Maj-Gun puts her hand over her mouth—
Then the Manager turns the TV off in the middle of the news.
They sit in silence on either side of the dining table.
And the Manager suddenly speaks, softly. Says serious things to her. She should not be ashamed. Regardless of what has happened, life must go on. Also her life.
Then he adds, word for word, and calmly: that he liked her so much there in the newsstand.
When she said the kinds of things she said, who she was. She was not like other people, like no one else. She should not misunderstand him when he says this but there is so much life in her.
It becomes quiet again. So much life, and suddenly, just because he says it: everything she once was comes pouring into her—
But stop now. Because in the following and immediately: Susette with the big eyes, the globes, a whole world.
“If you weren’t so curled up in your own suffering, Susette.”
Her own voice from somewhere—had she actually said that, had she personally really said that? Yes. And it comes back. Susette falling in the hangout. Her eyes during the fall. The emptiness in them, not even surprise. Before she came to lie there, dying and dying.
And Maj-Gun, what is she doing here? Justice, the law. Why doesn’t anything happen?
Later, in the Manager’s living room, she has started crying. A big child’s big tears: screaming and shrill and insistent, and then, while she is crying, it comes out of her. She left her friend to die in the boathouse. And everything else too, pell-melclass="underline" the Boy in the woods, the jealousy, Susette, the fight, the meeting, the boathouse—and the snow, the cliffs, and the snow.
Why did Justice not come? What is so wrong with it?
And now when the crying, many weeks after, in the Manager’s apartment, Boxing Day 1989, is set free in the quiet apartment, how it sprays out of her eyes, nostrils, mouth, all orifices. Tears, snot spray over the rest of the ham, the mustard, and turnip casserole on the plate.
At first the Manager does not say anything. He lets her cry. Does not come to her to give her a hug, comfort her or the like. Nor does he put the TV on again, or some other record in order to drown it out, does not leave but goes to the kitchen to get more paper towels, which they have used as napkins during their meals, and tears a few sheets from the roll that he gives to Maj-Gun to snuffle in.
Then he sits down on the other side of the dining room table, clears his throat, and says, “Maj-Gun. Should we start from the beginning? Your friend, Susette Packlén. Right? She isn’t—dead—”
At first Maj-Gun is so absorbed in her crying that she does not even hear but then it forces its way inside, she stops crying, everything stops, stop—and a desertlike silence follows.
The Manager’s mouth is moving. In a state of shock she only sees his mouth moving at first, but the anesthetic slowly eases and she hears as well.
“And is in good health. She has been tired and upset. They traveled to Portugal during Christmas to rest. She and her fiancé.”
Fiancé?
But, the Manager adds, “of course it’s a tragedy,” and then he tells an amazing story that does not match up with anything at all.
There has been a fire, in the cousin’s house, the whole house has burned down. Bengt, Solveig’s brother—yes, they’re good friends, Solveig and the Manager, have known each other their entire lives—had fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand. The fire truck came, but it was too late.
It was burning. That house is located pretty remotely, the Manager says, and the weather was bad, it took some time. And when the call came in, there was nothing to save. A tragic accident, even though he was “an alcoholic, washed up,” says the Manager.
“I’ve understood that they were close in some way.” The Manager is talking about Susette now, about Susette and Bengt, though it takes a while before Maj-Gun understands this too. I was the one who loved him. On the other hand, right when she is about to say it, like a real objection, a type of reflex just like all of the millions of “djeessus” that come out of her mouth as soon as she does not pull herself together, it hits her again again again: but it was just a story. And in the same moment, how that story leaves her; it is almost terrible.
The Boy in the woods. Bengt, and at the same time. She had been there with him. She, Maj-Gun, that exact same day, beer (he had been drinking) and cigarettes she had brought with her and then yes… dot dot dot… this and the other but damn it, “What are you babbling about?” how he had looked at her like a crazy person and laughed at her, but then everything was already over. No one came, she was alone with him, a complete stranger whom she did not know, and in some way was afraid of too.
But: she had been in that room, that house. And he: so alive. And he: lying on the floor in the room.
But why, Manager, why why had he not said anything earlier?
The Manager says that yes, he should have said something, he knows that. In particular, he should have asked when she had gotten more energy and become more herself again. Says that again, herself, with almost happiness in his voice. But then… in the beginning. She was so weak. And the other apartment: had been such a shock to him too. He had not understood very much, first lately, in this apartment, it had started dawning on him that it might be a question of a misunderstanding.
But he had known that they were friends after all, she and Susette Packlén who had had Bengt in her apartment. Not living there, Susette had explained to the Manager several times. It was the neighbor lady who alerted the Manager to the fact that Susette had Bengt there, and that if he was living there then a notice of change of address should be filled out. So the Manager had asked, but of course he knew what stories like that could be like, here today, gone tomorrow. But Susette Packlén had flat out denied it and held her ground.
And yes, he also knew of course what it could be like between girlfriends, if jealousy was playing a role, or otherwise, discord, sadness over the other one having left. He had not been able to imagine that she, Maj-Gun, had gone around brooding in another way.
And yes, that mess in the apartment, and—yes, he had been shocked too. Thought about asking about it too, when she got better, but on the other hand, had not wanted to bring it up. He had thought, yes, has thought, that it was so nice seeing her get her strength back and become… hersel—
This is where the Manager stops, as if he had suddenly become confused. That it was absurd.
But he tries to explain, as businesslike as possible. He has enjoyed having her in the apartment. The days that have passed, and celebrating Christmas… which there was not anything really special about… but, in any case…
SO he has gotten it together again, gotten a grip and told her everything he had de facto set about doing for her during this time. Contacted her family, spoken with her father the Pastor on the phone, the old vicar whom he knows and has in confidence, between two old men, been able to tell him a little more about the situation, her condition, and kept him updated the entire time: to the others he said that she has severe angina, but everyone has been worried about her. And her brother Tom Maalamaa had personally been in touch.
He had also been in touch with the newsstand, the Head Office, been connected to the correct personnel department via the operator… and her landlords down in the town center whom he is acquainted with too. Said that she is recovering at her parents’ home, with the Pastor’s family, who live in another county. Her landlords, Gunilla and Göran, sent many warm greetings to the patient and are not worried at all about the rent being paid. Maj-Gun has always been a hundred percent exemplary boarder. It has been easier that way, this white lie, the Manager explained, referring to himself as welclass="underline" for example his job as a teacher at the school where both Göran and Gunilla are his colleagues and Göran a Lions brother, outside of work.