Her mother had thought that the new side was so deserted. Not much in the way of trees or leafiness yet either, from what Susette can make out in the darkness. But fuller now, though certainly none of the vegetation that provides a cemetery feeling of life and death, the passage of time—not seconds, days, but centuries, decades, “generations follow in the footsteps of generations,” as her mother sang toward the end when they still went to church often, she and Susette, in black clothes, “from a house of sorrow,” crowed loudly, her mother with a false and frail singing voice which, if you were not careful, was embarrassing; old silence, dignity.
But still, despite everything anyway, here now as well. Such a calm, at the cemetery, under a bright red umbrella in the pouring rain.
And in the midst of everything, all of that exhaustion that had been inside her, or whatever it is, had been, as if she could finally think, just herself, Susette.
“… It only took a few minutes. I called the ambulance.” Maj-Gun who had stood and said that in the house then, at the very beginning—and how Susette had lost her balance, had pain in her stomach. Maj-Gun’s hand on her shoulder, but the tenderness in her grip too, which had held her. But stilclass="underline" no future—the feeling she had sometimes with Maj-Gun in the house, that they were two children playing while waiting for the mother to return.
When the mother would not be returning.
When she came from “Poland” her mother was dead. “Poland,” she had not been there of course, it was just a designation. But it was not a secret or important, in and of itself. In contrast to what Maj-Gun had insinuated at the ferry terminal where she had met Susette, when she asked about the backpack. “Fjällräven, is it new?”
A long time, somewhere else. Did not come home. Did not keep in touch with her mother in the house in the town center on a regular basis. Cannot say exactly why, not even in hindsight.
And what has she been up to? Working in different places. Home help, care for the elderly, reading out loud for an old lady. Quite a lot of the type of work she had already done in the District—at the private nursing home for the elderly and infirm where she started working after finishing high school, before selling ice cream, and the strawberry fields.
And it had been good, nothing special about that either. She was used to old people, liked old people. But then, as said, she called her mother at home one day as she had a habit of doing and Maj-Gun answered the phone. It perplexed her, she hung up. She called again a few minutes later. Maj-Gun on the phone that time too.
“Where are you?”
“I’ll be on the first ferry.”
Maj-Gun’s voice, calm and resolute: “Give me the date and time and I’ll meet you at the terminal.”
She met Maj-Gun there at the terminal because they had set up the meeting on the telephone, not because she wanted to pull the wool over someone’s eyes on purpose.
In reality she was coming from somewhere else, much closer. But she stood there at the terminal and made it look like she had come with the morning ferry. Brand-new backpack, Fjällräven, on her back.
“Your mother is dead. You didn’t make it to the funeral. My deepest condolences—”
She had been living in another city, in other places. Would have been too complicated to explain. On the other hand, explain to Maj-Gun, why did she have to do that?
“It’s not that bad, Susette.” But there in the night in the rain at the cemetery as if she suddenly heard her mother’s voice, she does not of course, not really, but—
If you later come to wander in the valley of the shadow of death no harm will befall you.
And about the cemetery: “But, Susette, it will surely be fine here too.”
Now, it is crystal clear. Her mother was not, had never been angry at her.
And when she had left home, not “run away,” because of the strawberry-picking fields—how her mother had come into her room at night and kissed her on the forehead.
That kiss remained as well (Susette could almost feel it, in the rain, with her fingers).
“It will surely be fine here too.”
And Susette cries a little, her own tears, just her own. Peaceful crying at the cemetery and then she walks quietly back to her new apartment in the apartment complex above the town center.
Does not need Maj-Gun anymore.
Several weeks after the visit to the movie theater, when Maj-Gun notices that Susette has pulled away, for example never has time to talk on the phone when she calls, retreats rather quickly. Stops getting in touch, stops suggesting a lot of things. “Don’t we need to get out and get some fresh air?
And so has it become, without any accusations or talk of betrayal. And Susette gradually also realizes where Maj-Gun is living: as a boarder in another family home in the lush suburbs below the town center.
But then, it is seven–eight years until the summer of 1989 when Susette Packlén and Maj-Gun Maalamaa become friends again. Or if not friends exactly at least they start hanging out a bit again. In and of itself: they have not exactly lost sight of each other completely or anything during the time in between. During the years that have passed Maj-Gun Maalamaa remained sitting at the newsstand up in the town center. In the end she did not head off anywhere, neither to the admission interviews for various educational institutions nor to any other places. No. Sat where she sat.
“Sitting where I’m sitting.” That is how she expresses it herself as well, an answer to a silent question Susette never asks her in the years that pass when they only exchange a few words about ordinary things in the newsstand when Susette is buying candy and chips when she gets cravings in the evenings.
Maj-Gun at the newsstand, behind the counter, the postcard on the cash register. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Worn text, once a glittery silver? Buckled letters on a grayish-blue landscape, rather abstract. Moonlight, spruce forest.
An explicitness, in other words?
Oh! Susette does not think like that either. During those years when she sees Maj-Gun in the newsstand sometimes she does not think very much at all.
Maj-Gun, a doughnut on a tall, three-legged stool on the other side of the counter, the pork pouring over the edges of the stooclass="underline" one obvious fact is that as Maj-Gun gets older, she puts on a considerable amount of weight.
And: she has started smoking. A particular brand of cigarette, which she also makes a big fuss about with her customers. How unusual the brand is, so unusual that it is not part of the ordinary selection but needs to be specially ordered from a place, the “Head Office” in the city by the sea from where all of the newsstands in the country are centrally run, something you can also hear her explain with authority in her voice, to whoever happens to be at the newsstand and will listen.
Maj-Gun standing, puffing on her cigarettes in the doorway of the newsstand, which is eventually turned into a small room with a window facing the square:
“Had to fight with the Head Office but at least NOW I won’t get varicose veins until I turn thirty. Won’t you be thirty soon, Susette?” she asks, if Susette is the only one there, but as if in passing, without waiting for an answer.
“Djeessus, Susette!” Maj-Gun sighs, whistling between her two front teeth. “The Head Office!”
Djessus. Remains in Susette’s head for a little while on her way home.
Maj-Gun rolling her eyes, at the newsstand, “djeessus” this, that, and the other.
Maj-Gun on the three-legged stool, beads of sweat along her hairline, like an old woman.