Most things had been left in place after Axel’s stroke, when his mother felt that she could leave the house at last and move into the city. Some of the paintings and most of Axel’s literary prizes, the ones he had received from near and far and which had stood on all the window niches and bookshelves, were now in storage somewhere safe until it was decided what to do with the house. The items that had been removed had left empty spaces behind, giving the house a desolate feeling. The walls were full of mournful borders, left by pictures that had been removed.
He lingered in what they called the library. Dark brown, built-in bookshelves teeming with literature. And yet they were insufficient; the books had escaped from the room and spread like a plague throughout the house with constant demands for new shelves. He hadn’t read a fraction of them, and to be honest he hadn’t even been particularly interested. Or else his indifference may have been a cautious protest, he didn’t know. But he did know that each book represented sacrifices demanded from the family and friends of the author so that it could be written. And nothing else had mattered.
In the room was a framed photograph of Annika. In a gap in the row of books it stood wedged in next to a white porcelain figurine, a little boy who lay resting against a dog. Jan-Erik went over and took down the small frame. He rubbed his sleeve over the dusty glass. She was ten years old in the picture, with five years left to live. Her hair was in pigtails and she was smiling at the camera. He missed her, often wondering how everything would have been if she were still alive. She still felt so familiar, like a part of him; only no one could see her. In appearance she was always twelve years old, the way she was the last time he had seen her. But in his mind she had aged along with him. Or else it could be that in his internal conversations with her he was still back in the time when she was alive. What a person had shared with a sibling could never be transferred to anyone else. It was a relationship built on common experiences, the fact that they were in such close proximity during the stage of life when they had no choice of their own. The fact that they were marked by the same environment. Sometimes he would even type her name into Google to see if there were any others besides him who remembered her. He never got any hits.
She was fifteen years old when she was run over. The driver of the car had never come forward. He didn’t know many details, because it had happened while he was abroad.
With the photograph in his hand he sank into one of the library armchairs. He stroked his finger over her face. He should never have left her alone.
At first it had all been like a dream, too good to be true – he had received a scholarship. His tennis coach, who recognised his talent, had helped him with the formalities. Without him saying a word at home, the application had been sent in and accepted. For three years he would study at a college in Florida and be part of the school’s successful tennis team. Everything had been arranged when he had proudly come home to tell them. He had imagined the scene, how at the dinner table when everyone was gathered together he would take out the letter and pass it around. How he would silently read the astonished reactions on their faces. How his father would be ashamed that he hadn’t understood, and regret that he had never come to watch a match. And finally he would realise that his son had his own rare talent, despite his inability to see poetry in the simplest objects. Unlike his father Jan-Erik was the type who simply saw a dustbin when he saw a dustbin, and not a ‘vessel for unwanted memories’. And there had been a reaction, but not the one he had imagined. His mother congratulated him and then took another gulp of wine, which was to be expected. But his father’s reaction he could not have predicted, not from this man who had never before cared. Sports were not something for intellectuals, Jan-Erik was informed; one might devote oneself to sports in order to keep the body in shape, to oxygenate the blood and thus facilitate the flow of knowledge. Tennis was a sport for the upper class, for spoilt rich kids, and he certainly hoped that his son was not turning into one of them.
Jan-Erik had sat there silent, incapable of matching his wild hopes with what was actually happening.
His mother got up from the table and glared at her husband.
‘You’re an idiot and you know it,’ she said.
Then she refilled her wine glass and went upstairs. Annika followed right behind her. Alone, father and son finished dinner in indignant silence.
Several days passed, and for the first time he had dared take up the fight. In his seventeenth year he had finally opened hostilities. At first timidly, but after daring a few times he had begun to enjoy being able to slam doors, stomp up the stairs and in wrath say whatever he liked. He remembered Annika, the way she had sometimes slunk along the walls. He had no memory of his mother’s actions during the war. Only the eternal dressing gown, which she wore more and more often. And Gerda’s nervous comments – ‘He only wants what’s best for you’ and ‘Is it really worth all this?’ And then the resolution, which on his father’s part was a concession. Of course he could go to America if he wanted to, Axel had even arranged everything for him with the help of his contacts. American Field Service had a student exchange programme with the objective of promoting understanding, contact and friendly relations between students from Europe and the United States. It was a context in which a Ragnerfeldt belonged, and the tickets were already booked.
At that moment Jan-Erik had realised for the first time how much he hated his father, and staying in the house had seemed impossible. A month later he had left, his own plans defeated and travelling on his father’s tickets. He ended up in a little dump of a town in the Midwest, living with a conservative middle-class family with Christian values. The Vietnam War was raging, and the family stood wholeheartedly behind their president. He himself had not been very involved. But around Christmas in 1972, being Swedish was enough to land him in the opposition camp. The prime minister Olof Palme had criticised the United States and compared the continuous bombing of North Vietnam to Hitler’s attacks during the Second World War. In a rage President Nixon had refused to receive the new Swedish ambassador. Jan-Erik had done his best to be accepted anyway. He had devotedly assimilated American culture and set a new personal record for adaptation.
He jumped when his phone rang. The sudden sound in the empty house frightened him. It was Louise’s number; she was ringing from the shop. He hesitated, wanting to let it ring and have the voicemail pick it up, but he knew that wasn’t a good solution. He had used that trick too many times before.
‘Jan-Erik.’
‘It’s me.’ He didn’t want anything from her so he said nothing.
‘Where are you?’
‘At the house. I’m looking for a photo of Gerda Persson.’
‘How’d it go with your father?’
‘Same as usual. No improvement, at any rate.’
‘When are you coming home?’
She sounded different from that morning. He could almost imagine that they were having a normal conversation in which one could say anything that came into one’s mind rather than having to screen things out.
‘I have to look for that photo. I don’t know how long it will take, I just got here.’
‘Are you coming home after that?’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause.
‘You know, I just want to say that I’m glad we had that talk this morning, even though it was hard. I think something good can come out of it.’
He said nothing.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that. I’ll see you later then.’
‘Sure. Bye.’