She had to retrieve it, he usually did not dare make his way down the steps himself. The talk about her being able to rest awhile after lunch had evidently been immediately forgotten. He filled the afternoon with constant new instructions and orders and now she felt very tired. As always when she was forced to walk a lot the pains in her left hip also increased. She limped, which even the dim-sighted Forslund observed.
“What’s the matter? Is he after you?” he said with a grin.
“Go right in,” said Agnes, holding open the door.
The attorney turned into the library.
“Thanks, Agnes,” said the professor. “We’ll have a bite to eat in an hour. Or maybe half an hour,” he corrected himself after taking a look at Forslund.
Was she herself in the will? She thought so. The professor had mentioned something several years ago. But since then it had been rewritten several times. Forslund would no doubt gladly remove her as a beneficiary. He had previously shown a certain interest in her, hinted that there were many rooms in the house where she could have a private legal consultation. During a certain stage of intoxication he always tried to grope her and when that didn’t work he would change to verbal indecencies. She had always refused him, sometimes brusquely. But that was many years ago now. They had both withered a bit.
It struck her, while she made the final preparations before dinner, how little she cared about her assets. The professor changed his will every so often, while she herself barely knew what she had in the bank. She had talked about retiring but had not reflected on the financial side of it all.
She had always lived and eaten for free at Ohler’s, her expenses were limited to clothes and little things. She also regularly sent a sum to Lutheran World Relief.
Did she have enough money to pay rent somewhere else? She didn’t know. And what did an apartment cost? It had not felt necessary to investigate, the cottage on Gräsö had always been there as an alternative. But would Greta accept her moving in? And would she herself want to come back?
The odor of herring in mustard sauce always made her a little nauseated, yet she made a point of making it herself. Say what you will about Forslund, but herring he understood. Pickled herring with onions, regular pickled herring, the classic glasmästarsill, however long the parade was he could never get enough. He also praised her preserves at great length, so if it was for the herring alone they would make an excellent couple, she thought and smiled.
In the morning she had put a bottle of aquavit in the fridge. Now she put it in the freezer along with the schnapps glasses, so that they would be properly frosted. She set a hand towel over the pan of potatoes, arranged the plates with cucumbers and capers and supervised the sweet-pickled herring filet which in a creamy egg mixture was getting the right color in the oven.
Forslund always wanted to eat in the kitchen, it’s suitable for herring, as he put it, and the professor accommodated him this time too. They arrived just as she was taking the filet out of the oven.
“Magnificent!” exclaimed Forslund, “Agnes is a jewel.”
The sight of all the good things on the table, complemented by a couple bottles of Hof cold from the refrigerator, and the encounter with the smells in the kitchen made him mildly exhilarated.
The professor lingered by the door and observed her with a peculiar expression, as if he could not immediately recall who the woman in the kitchen was. Agnes registered his curious appearance out of the corner of her eye while she poured the first aquavit. The professor was too shaky nowadays. The attorney would take care of the refills himself.
“I’ll be in the TV room, if you need anything,” she said.
“Agnes should actually be here to celebrate,” Forslund exclaimed. “That would probably-”
“Thanks!” the professor interrupted him, who seemed released from his blockage. “As usual it looks very appetizing. Thank you, Agnes.”
“But I don’t think anyone ever died from one glass of aquavit,” Forslund continued, spearing a pickle with his fork.
“Agnes doesn’t touch alcohol,” said the professor, stepping aside so she could leave the kitchen.
She sank down on the couch and turned on the TV. She had her own TV in the little drawing room one flight up, and would have preferred to withdraw there, but it was understood that she should stay in the vicinity to be able to respond quickly.
The news had just started and it was a minor shock when the first thing she saw was a picture of the professor, a photograph that must have been twenty-five years old. At first she refused to really take in the picture, as if it did not depict the real Bertram von Ohler.
The news anchor began by saying something about the “massive criticism” that had struck the Academy of Sciences for its choice of prize winner. Agnes lowered the sound on the TV.
Then a journalist appeared standing in a large hall, in the background rows of chairs and a podium could be seen. The reporter squinted with one eye, and that distracted her for a moment, but his voice was sharp and clear as he accounted for the atmosphere among a group of scientists who were gathered for some meeting in Germany. He talked extremely quickly and so did the person he was interviewing, HORST BUBB read the text that appeared on screen, but Agnes understood well enough that Bertram von Ohler was taking a real beating.
At the end of the feature the news anchor said that the Academy of Sciences declined to comment on the criticism.
Then was a report from the United States on the crisis in the car industry.
Agnes remained sitting awhile without taking in anything of what was said, before she got up and went over to the liquor cabinet, took out a bottle and poured a centimeter of liqueur in a crystal glass that she had polished that morning.
Just as she brought the glass to her mouth and sensed the almost corrosive odor of alcohol rise up in her nose the phone rang.
She set down the glass. The portable phone was on the table and she answered after the second ring.
“Professor Ohler,” said a voice more as a statement than a question.
“He’s occupied at the moment,” Agnes replied, “I’ll have to ask you to call back tomorrow.”
“My name is Liselott Karnehagen and I am calling from Aftonbladet.”
Agnes remained silent.
“There is no possibility-” Agnes persevered.
“We would really like a comment.”
“From me?”
“And who are you? Some kind of secretary, or what?”
“No, really now!”
“Professor von Ohler seems to be a fraud-”
“That may be,” said Agnes calmly, “but right now he’s eating herring.”
“Herring?”
“As I said, call back tomorrow,” said Agnes, and ended the call by simply setting the phone down on the table.
It rang immediately again. Agnes quickly went out in the hall and pulled out the phone jack. She realized they had a rough time ahead of them.
By way of the connecting corridor that ran through half of the house she went up to the kitchen door. Forslund was doing all the talking but Agnes could not make out what he was saying. She considered knocking and asking whether everything was satisfactory but put that out of her head when she remembered the poured liqueur, went back to the TV room, and sank down on the couch.
She did not like that prize. Why should they start poking at the professor and bringing him to life? He was an old man and he’d had so much in his day that he didn’t need anymore. She had read about the prize sum in the newspaper, inconceivable millions. That was probably why the lawyer had been summoned. Once again her own situation came to her. The professor had completely rejected her talk about retirement and she understood that very well. She was needed.