Her words, obviously written down in a mixture of resolve and terror, would grant her an hour of remembrance, he would see to that. For he had understood that much later, the thin figures at her mother’s funeral were of the same make as his mother. Then they had looked like pathetic and pitiable individuals who by chance had been blown into the cemetery. Now they stood out for him as the only allies he had.
He smiled to himself, spat toward the birches, leaned over, picked up a stone, big as a fist, moved into the shadow of a bush where four lots met, weighed the stone in his hand before with a powerful discus throw he sent it away in a wide arc toward and over Ohler’s house. He followed its track, a granite comet toward the dark sky, just as elated as when as a child one early May Day morning he pushed an abandoned baby buggy, filled to the brim with empty bottles he had picked up after the students’ Walpurgis festivities the night before, bottles that he intended to redeem at Uno Lantz’s junkyard in Strandbodkilen. The buggy rolled a little hesitantly to start with down the hill, before it took heart, picked up speed and became a projectile. In line with the statue depicting a student singer the buggy swerved, listed severely, and spewed out liquor bottles in a magnificent slow-motion movement.
The effect this time was not as noisy, but when the stone fell down on the roof on the front side of the house it produced a crashing sound anyway and then rolled clattering down the roof tiles. Then silence took over the block again.
He disappeared from publisher Lundquist’s garden after, in his opinion, a job well done.
Ten
The attack on the Ohler house was followed the next morning by another. If a thrown stone, in human history perhaps the most original form of attack, hits its mark, it can fell a giant.
An article in a German newspaper can hardly produce anything so drastic, but well formulated and buttressed with factual arguments in a clever sequence it can shake things up properly. The fact was that it struck like a bomb, and that it exploded besides during the All-German Medical Association’s annual meeting in Düsseldorf did not lessen the effect.
The association, which was formed as early as 1768, was considered one of the most influential within its field in Western Europe. Its membership directory included such significant names as Waller, Haagendorf, and Schütze.
Over three hundred medical doctors were gathered and Horst Bubb could tell his friend Gregor Johansson that Wolfgang Schimmel’s devastating criticism, published in Frankfurter Allgemeine, had great impact. The news the day before had dominated the informal discussions during the convention and Horst thought that the majority supported the article’s main thesis: The Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences was compromised, not to say corrupt. Now, through the selection of the prize winner, it had used up the last remnants of its credibility.
The associate professor noted without difficulty with what excited delight his German colleague accounted for the atmosphere at the hotel’s conference facility. Bubb saw no complications in an “overwhelming majority” so quickly and resolutely managing to assess that the Nobel Prize would end up in the wrong hands and wallet.
“It is, however, slightly annoying that we are meeting in Düsseldorf in particular,” was his only more worried comment, but he did not explain why. It was after all his home town, he ought to be proud of being the host, but Associate Professor Johansson sensed that the city presumably was not associated with the scientific brilliance and weight that the sometimes rather vain and arrogant Professor Bubb perhaps considered necessary for such a distinguished group of scientists.
For fifteen minutes they discussed the effect the article might conceivably have, or rather it was Bubb who babbled on, convinced that the Academy of Sciences would now be forced to realize its blunder, review its decision, and perhaps let Ohler share the prize with Ferguson. The associate professor considered such a retreat completely inconceivable but expressed it a bit more guardedly. Out of sheer friendliness he did not want to undercut the German’s enthusiasm, and for that reason not prolong the discussion either. He had not even had time to have his morning coffee before the call came from Germany.
Bubb was also seeking support from Sweden and inquired whether the associate professor had possibly taken some initiative, which of course he had not. He had been fully occupied with leaf raking, he thought about adding jokingly, but refrained.
He felt yesterday’s listlessness and now, having a bad conscience, he felt all the more anxious to end the conversation and digest the information. He felt he was being disloyal, most of all considering the activity that the colleagues in Germany were developing, that they were actually also fighting for his cause, albeit indirectly. It was a disruptive feeling, he did not want to feel like a traitor, he simply wanted peace and quiet, but was unable to say anything about his irresolution to Horst Bubb.
Instead he inquired about his wife’s health.
“Unchanged,” Bubb said curtly.
“I think the doorbell rang,” the associate professor said mendaciously. “It may be the media wanting a comment. Perhaps they’ve been contacted by-”
“Excellent,” Bubb exclaimed. “Let him have it! Don’t hesitate to stress your own contribution. Do that, Gregor, speak out.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” said the associate professor.
After hanging up the phone he remained standing awhile by the kitchen table, unable to sort his thoughts. The only feeling he could register for certain was discomfort. There was something in Horst Bubb’s voice that he could not come to terms with, a kind of shrill fervor, not magnificent, righteous revenge, but instead a petty revanschism, an attitude he was mortally tired of.
He understood that the cure this time too was coffee and then work in the garden. Yesterday’s rain had accelerated the falling of the leaves, and then there was the compost to tend to. And he should prepare the winter covering of the Gloire de Dijon, one of the most beautiful roses he knew of.
A sudden movement caused him to look out the window. A police car came slowly cruising up the street. It was a remarkable sight, one the associate professor could not recall ever having seen in the vicinity of the house. It slowed down in front of Bunde’s gate. Had he really called the police? thought the associate professor. The man whom the neighbor had seen “sneaking around” was a gardener and nothing else, that was quite clear. The associate professor had been able to study him yesterday-the gardener was industrious, as it was an effort to dig in the Uppland clay. Gregor knew that from his own experience.
But the car cruised farther and finally stopped in front of Ohler’s house. Two uniformed policemen got out. He positioned himself as close to the window as possible to see what was happening. The policemen walked slowly up the path toward the house. They gave an impression of being hesitant, as if they were not sure they had come to the right place. Or else they were simply impressed by the grand entryway-the flight of steps and floor in Jämtland dark shale, four cream-white pillars, without exaggerated details, which held up a balcony with a pointed wrought-iron fence, and a wide, dark brown door in some type of foreign wood with a brass knocker.
The associate professor had to resist the desire to open the front door and peek out. Then he realized that he had a better view from the tower and hurried as best he could up the stairs.
Once there he could see the professor himself, standing on the lawn in front of the house. He was pointing toward the house and then down in the grass. The associate professor, who knew him well, saw immediately that he was worked up. His white hair was sticking up in all directions, his one hand once again was pointing toward the house while the other waved at the street with irritation.