The old woman hiccoughed again and Ann released herself from her grasp. They looked at each other.
“Good-bye now,” said Viola.
“Good-bye,” said Ann, squeezing Viola’s cool, skinny hand.
She stood in the farmyard staring upward where a few scattered clouds glided along in an otherwise blue sky. This was how it could be to say farewell, she thought. Without torment and only a pinch of anxiety, otherwise great gratitude for how magnificent life could be, for being part of it, getting to share and then separate, with death like a considerate relative.
Ann was no longer crying, but knew that more tears would come later. She stood submerged in memories when she heard the veranda door open behind her. She turned around and in a strange way she was expecting it to be Viola standing there with her scarf around her head, her worn coat, and cut-off rubber boots on her feet.
But of course it was Edvard. He looked searchingly at her, as if he wanted to check how she was feeling.
“What a woman she is,” said Ann.
Edvard nodded. Only now did Ann see how tense he was.
“I guess I’ll be leaving,” she said.
“Ann,” he got out, stepping down from the stairs.
Don’t come closer, she thought. But he did. She could not flee when he had that expression on his face. He stood before her. Don’t touch me, she thought. But he did, took hold of her and pulled her to him.
“Ann,” he whispered, “it’s you.”
He felt like before. Smelled like before. She felt how something was loosening. An inner valve was opened and out streamed everything that had accumulated since their breakup: all the thoughts about a reunion, hopes and disappointments; all the glasses of wine she drank just to be able to sleep; all the tears she had shed, and like a stinking stream now this mess rushed through and out of her body. Only resolve and anger remained.
She pushed him away from her.
“No, Edvard, it’s not that way anymore.”
He shrank a little, like a surprised animal who is unexpectedly struck by a projectile, if not directly fatal, then still one that made him shake with the insight that this was the beginning of the end.
“You know that too,” she continued quickly, because she didn’t want to hear his assurances and explanations. “You’re sad now and need someone. But I’m not the one you need.”
“Yes,” he whispered doggedly. “It’s been that way since you left the island.”
She wanted to let out her anger that he had waited so many damn years before he came out with this but she held back so as not to worsen his obvious suffering. He had enough with his despair that Viola had decided to die.
“I’m leaving now,” she said, suddenly struck by the thought that behind her anger perhaps love was lurking.
True, that was not very likely. The feeling that they had come to a definitive end was strong. But stranger things had happened in the history of the world, so she decided to shut down everything and make herself inaccessible. She simply didn’t want to be there anymore. She wanted to leave the island and go home to Erik and Anders.
She stroked him across the cheek-a gesture that she regretted afterwards-and then walked quickly to her car, jumped in and drove off, leaving the farm and Edvard behind her. In the rearview mirror Edvard could be seen for a moment before his figure was blocked by stones and juniper shrubs.
Twenty-eight
He had dreamed about money. But mainly about Africa. And then not only about Miss Elly but so much more, the whole continent had streamed into his body like a pleasurable potpourri of beautiful images. Laughter and howls were heard in a landscape bathed in sun, where then twilight came creeping with coolness and surprisingly quickly everything was in shadow and darkness.
It was a good dream with many fine details, and a few that were funny. If he had been staying at the camp Christian and John would have listened to his account with great delight. They would have nodded energetically and persuaded Karsten to expand on the story. John would have giggled at his inimitable way when it came to Miss Elly and love. He loved to hear Karsten’s words about his “best sister,” as John had always called her.
Karsten got up to make breakfast and decide how he should organize the day, but the thoughts of Africa would not leave him in peace. Were John and Christian still at the camp or had other guides and trackers come, younger and faster? He did not want to believe that. No one could beat John where felines were concerned, and Christian knew everything about rhinoceroses.
He had coffee in a melancholy emotional state of joy and loss. Should he go back? Could he go back? The questions would come up now and then but so far he had rejected all thoughts of leaving Sweden. Now suddenly the idea of selling the little he owned, packing up and buying a one-way ticket, seemed fully feasible.
He did not want to live in Windhoek, but a little house in Shiwo he could probably find. Miss Elly’s relatives were there. They would welcome him with song and swallow him whole.
The money he set aside would perhaps be enough for the trip, a patch of ground and a house, but not much more. Miss Elly’s family would not hesitate a moment to support him, in reality they would demand to do so, but he did not want to live off of others, above all not those who were worse off than himself.
Karsten knew where this was heading. The image of the shoe box with money was burning on his retinas, in the dream the bundles had been his. He had been sitting on the veranda with the box at his feet conversing with his good friend Mr. Green, a thirty-centimeter-long lizard with a brown head and a shimmering green thorax that changed to turquoise toward the tail. His wife was an identical color, just as curious as her mate but careful and guarded in everything she undertook.
Mr. Green had let his tongue play-Karsten assumed that the lizard also sensed the smell of money-and approached slowly and sniffed at the shoe box. It had quite unexpectedly raised itself on its hind legs and leaned over the edge of the box and inspected the contents. And then something really unexpected happened. Mr. Green had seemed to sneer with his broad lizard mouth and triumphantly did a thumbs-up to his lizard wife as if to say: Here there are resources.
Karsten was awakened by his own laughter. Mr. Green had a talent for always putting him in a good mood. At times of melancholy and loneliness the lizard had been a friend to rely on.
Should he too do the thumbs-up? Should he take Mr. Green’s contented expression as a sign?
He finished breakfast in a quandary and with a growing sense of irritation. It was just past six o’clock in the morning so he did not need to feel stressed but hurried away anyway. He needed to leave the apartment, put his body to work, it was the only way to relieve the discomfort.
What remained at Lundquist’s was to cut down the birch tree on the front side and then clean up after himself. The birch was not particularly large but was in an awkward location. If he were to cut down the tree in one piece there would not be much room to spare, and there was a risk that it would fall over the fence toward the street, so he had decided to lop off the top first. For that maneuver he needed the ladder and was therefore forced to take the car and trailer.
He drove to the minimal storeroom in Boländerna where he stored his tools. He rented the storeroom from a sheet-metal shop. While he rooted among his things-there was no point in taking off too early-he heard the sheet-metal workers arrive. It was Hedlund and Oskarsson, as usual joking loudly with each other. Karsten became a little envious. The loneliness felt even stronger. He stopped a moment, stood quietly in the darkness of the shed and thought about Africa.
When the voices had died away he left the storeroom, unhitched the ladder from the hooks on the wall, and strapped it onto the trailer. He had already packed saw, oil, and fuel. It was time to finish the work in Kåbo.