As a new immigrant to the big city she quickly discovered the places frequented by similar-minded people. Those with extravagant dreams and empty wallets whose genius would be discovered any day now. Those who considered themselves gifts to the world and whose distinctive characters would in future appear in cultural history; young women and men, lingering over glasses of beer or wine, artistic equals and presumptive bed companions. The war was over and the future one long avenue of possibilities. The restaurants Tennstopet, W6, Pilen and Löwet. They would spend every evening smoking Gauloises to compensate for not being in Paris, preferably near one of the tables where the journalists from the big dailies drowned their sorrows. Axel had been one of that crowd of young people, someone she hadn’t noticed at first. Nor had he shown any particular interest in her.
She got up and went to the refrigerator, checking she wasn’t out of milk. Jan-Erik always took milk in his coffee. She drank it black, a habit from the days when it was supposed to help her stay alert even though she was cross-eyed with fatigue. When the days were filled with hair and the nights with pounding on her portable Royal typewriter that she had bought in a second-hand shop for seventeen kronor. At least that was her routine until the angry landlady forbade her to use the noisy machine and forced her to write in longhand. The waste-paper basket filled up with crumpled pages and returned manuscripts from publishers and magazine editors. In the evenings anguish could be shared and diluted with red wine, only to reappear with the next rejected manuscript.
No replies came to her letters home, despite her reassurances that everything was going well. She received a single note from one of her older siblings, a printed greeting card with wishes for a Happy Christmas and New Year. When things were at their worst she sometimes wished she were back down on aching knees amongst the weeds in the turnip fields, or feeling the sweaty prickle of hay on the drying racks: tangible results of an honest day’s work instead of feeling her mind rambling on endlessly. She was just about to give up when it finally happened. A few sentences in a letter, proving that her literary turnip fields were cleared and the drying racks were ready.
She smiled at the memory, remembering how she strode into Tennstopet restaurant like a queen and announced that her novel had been accepted. She felt as if she were physically raised above the crowd. Her personal, meticulous choice of letter combinations had been judged as more skilful than those of all the others. Her door had opened, while the others were still knocking on theirs. The smiles – some honest and happy for her sake, but most of them filled with distrust. How could the world be blind to their greatness yet take notice of her insignificant scribblings? From across the table, Axel’s blue eyes had burned into hers, taking her breath away. He was the only one not smiling, not toasting and congratulating her. He just gave her a look that screamed that he wanted to have her. Have her right then, if only she would stop lowering herself to the level of the riffraff surrounding them and follow him out of there. The thought had been dizzying: for once to say to hell with all obligations and let herself be swept along; finally to live the life for which she was destined. After that evening they had made a pact. Art above all else. Together they would realise their dreams and give the world what it had always longed for; nothing would stand in their way. And with a passion that almost killed them they had set to work.
At first everything had been wonderful. Too good to be true. She recalled how she often had that very thought. As if all her childhood dreams about how things could be had come to pass. She wrote long letters home and told them all about it, no longer as compliant, but still she got no reply.
They stopped going out with the old crowd. Hidden from the world they gave themselves over to their creativity. She received a small advance from her publisher, and occasionally they managed to sell a poem or short article to some magazine, which made their scant income stretch a bit further. Through Axel’s contacts they were able to rent a little house with two rooms and kitchen just outside Stockholm. Each had a room with a desk and bed. Being a couple made them bold, and what before had felt lonely and vulnerable now became a bulwark against mediocrity; two co-conspirators wrapped up in their separate worlds but at night reunited in the heat of passion.
She sat down at the kitchen table again and stared at her coffee cup. It had been bought by Gerda some time in the seventies. Maybe she should tell that to the woman from the council so they could mention it at the funeral. Always something. She hadn’t taken much with her when she moved to the flat after Axel had his stroke. She had no idea why she’d brought the coffee cups along. She hadn’t been able to get away fast enough, and Jan-Erik and Louise were left to pack most of the things. Maybe this was the reason – the cups were quite ugly when she inspected them more closely.
She played with her wedding ring. Slid it down her finger and looked at the impression it had left. For fifty-four years she had worn it, and it had carved its way deeper and deeper into her finger. Just the two of them and a minister; no guests were invited, not even Axel’s parents. She knew he’d regretted it later, but since her parents refused to put in an appearance, his shouldn’t be there either. Fair’s fair.
Or that’s what he’d said back then.
In order to demonstrate their union they had both renounced their surnames and become united in the joint name ‘Ragnerfeldt’, the name that would bear their words out into the world. They both had novels published, first Alice and then Axel immediately after. Their new name became a constant on the arts pages. Their youth held the critics back, but more and more words of praise crept into the reviews. With genuine interest they participated in each other’s creations, following each other’s meandering thought processes, offering suggestions when needed and words of encouragement when things were going badly. After they both published a second novel, their affiliation was secured, but it brought higher expectations as well. Their books did not sell in great numbers, and they were utterly dependent on the publishers’ willingness to pay advances. The increased pressure made it harder for them to write. It had been so much easier to be new and to surprise people than it was to live up to expectations. They were both afflicted by writer’s block and retreated into their own work, becoming indifferent to the other’s. Fewer words were written when they met in the evening, and their reunion half-hearted since they both became mired in frustration over what had not been achieved. But even half-hearted seed is good enough to conceive a child. A year later they bought the house in Nacka, and Jan-Erik was born. Contact with their old friends ceased completely since their new bourgeois life in the wealthy suburb aroused only contempt or disinterest. And a new era began. Their creativity was hampered by wakeful nights and hazy days. The baby demanded new routines that conflicted with publishers’ expectations. Where mutual consideration had prevailed, it now became necessary to guard their own territory. The fictional characters of the novel suddenly invaded reality to compete with the shrieking baby who demanded constant attention. They were not content with the occasions that arose when Jan-Erik was sleeping, or with the scheduled writing times that they finally had to establish to avoid arguments. And then, like a preliminary solution, Gerda came into the picture. At least to remove all the dirt and take care of the cooking and other daily chores which had forced them into a situation that left not the slightest room for creativity.