Sixty-three years later he still didn’t know whether he had done the right thing. He had followed his conviction, but with the years his perspective had changed. A nagging guilt had become his companion, constantly driving him forward. No matter how much fame he acquired, it would never sink in. He could stand and look at his books and all his fine prizes, but he had never been able to feel any pride. They were and remained mere mileposts that he needed to surpass.
And all his life he had felt uneasy every time he was unlucky enough to meet an engineer.
Young people believed there was a goal in life. He had believed it himself; on that particular day he had believed it, believed it blindly, when in spite of his parents’ annihilating disappointment he had set off to write his book. And he had written his book. And he had become an author. And he had realised that life was an infinite journey. The redemptive goal had always turned out to be a new starting point by the time he managed to get there. It wasn’t possible to reach any goal. Only an end. And when he finally arrived, much like before, so many things had forever been left too late.
He woke up when it was suddenly silent and realised that he’d fallen asleep for a moment. With a rustling sound Jan-Erik was folding up the newspaper.
‘I have to get going now. I’ll swing by the house and see if I can find a picture of Gerda Persson. She died about a week ago and they want one for the funeral.’
All of a sudden he was wide-awake. His eyes flew open. The name had taken him straight into the nooks and crannies of his mind.
‘I thought I’d see if I could find something. You probably know if there’s something in your office, don’t you? Maybe in the cupboard where you saved everything over the years?’
He was having heart palpitations. Gerda was gone and he ought to feel grateful. Evidently she had remained loyal to the end. Now there was only one person left who could obliterate his life’s work. If he was still alive. As long as Axel had been able to talk it would have been both of them dragged through the mud if the truth had come out. But since the stroke not a day had passed without his thinking of that man’s name and what he might be capable of doing.
And then there was the cupboard in his office, where things were kept that nobody must see. He had begun to clean it out shortly before he had the stroke, suddenly aware of the insanity of keeping those things. Perhaps his unconscious had been warning him that time was growing short. But he hadn’t finished. He wondered whether the rubbish bag was still there or whether Jan-Erik had thrown it out by now. He hoped so. Even more he hoped that Torgny Wennberg was dead. The Devil himself in human form. If only these two wishes were fulfilled, the name Axel Ragnerfeldt would for ever be allowed to retain its radiance.
Then it would all have been worth the effort.
10
The Rector’s Sports Prize in the municipal school district, 1967. Silently he whispered the words to himself and felt an expansive, bright joy spread through his body. He, Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt, had won, and it would be announced in the school’s assembly hall in the presence of pupils, teachers and parents. The choir would sing and the rector would give a speech, and in the middle of the school’s spring concert he was the one who would be called up on stage to receive the cup and a diploma.
Now only the hardest challenge remained, to make sure his father was in the hall when the solemn event took place.
He sat at the kitchen table eating a salami sandwich.
‘Now eat so that you grow big and strong, and if you want more bread it’s in the tin.’
Gerda stood at the worktop preparing meatballs for the following day. She cracked an egg on the edge of a stainless- steel bowl, and her hands began kneading the mincemeat. As so often before she hummed some melody that Jan-Erik didn’t recognise. But he had enough to do with working out a solution to the dilemma occupying his thoughts.
‘Where’s your sister? Doesn’t she want an evening snack?’
‘She’s probably in her room.’
‘I most certainly am not.’ A hand appeared in the corner behind the wood-stove that was no longer used, and the next moment Annika came creeping out.
‘I declare, so there you are. You fooled me again.’
Gerda gave a long laugh as if she found it an extremely amusing trick, even though Annika was most often to be found in that space behind the stove, which she had fixed up as a little house.
‘Well, I told you.’
Jan-Erik smiled at Gerda. It was so odd such things amused her – things that nobody else ever laughed at. Both he and Annika loved being in the kitchen. Partly because it was far enough away from their father’s office that they didn’t have to keep their voices down, but also because there was something comforting about Gerda. As long as no other grown- up was in the vicinity. As soon as one of their parents was present she changed and laughed as little as all the others in the house.
Someone rang the doorbell. Three short rings. It was Gerda’s task to answer it, but right now her hands were full of the sticky meat.
‘Go and get the door, Annika, if you would.’
Annika vanished down the hall. Jan-Erik heard at once who it was, and all hope was extinguished. Now the evening would turn to night before he had a chance to ask his father.
Annika came dashing back into the kitchen and crawled in behind the stove. In the next instant Torgny Wennberg appeared in the doorway with his overcoat on, hat in hand.
‘Hello, all, I see you’re cooking. What sort of delicacy is it this time?’
‘It’s just some meatballs. I’ll tell him you’re here.’
Gerda went to the sink with her gooey hands.
‘No, no, don’t let me interrupt. I can knock on the door myself.’
And then he was gone. Jan-Erik wondered why a stranger who didn’t even live in the house was allowed to do something that nobody else could do. Knock on the door while his father was working. The next moment he realised that now was his chance, now that the door would be opened even if it wasn’t for him. As fast as he could he ran through the house to get there before it was too late. Torgny Wennberg was still standing at the door when he arrived.
‘Yes?’ came a voice from the other side of the door.
Torgny opened it and went in. Jan-Erik sneaked up and stood just outside the threshold.
‘Well, hello there, Torgny, so it’s you coming to bother me.’
‘I thought you might need a little inspiration on a Tuesday evening.’
Smiles and handshakes, and then his father caught sight of him.
‘Did you want something, Jan-Erik?’
‘Yes, I just wanted to ask you something.’
‘It’ll have to wait, I have a visitor now, as you can see. Go and ask your mother or Gerda.’
He closed the door firmly.
Jan-Erik was sitting in the armchair in the living room. From there he had a view of the door to the office, and he hadn’t left the room in two hours. Three times his mother had passed by, each time asking what he was doing. Nothing special, he’d replied, and she’d looked at him as though she thought he was lying. Now it was almost bedtime and the door still hadn’t opened. Everything would be ruined if his father didn’t come. Now that he finally had something to show him.