Named as sole beneficiary in a will.
As long as he could remember, he had been afraid of the dark. He always slept with a light on when nobody else was around. Terror gripped him whenever what was revealed by the light disappeared into the dark; he had fantasies about what took shape when he could no longer see. Right now the room lay in darkness. Only the stubborn blinking from the closed lid of his laptop shone at regular intervals, pulsating like visual heartbeats. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t called anyone, hadn’t done anything at all. Just sat there motionless, trying to decide what to feel.
Biding his time.
He had always waited. And yet he was incapable of pressing down the numbers on the telephone. Like a magic formula they would transport him to the desired place, the place he had always dreamt of, though he knew nothing about it.
Who would he be transformed into once he did arrive?
His ego had been formed on two foundations. One was everything that it was possible to see, everything tangible with which he could have a relationship. The second consisted of what had always been out of reach, the hidden world where he belonged but to which he had always lacked access. Who was he? Why was he the way he was? Did he have any genetic traits? What had been affected by what?
Who was it who had once chosen his name?
And then the fundamental question, the one he’d carried with him like an invisible stigma: why had he been abandoned?
The missing answers had become a part of his identity. Time after time he had been forced to invent his background, altering details when the old ones had worn out, adapting it to new demands.
All the conversations he’d been forced to listen to; about hopeless parents and insufferable family get-togethers, Christmases that had to be endured and family squabbles about weeks of holiday in summer cabins that were a shared inheritance. Bitter battles, broken family relations and sick parents who required time-consuming care. He had always hidden behind the claim that his parents were dead. Someone had even had the bad taste to express envy because he had the freedom to do as he pleased without having to be subjected to a guilty conscience.
All around him was emptiness. Everyone else he knew was anchored to a clear chain in which the links could be followed. But he hovered freely with nothing holding him. He dreamt of finding the chain that was his, the one that would become whole when the missing link was finally rediscovered.
Kristoffer had been about four years old when he moved in with his foster family. Apparently they had handled the situation as well as they could. They had answered his questions to the best of their ability, but what could they say when there were no answers to give? The police investigation had produced no result. He had only been able to give a first name for his mamma, and everyone named Elina had been contacted with no result. He had never named a pappa.
At ten years old his foster parents had taken him to Stockholm and showed him the steps at Skansen. He got to meet the guard who had found him, who had never been able to forget the experience. But none of the questions Kristoffer asked him had produced an acceptable answer.
Sometimes a vague sensation would float by, a second-long feeling rather than a memory. Always torn out of its context, squeezed in between dim and incomprehensible thoughts.
He had created his own truth for himself, convinced that his real parents would soon show up. Overjoyed at finally finding him again, they would take him home to his real life, away from the life where he was simply waiting. They would explain how crushed they had been, how a horrible witch had locked them in a tower and refused to let them go. How they finally in spite of difficult hardships managed to escape, prepared to do anything to see him again. Over the years his fantasies had developed and the explanations became less like fairy tales, but the feeling that he was living in a temporary situation had never left him. He decided that it wasn’t worth immersing himself in anything, since at any moment he would have to start over.
If only they would show up some day.
If he just held his breath until that car had passed, then they would show up soon. If he peeled the tangerine in one piece, then they would show up soon. If a man and a woman got on the bus at the next stop, then they would show up soon. As he approached each corner he would hope, and in every crowd he would search for his own facial features. He would stand for hours in front of the mirror. He memorised every detail of his face. Sometimes just for an instant he thought he saw someone else, one of the two unknown people who lived inside his body.
His relationship to his adoptive parents had been quite distant. They had done everything to win his trust, but he had never been interested. In secret he had even despised their ingratiating behaviour, the way they would back off instead of restricting his freedom to act. Sometimes he had even seen fear in their eyes, when he flatly refused to obey their wishes, although sometimes he did it out of sheer obstinacy. They were and would remain intruders in a space intended for others, and when he turned eighteen he left home and broke off all contact.
In January 2005 he had read their names in the paper in a list of missing persons after the tsunami in Khao Lak. He hadn’t felt anything in particular.
He got up and turned on the desk lamp. The note was still lying on the sofa and his whole being was conscious of its existence. His mobile lay next to the keyboard, and he was just about to pick it up when the intercom buzzed. The unexpected sound made him jump; nobody should be coming unannounced. He decided to ignore it; he didn’t want any visitors, not right now when everything was upside down. The next moment his mobile rang. It was Jesper. Not now, he thought. The ringtone stopped abruptly and then there was a beep for a voicemail message.
‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m standing in the street outside your front door, because I thought I’d ask if you could do me a favour and take some pictures of me. I’ve got a camera with me. I think I’ve solved the problem with the book promotion. Call me as soon as you hear this. Bye.’
Kristoffer deleted the message and pressed recall. Then he stopped and put down the mobile. Not a very nice thing to do, but these were special circumstances. Jesper would understand. Sometime in the future he’d explain. Besides, Jesper had sounded happier this time. No longer so gloomy.
Somebody had died. Maybe it was all too late. He sat back down on the sofa. Got up again, went out to the kitchen, drank some water out of the tap, turned and went back into the living room. He wanted a drink. Just a little one to get up the courage to dial the number. He brushed aside the thought, drove it off, but could feel how it stayed close by in case he changed his mind. He clenched his fist and smacked himself on the forehead, trying to pound in the courage he was lacking, and went back to the kitchen. He had to do it, he had to decide to do it right now, before he had a chance to change his mind. Resolutely he went back to the living room, picked up his mobile and went over to the sofa. Sat down and began to dial, put the phone to his ear, got up again. Seconds passed. Maybe the last seconds of his life as it had always been. Then an unfamiliar voice.
‘Marianne Folkesson.’
‘Yes, hello, this is Kristoffer Sandeblom. I got your message on my answer machine but I’ve had my phone off for a few days. That’s why I didn’t ring earlier, because I’ve just played your message.’
A little pause followed his speech. The nervousness had made him ramble. He sank back on the sofa.
‘How nice of you to call. Yes, I’m the estate administrator for the county council, and I’ve been looking for you because Gerda Persson has unfortunately passed away.’
He could feel the rhythm of his heart. In his fingers holding the phone, in his thighs resting on the sofa. A regular pulse in his head.