‘Hey, that game doesn’t look so nice.’
‘Just leave it.’
He clammed up, afraid to provoke his daughter’s anger. He moved away a few steps and sat down on the bed. Ellen kept playing and took no notice. The anguished screams emanating from the computer were accompanied by a pounding rock melody.
‘Where’s Mamma?’
‘She went to bed. She’s got a headache.’
On the screen blood was spattering everywhere; he was amazed by how lifelike the animation was.
‘How was school today?’
‘We had a study day.’
‘I see. So you had the day off?’
Ellen didn’t answer. The battle onscreen continued.
Jan-Erik was again struck by how awkward the conversation was. It was so difficult to communicate with his daughter. What did you talk about with a twelve-year-old girl? Her world was as incomprehensible to him as an alien’s.
‘Do you want to know a secret?’
‘Mmm.’
‘But you can’t tell anybody else.’
Enemy after enemy was mowed down and annihilated.
‘I’m going to get a huge prize, for all the work I do with Grandfather’s books and stuff. You know, those clinics and things I’ve started up.’
‘Oh, right.’
He might as well have been telling her that he sometimes ate sandwiches. Ellen’s total lack of interest seemed genuine. She wasn’t even trying to pretend that she was impressed.
‘It’s called the Nordic Council Literary Prize, a very prestigious award. And 350,000 kronor. They’ve only given it to authors, before me.’
The music changed tempo. The woman in black was now inside what looked like some sort of church, but it didn’t dampen her ardour. The massacre continued.
Jan-Erik got up.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yeah.’
He left the room without another word.
The bedroom door was closed. He went up to it and listened before he cautiously peered in. She was lying on her side with her back to him. He stood still and waited a moment, but nothing happened.
‘Are you asleep?’ he whispered.
There was no response.
As quietly as he could he pulled the door shut and went to the kitchen. The table had been cleared after dinner. He opened the fridge; there were no leftovers, but he made himself a caviar sandwich. Only now did the thought of food seem appealing again.
He would never again have a hangover. His promise was sincere. Today’s had just passed, but the memory of the torment was still with him.
When he finished eating he sat down in his office. The pile of letters and junk mail had grown, and he spent half an hour taking care of the most urgent items. Fan mail addressed to Axel Ragnerfeldt he set aside; at the moment he didn’t feel like being reminded of his father’s accomplishments.
He suddenly remembered Marianne Folkesson. It was just a little past nine, not too late to call.
‘Marianne here.’
‘Hi, it’s Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt. Listen, I’m afraid I couldn’t find any photo of Gerda.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘No, I searched everywhere.’
‘Okay, then I’ll have to use the one I found in her flat, even if it is blurry. Thanks for trying.’
‘There’s nothing to thank me for, it was the least I could do. Sorry.’
‘We did what we could. I’ll see you at the funeral then.’
‘Yes, okay.’
Jan-Erik said the words slowly. There was more he wanted to discuss but Marianne didn’t pick up on his hesitation.
Just as she was about to hang up, Jan-Erik said, ‘You know, now that I have you on the line, I’m a bit curious. I was thinking about that Kristoffer Sandeblom who came to my lecture yesterday. You haven’t found out any more about why Gerda left her estate to him, have you? What sort of connection they have to each other, I mean.’
‘I’ve no idea, but I did find a letter for him. I went to her flat today to pick up some things for the funeral.’
‘A letter?’
‘Yes, I put it in the mail today. He should have it tomorrow.’
‘So you have no idea what it said?’
‘No, no clue. I didn’t open it.’
‘Hmm.’
‘We’ll have to ask him at the funeral. I’m rather curious myself.’
Nothing she had said lessened Jan-Erik’s unease. He couldn’t convince himself that his suspicions were improbable. Annika’s suicide had seemed improbable too, until it was confirmed.
A half-full water glass stood on the table. He poured the contents into one of the flowerpots in the window, got up and took the bottle out from behind the books on the shelf.
He had vowed never to have a hangover again, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t treat himself to a little nightcap.
26
Alice was sitting on the sofa watching TV. It was a baffling programme about a rich American woman who wanted to get an operation to make herself look like a cat. Since they’d had cable TV installed in the house, she’d gained insight into so many odd things that she no longer knew what to believe about humanity. But in the absence of other companionship the TV was most often on, and occasionally something would come on that was worth looking at.
She had almost given up hope when the telephone rang. She’d been trying to reach Jan-Erik all day to ask him to give her a lift to the clinic tomorrow. This time she was sure. It wasn’t her imagination; there was something strange going on in her body. Despite her worry she was looking forward to the examination, as if she were going on an exciting adventure.
‘Jan-Erik?’
He got straight to the point.
‘I have a couple of questions about some things I found in Pappa’s cupboard.’
No greeting, no ‘How are you?’ Jan-Erik’s voice was curt, and she didn’t like it when he sounded that way. Their previous conversation still hovered in the air, despite all her efforts to drive it away. His accusing stare burned in her mind, just as strongly as if he’d put it into words.
You’re the one who bears the blame for what Annika did. It’s your fault she didn’t want to live. As her mother it was your responsibility to prevent what happened.
But what about Axel! she had wanted to scream, why didn’t any blame fall on Axel? With his inconsiderate belief in his sole right to existence, he was the one who had created her powerlessness.
He had been given everything.
Simply everything.
An invincible battleship that, unconcerned, steamed forth in the hunt for honour, while everyone else around him went under.
But she had sat there in silence. And the old feeling of guilt, long absorbed, had been drawing in nourishment.
‘What are you doing rummaging about in that cupboard? All you’ll find is misery.’
‘It’s about letters from somebody called Halina. Is that someone you know?’
The name hit her like a punch in the stomach. So many years had passed during which it had never been mentioned, an unspoken agreement to eradicate it from their consciousness. But through the silence it had remained, festering like a malignant tumour. Thirty-one years later she still didn’t know the truth about their relationship. Whether it was only that one single time or whether it went on for much longer.
Afterwards, when it all became irrelevant, she hadn’t wanted to know. As though in a haze they had tried to recreate all the routines in order to contain the truth. A forced need to map out their daily lives in order to expel the consequences. But how did you take up the threads of a life you didn’t even know you wanted?
‘No, I’ve never heard that name.’
‘The letters are from the seventies. So you’ve never heard of anyone named Halina?’
‘No.’
He kept the letters! So typical of Axel! She would have to go to the house some day and see whether the idiot had saved anything else that should never be found.