‘It’s swollen. The right calf. Can’t you see it?’
She pointed. He kept his eyes on the linoleum and tried to hide how disgusted he was. She released her trouser legs and let them drop over her calves. Then she reached for a newspaper clipping on the table. Triumphantly she handed it to him. He straightened up and scanned the text.
‘But you’ve already had your kidneys checked, and they didn’t find anything wrong.’
‘That was four months ago. I can feel that there’s something wrong now. Everything matches with that list. See for yourself. Headache in the morning, fatigue, itching, swollen legs. I know something is wrong.’
He turned round and went to put the bag of buns on the worktop.
‘I made an appointment at the Sophia Clinic,’ she said.
With his back to her he closed his eyes. He knew what another doctor’s visit would mean: the brave attempts by the staff to conceal their irritation over Alice Ragnerfeldt’s constant demands for new examinations, which took away time from the patients who were really sick.
‘Shall I put on some coffee?’
‘It’s in the thermos. The appointment’s on the eleventh at 8.50 in the morning. Can you drive me there?’
He took out three cups and three plates from the cupboard.
‘I’ll have to check my diary.’
He had intended to finish the sentence by saying that otherwise they’d have to ask Louise, but he was instantly back to the morning’s conversation. The mere thought of her gave him heart palpitations.
‘Otherwise we’ll probably have to ask Louise,’ she said. ‘But I’d rather have you drive me.’
He didn’t answer, just opened the bag and took out the buns.
‘Where’s your cake tray?’
Marianne Folkesson buzzed the intercom at exactly the appointed time. During the minutes that had passed between the cake tray and the intercom, they had discussed a mouldy smell underneath the bathtub. Alice claimed that it appeared every time water ran down the drain, and that her sore hip started bothering her when she tried to clean it. Jan-Erik had once tried to convince his mother that he should arrange for some cleaning help for her, but as usual she wouldn’t hear of it. She didn’t want some stranger snooping through her belongings. She thought all she needed was for Jan-Erik and Louise to help out with what she couldn’t manage by herself. After all, they did live so close by.
Alice was sitting on the sofa in the living room when Jan-Erik let in Marianne Folkesson. He guessed she was about his own age, maybe a year or two older. Not bad-looking, but a bit too old for his taste. Anyway, his hunting grounds never encroached on territory occupied by his family.
Alice remained seated as they shook hands, watching discreetly. Jan-Erik invited Marianne to have a seat in one of the armchairs and served her coffee. His mother put a hand over her cup when the thermos came near. It had been difficult to convince her to attend this meeting. She didn’t think there was any reason for them to get involved in Gerda Persson’s passing. But he was more ambivalent. Naturally he had said yes when Marianne asked him, but there was a certain discomfort stirring in the shadows. Gerda belonged to a past time that he would prefer to leave undisturbed. The house that now stood empty was just as they had left it, but it still required attention and upkeep. The decision about its fate had been postponed with the excuse that his father was still alive. Sell it, turn it into a museum, move in there themselves – there were many options. It was a wonderful house. Built in 1906 with nine rooms and two kitchens, one on each floor. Three thousand square metres and within walking distance of the water. When Jan-Erik had moved back from the States, he had found his parents living on separate floors. He’d always had a feeling that it was because of Annika’s death, but like so much else he had never asked. After the car crash her bedroom had been converted into Alice’s kitchen. His parents had successfully done their best to avoid running into each other, except on public occasions when they presented themselves as a couple welded together, or at an occasional family dinner with Jan-Erik and Louise. But they never did get divorced. That was simply not done in the Ragnerfeldt family.
During Jan-Erik’s childhood Gerda Persson had been the only person in the house who could always be counted on. She didn’t say much, but there was a sanctuary in her silence. He knew it was safe and would not suddenly explode.
Marianne took a little sip of her coffee.
‘I’d like to begin by saying that naturally I’ve read all of Axel Ragnerfeldt’s books. They’re really quite wonderful. Please tell him that from me and thank him for all the amazing reading experiences.’
‘Oh yes, we most certainly shall do that. I’m sure he’ll be extremely thrilled.’
Jan-Erik glared at his mother and cleared his throat loudly when he saw the crimson on Marianne’s cheeks.
‘Pappa has suffered a massive stroke, and we don’t really know how much he understands of what we tell him. That’s all that Mamma meant.’
‘I see. How sad, truly sad. I didn’t know that.’
Jan-Erik hoped that the look he’d given his mother would keep her quiet. Marianne took out a black notebook and pen from her bag.
‘In any case, I’m here in my capacity as estate administrator first to try and track down any of Gerda Persson’s relatives who might be entitled to her inheritance. Secondly, I’m here to arrange her funeral if no one else shows up to do so, and so far no one has. Do you know if she had any family?’
Jan-Erik left that question to his mother. He had no idea.
‘No. I don’t know very much about Gerda Persson. I haven’t had any contact with her since the early eighties. I should think there must be someone else who is better suited to answer these questions.’
‘Yes, that may be true. Unfortunately it’s not always the case, and then we have to make the best of the situation.’ Marianne was fighting back.
Jan-Erik felt even more depressed about the way the conversation was going. Alice stroked her hand over the burgundy velvet sofa cushion. He had never got used to seeing all this furniture here in the flat. It belonged at home on the top floor of the house in Nacka, and no matter how much he had helped her move it around, it still looked lost here. As if the furniture longed for home and refused to settle in.
‘She was from Öland originally, I think, or maybe it was Kalmar. At any rate I know she had a sister, but she died in the late fifties, I believe it was. You were still small then.’
Jan-Erik nodded.
‘I remember that she took a week off to take care of the funeral. Her sister was also unmarried, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘But no other siblings that you know of?’
The tip of Marianne’s pen rested on a line in the black notebook.
‘No, none that she mentioned, at least.’
‘And no children?’
‘No.’
Marianne shifted position and leafed through some pages.
‘I got one response to the death notice in the paper, a Torgny Wennberg who said he would come to the funeral.’
‘Torgny Wennberg?’
His mother’s voice was marked by suspicion.
‘Yes. Did you know him?’
Alice snorted. ‘I wouldn’t say I know him. He was a detestable man who constantly came to visit Axel to bask in his glory. He had managed to get a few novels published that no one read, but he thrived on hobnobbing with more successful authors. Although what he should have to do with Gerda I have no idea; I didn’t even know they knew each other. Of course they probably ran into each other when he came to the house, but that was more than thirty years ago.’
Jan-Erik remembered him. A reddish-brown beard and a big horsey laugh that didn’t sound natural. Muttered voices behind the closed door of his father’s office and from time to time that laugh. And oddly enough, sometimes laughter even from his father who seldom participated in that kind of manifestation of joy. The laughter always came more often as the evening wore on.