The no would have to wait a while. Simon gave the opposite answer, but added, 'Why do you ask?'
'Do you want to marry me now?'
Simon blinked and looked around the room as if to check whether there was a priest hiding somewhere. There didn't appear to be. He didn't understand the question.
'Now} What do you mean by now}'
'As soon as possible.'
'Is it…urgent?'
Anna-Greta rested her chin on one hand. There was sorrow in the look she gave Simon, her eyes fixed on his for a while until she said, 'Perhaps it is. You never know. And I want to be married to you if… if anything happens.'
'What do you mean?'
Anna-Greta traced the lifeline on her palm with her index finger, not looking at Simon as she replied, 'You know I'm not particularly religious. But still. There's something in all that. I want us to be…' She took a deep breath and expanded her chest, as if she had to make an effort to get the big words out, '…to be married in the sight of God. If anything should happen.' She looked at Simon apologetically. 'So there.'
'OK,' said Simon. 'I understand. What's the suggestion, then?'
Anna-Greta had made a number of calls that morning. In order to marry, it was necessary to have proof that there was no impediment to the marriage. That had to be obtained from the national registration office in Norrtälje. It would normally take a week or two to receive the papers, but it was possible to obtain them more quickly if it was urgent. The same day, in fact.
'I said we'd booked the church for tomorrow,' said Anna-Greta. 'But that we'd forgotten this one detail.' She glanced out of the window. 'We'll just make it if we catch the one o'clock boat.'
Simon had forgotten that he was going to say No, and started to take off his pyjama jacket. When he was halfway he stopped and let the jacket fall back down over his head. 'And have you? Booked the church?'
Anna-Greta laughed. 'No. I didn't know if you'd think this was a good idea.'
She moved up so that Simon had room to get out of bed. He took off the jacket and stood up, using the bedpost for support. 'I'm not so sure about good, but I understand the reasoning. Would it be possible to have a cup of coffee before…the wedding trip?'
Anna-Greta went into the kitchen to make the coffee. Simon leaned against the bedpost. He wobbled as the morning's events hurled themselves at him from behind. He suddenly felt dizzy, and sat down on the bed again. With hands that felt unreal he took off his pyjama trousers and pulled on his underpants and socks. Then he came to a full stop. He held his hands up in front of his eyes.
These fingers of mine.
His entire life's work had been built on what he could do-or what he used to be able to do-with these fingers. Thousands of hours in front of the mirror, polishing the tiniest movement to make it look natural, even though it was hiding something else. He had trained his fingers to obedience, and had had them under control.
Earlier that morning those same fingers had wound his old chain around a dead person, those same hands had tipped a pair of feet over the rail and let a young woman disappear into the depths. To escape awkward questions. To avoid problems. These things his trained fingers had done.
The thought wouldn't go away. As he got up from the bed and opened the wardrobe door, he was looking at his hands the whole time as if they were prostheses, alien things that had been screwed on to the ends of his arms while he was asleep.
He took out a pair of trousers, a shirt and a jacket. His best clothes. He put them on. Perhaps the disruption to his normal daily routine had done something to his head, but it really did seem as if his fingers were behaving as if they had a will of their own, and it was only with some difficulty that he could get them to do as he wished. Fasten his buttons, buckle his belt.
He stopped dead as he was fastening the top button of his shirt.
Is this what it feels like? To he possessed?
He looked at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. Not that he knew how it was supposed to feel, but he didn't think that was what was going on here. It was more like the English expression: he was beside himself One person carrying out the actions, another looking on, side by side.
He pushed back his long grey hair, pulled on his jacket and looked at himself in the mirror again.
Here I am.
He tried to recall the feeling that had come over him when a maple leaf had crossed his path. Without success. But still he made a slight bow to the mirror, said thank you for the divided life that had been given to him, in spite of everything.
Clap, clap.
Anna-Greta was leaning against the doorframe watching him, and she brought her palms together a couple more times. 'Very elegant. Coffee's ready.'
Simon followed her into the kitchen. Once he had drunk the first cup of coffee, his thoughts began to clear. He looked out of the window and his eye caught the spot on the grass where Marita had sat that time. When he had stood in front of her with a shotgun, considering whether to execute her.
On that occasion too he had felt as if he had been thrown outside himself, standing beside himself and looking on.
It's all just excuses, he thought, pouring himself another cup. We talk about being out of our mind, that we weren't ourselves, that we lost control. Different ways of saying the same thing. But we are always ourselves. There are no imaginary friends carrying out actions in our name.
Except… except…
'What are you thinking about?' asked Anna-Greta.
Simon told her what Anders had said to him in the boat. That Maja had entered into him and was influencing him, guiding his hands at night. That he was possessed, just as Elin had been.
When he had finished, Anna-Greta sat quietly for a while, looking over towards the Shack. Eventually she said, 'Poor little soul.'
Simon didn't know if she was referring to Anders or Maja, and it didn't really matter which it was. Everything suddenly seemed utterly impossible, and Anna-Greta's simple compassion merely intensified the feeling.
'Do you really believe that's what's happening?' he asked. 'That the souls of the dead come up from the sea and…and…'
'There's no guarantee they're dead. We know nothing. Nothing. Not for certain.'
'But what can we do?'
Anna-Greta reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his. 'What we can do right now,' she said, 'is to take the one o'clock boat over to Norrtälje and sign some papers so that we can get married.'
Simon glanced at the clock. It was twenty to one, and they would have to leave right away if they were going to get there in time. He picked up the matchbox from the windowsill and said, 'Yes. This is our day. Let's do it. Could you just…wait outside for me for a minute?'
Anna-Greta raised her eyebrows enquiringly, and Simon showed her the box. 'I have to…'
'Go on, then.'
'I'd prefer to be on my own.'
'Why?'
Simon looked at the white silhouette of the little boy on the box. Why? He could have come up with reasons, but instead he told the truth, 'Because it's embarrassing. It would be like…having an audience when you go to the toilet. Can you understand that?'
Anna-Greta shook her head and smiled. 'If we're going to grow even older together, there's a good chance that one of us will have to wipe the other's backside before it's all over. Go on, do what you have to do.'
Simon hesitated. He hadn't realised how suffused with shame his relationship with Spiritus was, and he felt dirty as he pushed open the box. He glanced at Anna-Greta and saw that she was kindly looking out of the window.
The insect really didn't look healthy. It's skin, once black and shiny, was dull and parchment-like. It was beginning to look more and more like the dead specimen he had seen in the great magician's display case. Simon cleared his throat and gathered up spit.