Gerda Persson.
A woman, a mother. Not Elina but Gerda Persson. The name he had always been searching for.
‘As I said in my message, she named you as sole beneficiary in her will.’
He couldn’t speak. All his questions had stuck. For decades they had been practised for this very occasion, but now that it was here, no words would come out.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘The funeral is on the twelfth at 2.30. I’ve begun the preparations since I haven’t been able to get hold of any relatives, but of course I’d welcome your input, if you want to take care of it some other way.’
Gerda Persson. The name was taking up all the space.
Gerda.
Persson.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes, I’m here, that should be fine.’
‘Then there are a number of decisions that have to be taken with regard to her flat. Perhaps you’d like to go over there and see whether there’s anything you’d like to have before we clear it out?’
There was a long silence. Naturally he didn’t say a word, and the woman on the other end seemed to have a hard time going on without a response. When she finally spoke, her tone was different. Less formal and more candid.
‘I’m sorry to harp on about all the details, it really wasn’t my intention to be insensitive. I’m sorry for your loss. I presume you were close?’
He got up and went over to the window. Looked out over Katarina cemetery. Was he really ready for this, did he really want to know? Of course he wanted to know, this was what he’d always been waiting for. But what if the waiting had actually become more important than getting the answers? Everything had seemed so good the past few years. What would happen if all his assumptions were changed?
‘It’s like this, I-’
He stopped abruptly. For thirty-one years he had kept his mouth shut, and he now found it impossible to allow a stranger to be the first person he told.
‘It’s like this, we didn’t know each other.’
Now it was the woman on the other end who was silent, and he welcomed the pause.
Here in Stockholm. Had she been so close?
‘Okay… But you have been in touch?’
‘I don’t know.’
She said nothing, as if waiting for more. He realised that it would be fitting to say something, but he had nothing to add.
‘It’s a little odd,’ she said, ‘so I understand your surprise. But you must be the one she intended in the will. You do live in Katarina Västra Kyrkogata, care of Lundgren?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the information I have.’
‘But how could she know my address?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the only one with that name, and as long as you’re listed somewhere you wouldn’t be that hard to find.’
And in a flash he understood. The money each month. The small sum that had appeared since he turned eighteen, wherever he was, and which he at first thought was from his foster parents. But they had denied it after he’d left, when he once confronted them. The money that had not shown up this month.
Suddenly the word came down on him, the most shameful of all. Like a sharp glass shard it cut through all the evasive layers.
Foundling! You’re a foundling!
Whatever was found had been lost by someone. But you didn’t fasten little notes with instructions onto something that you lost by accident. It was deliberate.
He could feel something let go, and tears suddenly blurred his vision. He who never cried. With his hand over the mouthpiece he tried to collect himself; more tears fell and he sank deeper into the sofa. With all the self-control he could muster he tried to continue the conversation.
‘So you have no idea where she could have got my name?’
‘No, unfortunately. I can understand if it seems strange. I’ve gone through the personal records and I didn’t find you in her family. She was unmarried, had no children, and the only family I found was a childless sister, but she died back in the late fifties.’
Seconds passed; everything was swimming around. He straightened up.
‘How old was she, did you say?’
‘The sister?’
‘No, Gerda Persson.’
He heard her leafing through some papers.
‘She was born in 1914, so ninety-two.’
He grabbed a pen. There was something that didn’t add up. Ninety-two minus thirty-four was fifty-eight.
‘A woman couldn’t have a child at that age, could she?’
There was silence on the other end. Kristoffer realised to his dismay that all this dizziness had made him think out loud.
‘What?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘At the age of ninety-two? No, I don’t think so, even if science is discovering the most astounding things.’
Kristoffer cursed his clumsiness. She couldn’t find out, nobody must find out! Not before everything was cleared up and it was possible to excuse what they had done.
‘What happens next?’
‘You mean with regard to the inheritance itself?’
He had actually been thinking of something more important. How he could find out more about Gerda Persson and how she knew about his existence.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s not complicated. We can make an appointment to meet so that you can get some information about the estate, and then it’s up to you what you want to do. I can tell you about various alternatives, but first I have to arrange everything for the funeral. The flat and the rest will have to wait until afterwards. Perhaps you’d like to come?’
Four weeks left till his deadline. The play suddenly felt very far away.
‘Yes, maybe, thanks.’
‘We’ll talk more about things after the funeral. I’ve been in touch with the family who employed her as a housekeeper during her working life, and they’ve promised to help out with the funeral arrangements. It’s the Ragnerfeldt family, by the way. If you like, I can give you the phone number of the son in the family, Jan-Erik; he’s the one I talked to. If you’d like to ring him and ask a few questions, I mean. I did ask them if they knew of you. They said no, but at least you might be able to find out some more about Gerda Persson.’
He sat up in his chair. All the information was whirling past, seeking a foothold. He had an inheritance from Gerda Persson, and had finally found Mamma, but then hadn’t after all. Instead, he had inherited from Gerda Persson, whom he didn’t know and who was not his mother but who was probably the one who had been sending him money and knew that he existed, and then on the periphery there was Axel Ragnerfeldt. The greatest of the great. A man who almost didn’t seem real, he was so brilliant.
He jotted down the phone number for Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt, and they said goodbye. But to ring up the world-famous author’s son seemed inconceivable.
Because what would he say?
His confusion was still there. Even more questions than before had taken shape. But a possibility had also arisen. The gate to his hidden world was standing ajar, a little gap had been opened. He just wasn’t sure whether he actually dared go inside.
There was only one thing he was sure that he wanted.
To find an explanation that would bless him with the ability to forgive.
13
‘What the hell is this?’
Alice put down the crossword puzzle she was working on and looked at the piece of paper in Jan-Erik’s outstretched hand. Without ringing the bell he had let himself in with his own key. She had managed to feel glad that he had come. The feeling had lasted until he appeared in the doorway and she saw the expression on his face. With shoes and coat on he was now standing on the other side of the living room table. There was something threatening about him, a rage she had never seen before. His unusual behaviour made her nervous. She reached for the paper and he stood there looking at her, as if wanting to observe her reaction. With unwilling fingers she unfolded the paper. It took only a second for her to see what it was.