink.
I told him the truth: I had bitten her because I was scared that I was no longer enough for them.
He never mentioned the incident again. Years later I thought that perhaps he understood my reaction, that he felt the bite was somehow justifiable.
He didn’t get the job in Copenhagen. A few weeks later he started work at the restaurant in the central station in Stockholm and stayed there for six years, the longest he ever worked in the same place. Occasionally my mother and I would go for a meal when he was on duty. As I watched him hurrying from one table to another, I vowed I would never become a waiter.
I must have dozed off while I was thinking about my parents; I was woken by the sound of my phone ringing. I sat up in the darkness, alarmed by the noise of the phone inside the caravan.
It was a man, but I didn’t recognise the voice.
‘Fredrik?’
‘Yes?’
‘Just want to warn you.’
‘What about?’
‘You’re going to be arrested, possibly tomorrow.’
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend, perhaps. Or just someone who wants to warn you.’
He ended the call. I replayed the brief exchange in my mind; the voice was completely unfamiliar. I couldn’t decide whether it had been disguised or distorted in some way. Perhaps the man had put a handkerchief or his hand over the phone?
I was scared. My hands were shaking.
I didn’t sleep much that night. I was already up by the time dawn broke. I still didn’t know what to make of the phone call. I went out and took a dip in the ice-cold water. By the time I had dried myself and got dressed, I had made a decision. I had no intention of staying on the island, or on the skerry where my tent was. Nor was I planning to run away. I simply wanted to give myself time to understand what was happening around me.
A grey morning. Slight northerly breeze. Through the binoculars I could see that no one had moored a boat on the skerry. I tucked the money I had left in my jacket pocket and set off without bothering to lock the door of the caravan. The engine started right away. The last of the birds had migrated to warmer climes. I sailed to the harbour and moored at the far end of the inlet, where a half-submerged fishing boat had lain for many years. Fru Nordin had not yet arrived at the chandlery. The bread delivery van was parked outside the grocery shop. The cafe wasn’t open either.