Tobiasson-Svartman wondered yet again if Jakobsson knew something.
‘I just row around in the fog,’ he said. ‘It might seem pointless, but it wakes me up, body and soul. I row myself into a state where I’m ready to do my work. It chases away all my ugly dreams. Rowing can be like getting washed.’
Lieutenant Jakobsson held out his pipe.
‘I smoke. Without tobacco I wouldn’t even be up to being in charge of one of the navy’s old tugboats. I mean that metaphorically, I would never dream of saying nasty things about a tugboat. They are like Ardennes horses. Even if a tug doesn’t have a heart or lungs, they wear themselves out in the end and eventually they are no longer capable of towing. Horses are sent to the knacker’s yard, boats to the breaker’s yard.’
Tobiasson-Svartman was growing tired of Jakobsson. He was a bit of a fusspot, tended to be ingratiating. And he was a damned chatterbox with bad breath and a smelly pipe. It was the same as the sailor with the snotty nose. Tobiasson-Svartman had an urge to punch him.
He had breakfast, then he went back to work. The rating who had taken Welander’s place performed excellently. They broke the record that day, making 144 soundings before they had to stop work because of failing light.
All the time he was thinking about what he had seen that morning. It seemed to him more and more like a mirage, something he had not in fact experienced.
Chapter 53
Late that evening, when he had already fallen asleep, Lieutenant Jakobsson knocked on his door. He dressed quickly and went on deck.
Way out to sea, on the eastern horizon, tongues of fire rose up through the darkness. A naval battle was taking place.
‘We have had radio telegrams to the effect that something big and possibly crucial was in the offing,’ said Jakobsson. ‘The Russian and German fleets have come up against each other. People will die tonight in a mixture of steam and fire, they’ll be blown to pieces, drown.’
The flashes came and went, shooting up into the night sky. Distant rumbles and blasts could be heard.
Tobiasson-Svartman thought about the tragedy that was taking place. The heat of battle was hellish. An orchestra comprising the musicians of evil was playing out there in the darkness. Every flash in the night sky was a note that turned into a lethal projectile.
They stood on deck for a long time, watching the battle. Nobody said a word. Everybody was depressed, silent.
Shortly after three in the morning it was all over. The flames died away, the gunfire ceased. All that remained was the wind, which had veered to the east. The temperature had fallen again.
Chapter 54
Snow came, then drifted away. The wind remained light, alternating between east and north. They had just one day with a strong northerly gale. Tobiasson-Svartman forced the work rate up, the ratings were sometimes on their knees with exhaustion, but nobody complained.
The sea held its breath: there were fewer and fewer flocks of birds, and those, barely visible over the crests of the waves, heading due south.
The days became shorter.
All the time he was thinking about the woman on Halsskär.
Chapter 55
A week passed without his going back there.
He became more and more restless, wanted to go, but did not dare. Was he too close, or was the distance too far?
The Svea turned up, without Captain Rake, who had gone to Stockholm to bury his mother. Lieutenant Sundfeldt received him in the saloon. He had two letters. One was from his banker, Herr Håkansson at the Handelsbanken head office, and the other from his wife.
They conversed briefly. The cryptographers collected his record book.
When he returned to his cabin he first read the letter from Håkansson. The stock exchange was still reacting bullishly to the war. There was no reason to worry. The war meant rising share prices and stability in key industrial stocks.
His banker advised him to consider buying into Russian Telecom and Bofors Gullspång, both of which had just posted good profits forecasts.
He spent some time just holding the letter from his wife. Eventually he decided not to open it. It was as if he already knew what was in it, and it upset him. He tucked it into some pages in an old atlas he had in his travel archive.
Then he sat down at his little table. How should he reply to a letter he had not read?
He scribbled a few lines: he had a bad cold, a sore throat. Every evening his temperature varied between 37.9 and 38.8. But he was managing to cope with his work, which was now entering a crucial phase. He thanked her for her letter, and told her he loved her. That was all.
In his heart, he knew that he would soon return to Halsskär.
Chapter 56
By 27 November they had reached the point in their soundings where the new section of the navigable channel would join the old one.
It was further and further to row there from the mother ship. Lieutenant Jakobsson had offered to move the Blenda, but Tobiasson-Svartman had insisted that she remain where she was.
‘My calculations regarding the new channel are based on the point where the Blenda has been anchored all the time. It would make matters more awkward if the ship were to be moved now,’ he said.
Jakobsson accepted that response. He could not know that Tobiasson-Svartman did not want the Blenda to come too close to Halsskär.
On that morning he noted that the ship’s barometer was falling. The slowness of the change might suggest that there was no major storm on the way, but he suspected that the weather would soon deteriorate significantly. The first dramatic storm of winter was looming.
This was the sign he had been waiting for. Swiftly he packed some of the dried food he always took with him on his travels, in case something unexpected happened. Without anyone noticing, he also paid a visit to the ship’s store and took a few red flares. He rolled an extra sweater and some warm socks in an oilskin coat and placed the parcel in one of the tenders.
As he rowed away from the Blenda, the wind was gathering strength. He was sure that a storm would be over them from the north in an hour or so.
This time he decided to row into the little inlet where the tender would be less exposed. The dinghy was there. He beached the tender on the shingle and tied the painter round the base of a robust juniper bush.
It was just turned eight. There was a moment of calm, then the north wind set in. He waited in the inlet until he was certain the storm had come to stay. Then he clambered up to the highest point on the skerry and fired one of the flares. The crew of the Blenda would know that he was safe on the island and would stay there until the storm eased.
He hurried back to the tender, collected the parcel and followed the path to the cottage. The door was closed, smoke was rising from the chimney. He sat behind his rock, waiting for the rain. He stayed there until he was wet through. Then he emerged from behind the rock.
Chapter 57
She opened the door.
When she recognised his face she stepped to one side. No sooner had he entered the cottage than he wanted to turn and run out again. It was as if he had been enticed into a trap that he had set for himself. What was there for him to do here? This is madness, he thought, but a madness that I have been longing for.
She put a stool in front of the open fire.
‘The storm blew up unexpectedly,’ he said, holding his hands towards the fire.