Greta started laughing loudly and uncontrollably. Everyone stared at her. Suddenly she fell silent and covered her face with her hands.
“I only meant well,” said Birgitta.
Liisa reached over, took the bundle of money, and tossed it down into her bag that was on the floor.
“You didn’t at all,” said Agnes, who was still furious. “You want to create dependence, gratitude, and guilt. That’s your tune.”
Liisa put her arm around her partner. Otherwise she had been strangely quiet and not said a word. That surprised Agnes, because otherwise the Finnish woman would be in control, inciting Birgitta with acid comments.
“Whores!” Greta screamed suddenly. “Get out! I know what you go in for.”
“Greta, calm down. They’ll go now.”
But Agnes was speaking to deaf ears, because her sister went on.
“I’ve heard enough! You’re going to protect Bertram for… and now you’re going to buy silence but-”
“I think you should keep quiet about whoredom,” Liisa interrupted in her iciest voice. “And silence is good for all of us. Isn’t it?”
Agnes did not understand a thing, other than there was something ugly and dreadful here. There was a wild animal lying in wait here. Here was Greta’s worry.
“Go now,” she said.
They left. The sound of their car faded away. Greta left the kitchen. The clock in the parlor struck four. Agnes sank down on a chair. She heard her sister’s desperate weeping but was not able to get up, could not manage any more stress. It felt as if everything was her fault.
Thirty-eight
Ann Lindell was standing in front of an open grave, a pit down into the darkness, where the lid of the casket had just disappeared. It was raining, which is as it should be. There was a cold wind from Öresundsgrepen.
The cemetery was very close to the ferry landing and there was scraping and creaking as the clumsy ferry docked. She heard the heavy thud as the steel plate clattered against the abutment on land and how the cars drove off. Somehow she thought it was wrong. Shouldn’t the island have stopped for a while when its oldest inhabitant was being buried?
Ann could not feel any sorrow that paralyzed her inside. Viola had lived almost a century. On the other hand she felt very melancholy. She was taking leave of a person she had liked very much, almost revered, for her great wisdom and warmth.
Edvard Risberg took a step back and placed himself beside her. He had been one of the pallbearers. It was strange to see him in a dark suit. He looked official in a way that was unlike him. He was aware of that. He seemed ill at ease. His face was closed.
It felt as if she was also burying her old life. After this she would never return to the island. He surely sensed that, which explained the weight in his face. He wanted her back, she knew that. His wordless, austere attitude, which in the beginning of their acquaintance she was attracted by, now stood out as only gloomy and oppressive.
The last lines in the story about Ann and Edvard were written in lower-case letters. There was no showdown, no harsh words were exchanged. Before, she would have feared his anger and been lost in shame. She had overcome that. Not completely, and definitely not when she was on the island, but enough to be able to reason with herself and not wallow in destructive self-contempt.
She sneaked a glance at him. He had aged, the wrinkles in his face had deepened, but he still had an energy that radiated. Even in a black suit in a cemetery. She did not understand why he wasn’t living with a woman. Perhaps there would be a change now when Viola had departed this life.
The ceremony at the grave was blessedly brief. Ann was so cold she was shaking. The group of funeral attendees, perhaps a hundred, slowly broke up. Ann nodded at Agnes and Greta Andersson. They had exchanged a few words earlier. Ann felt how they were keeping an eye on her and Edvard, certainly curious whether they could spot a somewhat more intimate contact between them.
“I wish she had been my mother,” Ann said suddenly.
Edvard did not say anything, perhaps due to the fact that his two sons were approaching. Ann placed herself in front of Edvard, pushed her arms around his body, and gave him a hug. He responded by putting his arms around her and squeezing. They stood like that a couple of seconds. Ann closed her eyes.
When she released her hold tears were running down her cheeks. God how I loved that man, she thought, and felt an impulse to strike at him, throw herself forward and pound on his chest.
She turned around and headed for the parking area. Never again Gräsö. She would make it to the ferry that was waiting.
Thirty-nine
Ten days passed before worrying made him call. There was something wrong. Not only in the flower bed and the fact that the bicycle still stood leaning against Lundquist’s wall. A planting can be unsuccessful or sloppily done and a bicycle can be left behind, but that Haller should wait so long to be in touch was not likely.
It was not just the books that the gardener promised to stop by with but more the hope the associate professor had seen in Haller’s eyes.
Haller had radiated loneliness, expressed in a kind of resigned nonchalance and evasive insinuations. He himself had taken his share, but hit back. But the associate professor had also glimpsed something else entirely, a kind of eagerness to be friendly and accommodating, which surely stemmed from the joy of having found someone like-minded.
They were two lonely men with a common interest. Chance had brought them together. Both had seen the possibilities of a friendship. Would Haller frustrate that now by staying away, break his promise about “the duplicates”? The associate professor did not think so. That was why he called the police.
The woman who took his report was very polite, asked questions, and little by little as he explained what had happened she acquired a sympathetic tone in her voice. It sounded as if she shared his worry. The associate professor, who to start with expressed himself cautiously, careful not to stand out as a senile and curious old man, became more forthcoming.
He told how he perceived Haller as an extremely lonely person. Sympathetic and social, but lonely. He put great weight on the flower bed, that a professional would never plant that way. To the question of why the plants were planted so amateurishly the associate professor could not give an answer, other than that Haller must have been very confused.
They talked for perhaps twenty minutes. Then he went up to his tower, satisfied with himself, happy about the conversation. The police had encouraged him to contact the neighbor to find out if he had had any contact with the gardener. But the associate professor was doubtful. Perhaps that was too obviously sticking his nose into other people’s business.
The bicycle was still there. He had only caught a glimpse of Lundquist once since then. He probably did not care that the wintergreen had been planted wrong. But the bicycle, didn’t he wonder about that? That made him decide to contact Lundquist.
Just as he took out the phone book it struck him that he had not thought about calling Haller himself. The policewoman had not said anything about that either, perhaps she assumed that he had tried to reach him by phone but failed. He looked up his name. There were not many Hallers. Karsten lived not far away, on Artillerigatan. Within walking distance, thought the associate professor.
After a moment’s hesitation he dialed the number. It rang ten times before he hung up. He looked up the neighbor’s number. Lundquist answered after two rings. The associate professor told him how it was, that he was worried. There was no reason to beat around the bush. Lundquist did not seem to be the type who appreciated small talk.