Of course people speculate. For example, that maybe she’s not Irina Gyllen at all but a completely different Russian, a famous spy smuggled into the country perhaps, or a defector, a female scientist that Russian agents are looking for, a person whose head is full of Russian state secrets! Someone who’s taken Irina Gyllen’s identity, with General Gyllen and his wife standing surety. Because does she really resemble them? No, not a bit. Papa Gyllen is a head shorter and stout, Mother Gyllen is taller and thinner but not like her in any other way. There is definitely something fishy, because “Irina Gyllen” speaks Swedish like a Russian.
Undeniably. But whoever she is, she has a good name on the islands, and whoever she is, the Bolsheviks have been outsmarted and taken it in the chops. Which is excellent and makes people proud and protective. Not that she can’t take care of herself, if it comes to that.
Yes, she can and does take care of herself, and she works hard at being normal, although it doesn’t come naturally. Out here you’re supposed to be full of fun and jokes, and that’s the hardest part for her. The loss of her sense of humour is perhaps the most striking evidence of everything she has left behind. Large parts of her are missing as she moves among the people and tries to generate interest in the local chatter, at the moment all about the newly arrived pastor and his wife. Eyewitnesses have seen him at the Co-op and shaken hands, and the Coast Guard has seen her on Church Isle—a woman with get-up-and-go. They also mention that there is a one-year-old among the household goods and give her a meaningful look, warning her in good time that she may have another expectant mother to attend to. Now every last one of them will be going to church on Sunday to hear him and have a look at her. There will be several boats going from the village, and Doctor Gyllen is heartily welcome to ride along!
A difficult point, this. She who’s been saved from the Godless Soviet Union is supposed to throw herself into the arms of the church. Of course she’s thankful to be in a country with freedom of religion. And if she really was a stranger who’d taken on Irina Gyllen’s identity, she would be a devout member of the congregation. But Irina Gyllen doesn’t believe in God. On the contrary, she sees what has happened to Russia as proof that a benign Divine power does not exist. Truth to tell, the very young Irina Gyllen was a free-thinker even before the revolution, and what has happened since has not given her any reason to reconsider her views.
Religion is an opium of the people. The Örlanders go to church. Irina Gyllen takes a pill. Opium is what all of us need. So in essence, perhaps, she’s a friend of the church. Here, where she lives very visibly among the people, she will stand out less if she occasionally goes to church on the big holidays or, like now, when the new priest is going to be closely examined right down to his buttonholes. She’s going to have a lot to do with him, for the pastor is usually the chairman of the Public Health Association. And the priest’s little daughter will be coming to have her regular check-ups with her mother. So why not, yes of course, she’ll go. There will be a lot of people, and she likes that better than when the pews are nearly empty and everyone looks around at her to see if she sings along and reads the general confession and how she reacts to passages that they imagine will be painful to her.
“Yes, thank you,” she says. “I think if you have room in the boat, I’ll come.”
Her Russian accent thickens whenever she’s conflicted. That doesn’t escape them, but they look at her sunnily and say there’s always room for the doctor, and she’s heartily welcome to ride along.
Chapter Four
IF THE PRIEST WERE NOT in such a howling rush, he’d be seriously nervous about his first sermon on the Örlands. He remembers it intermittently and tells himself he must take some time with it. Early in the morning. Late at night. Maybe a little while after lunch. This first time, he needs to be well prepared. Calm. Everything on paper in case he loses his way.
But how can a person get up early when he’s gone to bed so awfully late? And how can he retreat to his study after lunch when he is responsible for so many things that have to be mended and assembled and put away, and then when an unexpected visitor comes wandering up from the church dock? That means talk, and it’s nice to have such a talkative congregation. He wouldn’t dream of sending away anyone who needed to speak to him.
Two more days, then one. Then he begins, in a state of desperation, early in the morning. Slumps in his armchair like a dead fish and tells himself that if he digests the material thoroughly now, then his brain will work on it during the day and he’ll be able to shape it into a passable text in a few hours this evening. All day he leaps anxiously from one task to another so he will also have time to go through the procedures in church. The verger and the organist describe the traditions of the congregation and the signals to be used when necessary between the organist in the loft and the priest before the altar. The verger explains the ins and outs of bell ringing in great detail and when he mentions the priest bell, the pastor pricks up his ears.
“The priest bell?” he asks. “What’s that?”
The verger tells him that they observe the ancient custom of ringing the small bell when the priest arrives at the church. “Not before a quarter to and not later than ten to. I stand in the belfry and keep watch, and when I see you leave the parsonage, I start to ring the bell, and I keep ringing it until you’re through the church door. Then I climb down and come to help you get robed.”
Both the verger and the organist look at him uneasily and the organist adds, “It’s the way we’ve always done it.”
He sees that they’re afraid that because he’s young, he’ll think this custom is old-fashioned and set himself against it, but he smiles and says, “Of course. If that’s the way you do it, then that’s what we’ll do.”
They look relieved, and when they rehearse the key points in the Mass with the organist at the organ, the pumper working invisibly at the bellows, the verger in his pew, and the priest at the altar, a kind of exhilaration and good fellowship spreads through the building. For when the organist gives him his note and the pastor frees his voice and sings, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen,” the organist and the verger can hear that this priest can truly sing the Mass. The organist’s playing acquires life and reverence, and the Mass goes brilliantly while the verger does his work smartly, turning the hymn numbers for the congregation, opening the altar rail for the priest, and following him to the sacristy when he will change from his robes into his cassock during the pre-sermon hymn.
Petter recalls that this congregation is often described as a singing congregation, and the thought makes him happy. He has already heard that the last priest’s greatest failing was that he couldn’t sing the Mass. There will be no problem in that area for Pastor Petter Kummel, who sings more readily than he preaches. The final liturgy goes swimmingly, and he feels a little chill when he remembers that when he does all this for real, tomorrow, he will already have delivered his sermon. He can only hope that he won’t be dying of shame.