She sat down on the edge of one of the red plush chairs and said something in such a low voice that he couldn’t make out what it was.
‘I couldn’t hear.’
‘I’m pregnant.’
He did not move. Even so, it felt as if he had started running.
‘I’ve been waiting for a chance to tell you.’
He sat on a chair next to her.
‘Are you pleased?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘The baby is due in September.’
He worked it out in his head and realised right away when it must have been conceived: the night after he had come home in December.
‘I’ve been frightened. I didn’t know how you would react.’
‘I have always wanted to have a child.’
She stretched out her hand. It was cold. Sara Fredrika’s hands had been warm. He held her hand and longed to be back on Halsskär. As he was walking over the ice he had thought that he would never return. Sara Fredrika would stay there, waiting for him. But the ice would melt away without his going back, the sea would open up but he would never go back to her island.
Kristina Tacker said something he did not catch. He was thinking about Sara Fredrika and could feel his lust rising. What he longed for was somewhere else. Not in the warmest of the rooms in Wallingatan.
‘Life will be different,’ she said.
‘Life will be as we imagined it would be,’ he replied.
He stood up and walked to the window since he couldn’t bear to look her in the eye.
He heard her leaving the room. Her steps were sprightly. There was a clinking noise as she started moving her china figurines about. He closed his eyes, and it seemed to him that he was now sinking down to the point where there was no bottom.
Chapter 117
The next morning he left the flat at about nine.
He forced himself to walk quickly, so as to shake off his tiredness.
He had not slept a wink all night. When Kristina Tacker had fallen asleep he breathed in the smell of her skin, then carefully got out of bed. He wandered around the flat, trying to understand what was happening. He was losing his grip on his surroundings. This had never happened to him before. His instrument no longer worked.
He stood with one of her china figurines in his hand, just before dawn, when time seems to stand still. He thought aloud and whispered to the china figurine with its naively painted face that in fact he was the one who no longer worked. He had no right to blame his instrument.
He was out of breath by the time he came to Skeppsholmen. He waited until his pulse rate was normal before going in through the high doors.
Chapter 118
Tobiasson-Svartman walked down the echoing corridors and reported to a lieutenant by the name of Berg.
Lieutenant Berg looked at him in surprise.
‘Nobody told us you were coming.’
‘I’m doing that now. I don’t expect to be interviewed today, I’ve only come to report that I’m back in Stockholm.’
The lieutenant asked him to take a seat while he finished writing an urgent message. Tobiasson-Svartman sat down to wait. The clock on the wall was two minutes slow. He could not resist standing up, opening the glass case and adjusting the minute hand. Lieutenant Berg raised his head, saw what he was doing then continued writing. His pen made a rasping sound. When the letter was finished he put it in an envelope, sealed it and summoned an adjutant by ringing a hand bell on his desk. The adjutant looked strangely pale, almost as if he were made up. He left the room after giving a half-hearted salute.
‘You know that man’s brother,’ said Berg, rising to his feet.
Tobiasson-Svartman did his usual assessment. The man towering up in front of him was two metres tall, give or take two centimetres, depending on what kind of shoes or boots he was wearing.
Lieutenant Berg stood behind his desk, as if remaining within a fortress.
‘Or rather, you did know his brother. He is no longer with us.’
He paused to allow Tobiasson-Svartman time to consider his own mortality.
‘Lieutenant Jakobsson,’ he said. ‘Your superior officer last autumn. The man who died at his post. Adjutant Eugene Jakobsson is his younger brother. Just between you and me, he’s not going to go very far. The notion of his being in command of a ship is unthinkable. He’s an excellent adjutant, but a very limited person, and frankly a bit stupid.’
‘I didn’t know Lieutenant Jakobsson had a brother.’
‘He has another three brothers and two sisters. It’s very rare for us to know anything about the private circumstances of our fellow officers. Unless they become personal friends, of course.’
Berg sat down again.
‘How did your mission go?’ he said. ‘I know about it.’
‘The errors have been corrected.’
‘But you don’t have your charts with you?’
‘As I said, I didn’t expect to be interviewed immediately.’
Berg consulted the fat ledger on the desk in front of him.
‘The committee is due to have its regular meeting on 7 March. You can be interviewed then. Bring the charts with you. Prepare your presentation scrupulously, your time will be limited. The admirals are nervous.’
Berg stood up.
‘I have another request,’ Tobiasson-Svartman said.
Berg didn’t sit down. Time was short.
‘I’d like two months’ leave. Starting immediately. On the grounds of utter exhaustion.’
‘Every poor devil is exhausted nowadays,’ Lieutenant Berg said. ‘The admirals chew their moustaches, the commodores get heart attacks, bosuns get drunk and fall into the sea, and the gunboat crews can’t aim properly. Who the hell isn’t exhausted?’
‘I don’t want to be a burden on the navy by going on sick leave. I’d rather take unpaid leave.’
‘Very few get leave granted nowadays. The navy requires all its resources. Your request is hardly going to be favourably received.’
‘But I shall be applying even so.’
Lieutenant Berg shrugged.
‘Let me have a written application by no later than tomorrow afternoon. I’ll make sure it gets looked at this week.’
Tobiasson-Svartman clicked his heels and saluted.
He left Naval Headquarters. The sun had broken through the clouds, and it did not seem quite as cold any more.
He went straight home, feeling relieved about the decision he had made.
There was obviously a risk that his application would not be granted. Even so, he was not especially unhappy, indeed his relief was greater. He increased his stride. He was in a hurry to be home.
Kristina Tacker was sitting at a table, reading a book. Women’s poetry, he thought dismissively. I’m sure Sara Fredrika doesn’t read poetry. She probably barely knows what it is.
Kristina Tacker put her book down.
He gave her a worried smile.
‘I’ve been given another mission,’ he said. ‘It means that I’ll have to be away again for considerable periods. But I won’t have to rough it this time. No treks over the ice, no long weeks on ships out at sea.’
‘What will you be doing?’
‘As usual the mission is classified. You know that I can’t tell you even if I wanted to. Everything to do with the navy is secret. War is just round the corner all the time.’
‘All I have is a postal address,’ she said. ‘The Military Postal Service in Malmö. But I never know where you are.’
They were sitting in the warm room. The maid was not on duty, the building was silent. They had drawn their chairs up to the tiled stove. Its brass doors were half open. He raked the embers. He was calm, even though everything he said was meaningless. His professional secrecy merged with the mission that did not exist but that he would carry out even so. His expedition was moving in a vacuum.