“No, the light is motion controlled, it senses a limited area,” the man explained, and took a couple of steps back. The light came on again.
The man on the other side of the fence was in his sixties, perhaps a hundred ninety centimeters tall, and gave a forceful impression. His face was chiseled as if it had been worn down by wind or long-term hardship. He was dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a half-length green jacket of somewhat sturdier material.
“Perhaps you’re wondering what business I have here?”
“No, not at all,” the associate professor assured him. “I’m just out on a late walk.”
“It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.”
“Of course not.”
They stood quietly a moment.
“Do you live in the area?”
“Yes,” said the associate professor, pointing a little vaguely in the direction of his house.
“Are you the one who has the splendid climbing hydrangea?”
“That’s right.”
“It must be incomparable when it’s blooming.”
“Are you interested in plants?”
The man smiled and nodded.
“The spindle tree is not so bad now that it’s fall, otherwise it can be a little uninteresting. But now I won’t keep you any longer,” he said.
“No problem,” said the associate professor.
They went their separate ways. The associate professor was happy about the comment about the hydrangea, which really was enormous and covered a large part of the east wall, but at the same time he was very displeased. He had been able to determine that he’d indeed seen a stranger on Lundquist’s lot, but had not gotten any answer to what he was doing there. Frustrating to say the least. He definitely did not look like a burglar or photographer, as Bunde had suggested. And why would anyone sneak around? Ohler was no camera-shy movie star or member of the royal court who had to be photographed surreptitiously. On the contrary, he certainly welcomed all the attention.
The stranger had sounded so certain when he talked about the hydrangea and the spindle tree on Lundquist’s lot. Could he be a gardener? The associate professor decided that was the case. What other person wandered around that way talking so naturally about plants?
He had been polite too, and well-dressed in practical, durable clothing. The latter also argued for gardener.
The associate professor rounded two street corners before he was back on his street. He glanced in toward Ohler’s, where the lights were on, as in the past when the house was full of people. He tried to imagine what was going on in there, and above all what would happen in the future. Festivities, children and grandchildren gathered, colleagues on visits, media people driving up in cars for live broadcasts, dinners-in brief: life and motion.
He himself would go into his turret. The professor would point up toward the illuminated tower and say something about “my assistant, Associate Professor Johansson.” He would stand out as a mossy hobby gardener, who for lack of anything else devoted his solitary life to “begonias or whatever.” A skinny shadow figure in a silhouette play who now and then was lit up by the cold blue glow from the lights the associate professor had arranged for his rare plants, while the professor could shine of his own force, surrounded by living, warm people.
He had remained standing on the sidewalk, staring straight ahead without seeing, afflicted by heart palpitations. He waited until his pulse regained its normal rhythm and took a deep breath. His throat was burning from all the coffee that gave him sour belches during the walk.
“What do you say, Uncle Gregor!”
He turned around. Birgitta von Ohler was standing in front of him with a broad smile and outstretched arms. She persisted in calling him Uncle Gregor, which she had done since childhood. He didn’t like it, but now it was too late to correct.
“Birgitta,” he said tamely.
“Are you standing here? Come in for a cup of coffee!”
“Thanks, but I think I’m fine.”
“Don’t be silly, Daddy will be very happy.”
“I’m going to throw together a little food in my cottage,” said the associate professor. “It will be a lot-”
“Of course it’s quite amazing! After so many years. You did hear that he mentioned you?”
“How’s that?”
“On TV.”
The associate professor shook his head.
“‘My best colleague,’ he called you on the news.”
The associate professor stared incredulously at the radiant Birgitta and then let his gaze disappear into a darkness of rising anger. The street and the sidewalk disappeared, likewise the houses and Birgitta von Ohler.
“How are you feeling?”
She took a step closer, took hold of his arm. The associate professor opened his eyes.
“Excellent,” he said, but the paleness and weak voice were obvious signs to the contrary.
“Gregor! You’re not feeling well.”
The associate professor freed himself from her grasp, turned around and staggered toward his house. I can’t run, he thought, I cannot die on the street.
He shoved open the gate and took a couple of deep breaths. Home. From Bunde’s house organ music was heard, a Bach cantata, always this pompous Bach! Otherwise it was silent.
His heart had never protested. Perhaps this is God’s punishment for my unjust thoughts and my foolish anger, thought Gregor Johansson.
He was astonished at himself. Suddenly I am turning to God! Both brain and heart have become dysfunctional due to this damned Nobel Prize!
He went over to the beech tree and pressed one palm against its trunk. The coolness of the bark was transmitted through his arm and cooled down his agitation a little.
Should I speak freely? Should I too, like Schimmel in Germany, write an article and tell how it really happened, about Ferguson, about the teamwork, about how one man steals all the glory for himself, as if it were the solitary genius who creates? I could testify. Schimmel can raise up Ferguson, I can push Ohler down from his pedestal.
The thought gave him a certain consolation, but he realized that few, if any, would be influenced. He would stand out as a bitter and jealous loser, as if he was only speaking on his own behalf. The professor was right on one point: There was no justice.
All that remained was to keep his mouth shut. As soon as he had drawn that conclusion the associate professor went into his house.
Seven
Agnes Andersson stared at her feet. How far had they taken her? Or on the contrary, where had she taken her feet? Assuming now that it was the head and not the feet that decided the direction.
To a footbath. In a house where basically she had spent her entire adult life.
Agnes was the third Andersson sister from Gräsö who worked for the Ohlers. Carl von Ohler rented a house on the island a few summers in the 1930s and then came into contact with the fisherman and smallholder Aron Andersson, who supplied fish and helped out with odd jobs.
Then, when Carl needed a new maid for their home in Uppsala, the oldest of the Andersson daughters, Anna, was talked into starting. When she left the household after a couple of years her place was taken over by the middle sister, Greta, who stayed a few years longer, and who in turn was replaced by their little sister, Agnes.
Bertram and his family had use of the wing rooms, as they were called. When his father died in 1959 he became sole master of a fourteen-room house.
At the time, there was one maid besides Agnes on the serving staff, and a half-time caretaker, all of whom had to take care of Bertram, his wife Dagmar, and the two sons, and as of 1960 a nanny who took care of the afterthought, Birgitta.
Now only Agnes and Bertram were left.
She was sitting in what the family always called the “small parlor.” Fifty years ago it would have been inconceivable that as a servant she would be allowed to occupy a room that was reserved for the “ladies,” then equipped with a couple of small couches and a handful of armchairs. It was intended that the female guests could gather there after dinner, drink a glass of liqueur, and exchange a little gossip. All while the men sat in the library drinking cognac and talking about their business.