It was almost one thirty by the time he closed the last of the diaries. A half-empty bottle of brandy was sticking up out of a jackboot. He removed the cork and drank. He pulled the handkerchief aside and tipped some drops of brandy into Jakobsson’s nostrils and eyes. Then he opened Lieutenant Jakobsson’s trousers, eyed his wrinkled, shrivelled penis and poured brandy over that as well. He put the bottle back in the jackboot, put the handkerchief back in place and left the cabin with the diaries in his hand.
Once back in his own cabin he took out the oilskin pouch he used for his sounding notes, put the diaries inside it, together with some steel edging he had kicked loose from the floor.
He went out on deck, walked to a point by the rail where none of the lookouts could see him, and dropped the diaries into the sea.
Somewhere in the distance one of the watchmen started coughing. The moon was half full, and its reflection formed a path over the water between the ship and the Sandsänkan lighthouse.
He remained by the rail for a long time. Even if he did not recognise himself in what the diaries had said about him, he could not get away from the fact that, as far as Jakobsson was concerned, it was the truth. It was what he had taken with him into death. No one could bring it back.
Chapter 68
On 2 December an easterly gale was blowing over the sea to the north of Gotland.
The Svea had appeared on the horizon at about nine in the morning. That afternoon Tobiasson-Svartman packed his bags and said goodbye to the officers. He thanked the ratings who helped him with his work the previous day. Mats Lindegren did not put in an appearance, however; but Tobiasson-Svartman had not ordered him to turn up.
Later in the evening he was invited to a little party in the gunroom. Fredén, the new commanding officer, had given his permission on condition that they were not too noisy, in view of the fact that they had a dead man on board. One of the petty officers and the chief engineer had good singing voices and performed some sea shanties. They had drunk punch laced with liberal quantities of aquavit. When they were all drunk, of course, they started talking about the dead man. Several of the officers present maintained that Lieutenant Jakobsson had approved of and been impressed by Tobiasson-Svartman’s work. He did not need to make an effort in order to appear surprised. But he did not feel up to staying long at the impromptu party and withdrew, saying he had some reports to finish.
The last he heard before dropping off to sleep was the deep but unclear male voices singing, possibly in Italian.
When he left the gunboat and walked along the gangway for the last time, he glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure that Jakobsson had not returned to life.
Two ratings helped carry his bags to the same cabin as he had occupied at the beginning of his mission.
He stood quite still in the cabin. He was back at the beginning once more.
Captain Rake welcomed him on board. He had shaved off all his hair and gave the impression of being very tired. His left eye was infected and running. His eczema was in full bloom.
They sat down. Captain Rake served brandy, despite the fact that it was not yet noon.
‘I’m a man who lives in accordance with strict routines,’ Rake said. ‘I hate any form of lax discipline. People can never achieve dignity if they don’t recognise the importance of obeying both themselves and others. But now and then I allow myself one little step from the straight and narrow. One example is the occasional indulgence in a glass of spirits before lunch, and possibly even two.’
They drank each other’s health.
‘All these dead bodies,’ muttered Rake out of the blue. ‘On the way here my bosun Rudin died. Then you fished up that corpse wearing the uniform of a German sailor. And now Lieutenant Jakobsson. Was it his heart?’
‘His heart or his brain.’
Rake nodded and stroked his shaven head. Tobiasson-Svartman noticed that Rake’s finger was shaking.
‘It’s the tiny blood vessels we can’t see that can be our weakest point,’ Rake said. ‘When they burst we are sent into free fall, which leads to death and the grave, or paralysis and an iron lung, to an instant’s agony or long-drawn-out and horrific suffering.’
He screwed up his eyes and stared hard at Tobiasson-Svartman.
‘What is your weakness? You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, of course. It’s a man’s right not to reveal the misery he is saddled with. Weakness and misery are the same thing in my book. It’s merely a question of which word you choose.’
It seemed to Tobiasson-Svartman that his weakness was a woman who lived alone on a skerry half a nautical mile south-west of the destroyer he was on. But he did not say so. Rake was somebody he was now looking forward to saying goodbye to for ever.
‘I have many weaknesses,’ he said. ‘It’s not possible to pick just one.’
Rake stood up to indicate that the conversation was over.
‘My question was a general one. We are expecting to dock at Skeppsbron tomorrow at nine in the morning. I’m afraid we can’t travel at top speed.’
‘Engine trouble?’
‘An unfortunate decision made by Naval Headquarters. In a mistaken attempt to nurse the engines, top speeds are allowed only in actual battle situations. There are very few engineers and officers with technical qualifications at headquarters. Engines need to be stretched, not often but regularly. Otherwise there is a bigger risk of engine trouble when it really matters.’ Rake gave a laugh. ‘It’s the same with people. We too need to be forced to work at the limit of our abilities. The difference between a machine and a person isn’t all that great.’
Rake opened the cabin door and looked forward to seeing him at table that evening.
Tobiasson-Svartman went back to his cabin and lay down on his bunk. He was soon fast asleep.
He awoke with a start an hour or more later. A plaintive scraping sound was spreading through the ship’s hull, indicating that anchors and cables were being pulled aboard. He got up, put on his jacket and went out on deck. The Blenda was out of sight. The Svea’s engines were throbbing, smoke was pouring out of the four big funnels. The ship turned slowly on its own axis and then set course to the north-east.
He stared hard at Halsskär, but could see nothing. The sea was frighteningly deserted.
There’s something I don’t understand, he thought. A warning. I am right now making a mistake, but I do not know what it is.
Halsskär faded into the mist.
Tobiasson-Svartman thought about the spot he had been looking for, the point where his sounding lead never reached the bottom of the sea.
Part V
The Dead Eyes of China Figurines
Chapter 69
He had slept badly the night before he arrived back in Stockholm. When he blew out the paraffin lamp he began to feel that a catastrophe was approaching. It could arrive at any time: a single German torpedo fired by an unseen submarine racing through the dark water. He lay in his cabin with sweat pouring off him and listened to the sound of the powerful engines. Rake’s assurance that he would not expose the engines to undue strain did not help him. The boilers could explode without warning, create big holes under the waterline and sink the ship in less than thirty seconds.
That was his greatest dread: being trapped inside a bubble of air deep in the innards of a ship that was sinking to the bottom. Not even his screams would leave any trace. He was afraid that death would be totally silent.