I parked outside Oslovski’s house, which still appeared to be deserted. I listened for sounds from her garage but heard nothing.
I went down to the boat with my stash of booze; I didn’t bother looking over at the chandlery to see if fru Nordin was there. The two coastguard patrol vessels were moored at the quayside. I clambered into my boat and left the harbour. A gentle offshore breeze was blowing, and just as I was picking up speed the sun emerged from behind the clouds. I set a more northerly course so that I could take a longer route home, travelling between islands with summer cottages closed up for the season. At one point I thought I caught a glimpse of a wild boar among the trees, but I couldn’t be certain. The water opened out into the wide expanse of Ramfjärden. In the distance I could see the outer sunken reefs and the open sea. I intended to head east when I had gone about halfway to the open sea; I would soon be home. However, instead I switched off the engine. I moved to the prow and fell over when the boat rocked. One of the oars slid into the water, but I managed to fish it out before it drifted away. I sat down and carried on drinking. The sun was lovely and warm. I took off my jacket.
I didn’t think about anything — not Lisa Modin, not my daughter, not the unknown police officers I would soon be talking to. I drank. Exhaustion from the almost sleepless night caught up with me, and I fell asleep.
I was woken by the boat bumping into something. When I sat up I was staring straight into Alexandersson’s face. He was leaning over the rail of the larger patrol boat, which loomed above me like an enormous whale. I looked in the other direction and realised that I had drifted all the way to the outer reefs, where the open sea was waiting. I was already caught up in the sea swell. I didn’t know how long I had slept, but I was still extremely drunk.
‘I think it’s best if you come aboard,’ Alexandersson said.
‘Fuck off,’ I replied as I stumbled to the stern and pulled the cord. The engine started immediately; I reversed away from the reef and set off towards my island. I thought Alexandersson would come after me; I was drunk, and could be arrested for being in charge of a vessel while under the influence.
However, the coastguard made no attempt to stop me. When I reached the island I ran the boat straight up onto the shore, but managed to flip up the engine before the propeller sustained any damage.
I tottered up to the caravan. Before I lay down I did something I never usually do.
I locked the door.
Chapter 13
I was woken by the sound of someone knocking.
It was the second day after the coastguard had found me drifting in my boat. I had carried on drinking when I’d got back to the island, and hadn’t begun to sober up until the following day. I was constantly expecting the police to come and pick me up.
The occasions in my life when I have drunk heavily have been few and far between, and I have always been alone when they happened. They follow the same path: I drink, I remain silent apart from yelling into the emptiness now and again. I fall asleep easily but usually wake up after a short time.
When I had started to sober up and felt the remorse gradually ebbing away, I went up to the bench on the hill with my binoculars. I looked over at the tent on the skerry, but there was no sign of anyone. However, I couldn’t be sure that the mysterious visitor hadn’t been there.
I noticed that I was listening for the sound of an engine the whole time. There wasn’t a breath of wind. I made myself something to eat when I remembered, but I hardly touched it and threw it to the gulls on the rock down by the boathouse where my grandfather used to sit mending his eel traps when I was a child. Slowly my thoughts returned to the night I had spent in Lisa Modin’s apartment.
The events to which the embroidered cloth bore witness, and the contents of the black bag, belonged to the past. It was seventy-five years since the war broke out, since the Nazi threat had seemed unstoppable. I was born after the war, Lisa Modin much later than me. Obviously there was something in her past that was still alive as far as she was concerned, but she didn’t have the items on display. It wasn’t something she wanted on show.
The most important question in my mind was of course the identity of the smiling man blowing cigarette smoke straight into the photographer’s eye. Who was Karl Madsen?
Remorse was replaced by depression and self-loathing. Every time I was overcome by those feelings I thought about my father and his many failures. I remembered him coming home after long shifts and immediately sitting down at the kitchen table, forcing my mother to listen to his complaints about all his difficult colleagues and the maître d’s, not to mention the diners he had to put up with. I never heard him accept responsibility for any tricky situation that had arisen; it was always the other person who had been in the wrong. When I was a child, I thought my father was an amazing man who never made any mistakes, but as time went on I realised that of course he was simply blaming someone else. That was also why he burdened himself with what sometimes seemed like a bottomless sorrow over a life that had turned out to be a failure.
My mother was his polar opposite. She was happy to take the blame for everything that happened in our home. If I came home with bad marks from school, it was her fault; she should have made sure I had peace and quiet to do my homework. If I got a nosebleed because I’d been fighting in the playground, she was responsible; she should have warned me about the boys who had attacked me.
I began my second day after my major drinking session by going down to the jetty and taking a dip in the ice-cold water. When I had rubbed myself dry I was even able to manage a substantial breakfast. Afterwards I poured the remains of the vodka down the sink but kept the cans of beer I hadn’t yet drunk.
In the afternoon I lay down for a sleep only to be woken by the sound of someone knocking. I opened the door to find Lisa Modin standing outside. She was dressed in the same way as on the day we went over to Vrångskär. She was pale and seemed nervous. I stepped aside and let her in.
‘How did you get here?’ I asked when she was sitting at the table. I had offered her the bed, which was more comfortable, but she chose the stool.
‘My editor has a small boat; I came on my own. I was afraid of running aground because I only knew the general direction, not how far away from the islands I needed to stay, but it was fine. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘You’re not disturbing me. Can I get you anything?’
‘Tea?’
We drank tea. I didn’t like the taste; Lisa didn’t seem very keen either. I could tell from her face, but she didn’t say anything. I waited.
I had once been sent for by my senior consultant when I was a newly qualified doctor. I didn’t know why he wanted to see me, so I sat down and said nothing. The consultant, who was both stern and rather self-important, didn’t say anything either. We sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes, then he looked at me and thanked me for coming. When I mentioned this strange encounter to one of my contemporaries, he said I should have asked for a pay rise. That was why the consultant had sent for me. He knew I wasn’t happy, but he would never have started the conversation about my salary.
I topped up Lisa’s cup. She still didn’t say anything. I looked at her, remembering the night I had seen her in her bed.
‘I wasn’t lying,’ I said.
She looked questioningly at me.
‘I wasn’t snooping. I made a mistake in the night when I needed the toilet. I opened the wrong door, and then the wardrobe. I might have tripped. But I don’t read other people’s letters. I don’t poke around in other people’s belongings. Nor do I allow anyone to poke around in what is mine. Or was mine. Now my house has burned down, there’s nothing left.’