He looked at her. Almost twenty-five years had passed.
He had been so convinced that neither of them would ever again have to feel lonely.
An impulse made him reach out his hand and place it gently on her arm. In astonishment she looked at his hand as if she didn’t know what it was. Then she put her hand on his and they sat there, two lost souls who had given up all hope of finding their way home.
At what moment does the process begin? When does the first flake fall that will form the snowball? At what stage does the movement start? Was it the day when he secretly chose the linguistic path, or when he wrote his first book? Was it signing the papers for the house, or the first night they chose to sleep without touching each other? Was it all the years of frustration, or the moment he accepted the invitation to the Book Day event in Västerås? Or was it not until the moment when he let himself be seduced?
By now everything had been in motion for a long time.
There was an hour left until what they thought was theirs would be lost for ever.
23
The pizzas had remained untouched in their cartons, which were still lying on the landing. Kristoffer was sitting on an uncomfortable Windsor chair in the single room of the flat. The alternative had been to sit down next to Torgny on the unmade bed. There were piles of newspapers, empty glasses, dirty clothes, overflowing ashtrays and things that had been left wherever they’d been put down. Everything he saw seemed filthy and old, and it was clearly a long time since anyone had tried to put the room in order.
With long pauses their conversation had stumbled along; both of them were too overwrought to be able to complete a logical train of thought. Most of what was said had come from Kristoffer’s lips, a result of Torgny asking whether it was his mother who had sent him. He had told him the truth, finding no reason to lie under the circumstances. It had been easier this time to talk in detail about his life. About steps inside the entrance to the amusement park. About the fact that he didn’t remember anything from his first years, and that he’d always wondered who his parents were and why he’d been abandoned. Torgny sighed and went to fetch two beers. Kristoffer said that he didn’t want one. The spectacle of Torgny and his home made abstinence easy.
It could have been him if his character had been any weaker.
Halina.
His mother’s name was Halina.
Not Elina as they thought the four-year-old had said. Two letters had made all the difference. A tiny misunderstanding that meant the police had never been able to locate her.
Torgny sat down on the bed again, dazed. He lit a cigarette. Kristoffer shook his head when Torgny held out the packet to him.
He sat staring at an oil painting. In this context it looked like a captured peacock in a junk-shop. He tried to avoid looking at anything except the face, but his gaze kept sliding along the naked female body. Lying indolently with her head resting on one hand and the other half-heartedly hiding her crotch.
He had found his mother.
He didn’t want to see her like this.
He dropped his eyes and blushed.
‘You can see for yourself how much you look alike.’
Torgny looked at the painting, and although Kristoffer knew that his eyes must have wandered over her naked body an infinite number of times, he still wanted to ask him to stop. He wanted to cover her up, take her down and turn the painting to face the wall.
‘It was your father who painted it, the swine. But he could certainly paint.’
Kristoffer didn’t know whether he could stand hearing any more. It was dizzying, like standing at the edge of a cliff. Utterly unprepared he had trudged up the stairs with his pizza cartons, and now he was sitting in a flat that looked like a crack den and was expected to absorb the precious information he had always sought.
‘So she left you at Skansen… Jesus.’
Torgny heaved a sigh and shook his head, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and a swig of beer.
‘If only I had known.’
Kristoffer sat in silence.
‘So you don’t remember living here when you were little?’
Kristoffer looked around.
‘Here?’
‘Yes, until January 1975. That was when she packed her bags and left. Since then I haven’t heard a word.’
‘But she didn’t leave me at Skansen until May the tenth.’
Torgny seemed not to be listening. Or else the information made no difference. He took a few gulps of beer.
‘If you knew how I searched for you. I just about turned half the city upside down trying to find the two of you, but nobody knew a thing. I found some weird commune where you apparently lived for a month or so, but they didn’t know where you’d gone after that. They couldn’t keep her there since she was ill, they said, although they seemed screwier to me than she ever was. It was all that sodding seventies new age crap and shit. But she could be really strange when she didn’t take her medicine. You could see it in her eyes, like somebody threw a switch or something. Something that had never bothered her before would make her crazy the next time you did it. In the morning she’d be like a pitiful little bird, asking me to promise never to leave her, then in the afternoon she would be screaming that she hated me. It wasn’t always easy to cope with.’
He lowered his eyes and plucked at the pull-tab on the beer can.
‘But Christ, I really loved her.’
He sniffed and wiped his hand across his face. Then he got up and went over to the bookshelf, searched for a moment and pulled out a book.
‘This one is about her; it’s the last book I ever wrote. After that there weren’t any more.’
Torgny stubbed out his cigarette in a filthy ashtray and handed the book to Kristoffer.
He read the cover: The Wind Whispers Your Name. A picture of a woman turned away.
He turned over the book and read the blurb on the back cover.
George is a bitter, middle-aged man who has given up hope of finding love. When he meets Sonja he is forced to re-evaluate his view of life, since this powerful love leaves him no choice. But Sonja is carrying dark memories that slowly take over their lives…
With uncanny authenticity Torgny Wennberg depicts a man’s downfall after the end of a love affair. In the powerful portrait of George and Sonja he paints a gripping portrait of the difficult art of being human.
‘You can have it if you want. I know how it ends.’
Torgny gave a little smile and raised the beer can to his lips but discovered it was empty. He crushed the can and dropped it on the floor, picking up the one he had offered to Kristoffer.
‘Maybe she took her own life. She threatened to do it sometimes when she was really bad.’
Kristoffer sat in silence. Why was he the way he was? Was there any family resemblance? What had been influenced by what?
He was getting some of the answers, but he was suddenly terrified of the questions.
He swallowed.
‘What was wrong with her?’
Torgny shrugged.
‘The hell if I know. When she was healthy she didn’t want to talk about it, and when she felt bad she didn’t know she was ill. But you have to understand, your mother was a fantastic woman. She couldn’t help it if she acted the way she did; it was a disease she had, and most of the time she was well. When she took her medication everything was fine, but sometimes the mare would ride her at night, as they say. I remember she used to cry out in her sleep. Then it was almost impossible to wake her and make her understand she was only dreaming. It could take hours to calm her down.’