Since a couple of years back he had been secretary of the local chapter of the Typographical Society, in the eyes of many the ideal of trustworthiness – taciturn, dutiful, and as precise and predictable as the calendars he produced. Eric most often came with not amazing ideas, but well-reasoned propositions, which he called his suggestions, always timely, delivered in a dry, somewhat formalistic, factual tone that vouched for rationality and continuity. The protocols were miracles of meticulous attention and the arrangement of the paragraphs beyond reproach.
Sven-Arne was drinking coffee with milk. He had no idea where the coffee came from, but the milk came from his neighbour’s cows. Rosberg had seven milk-producing cows in a dilapidated barn that threatened imminent collapse. They were discussing whether or not Sven-Arne and his cousins should go over and help clear the snow from the roof. It had been snowing nonstop for two, three days and now warmer weather was coming. This would make the snow heavy as lead and endanger the barn in its frail condition. Ola and Tommy had refused, and Ola added that it was just as well for the barn to collapse. He said this with such assurance and such a grown-up air that no one chastised him. Sven-Arne had realised that adults were allowed to say things without being corrected. If he had said anything to this same effect, he would have been told he was impertinent.
Not even Agnes said anything, even though everyone knew that she and Rosberg were as close as two good neighbours who had lived next to each other their entire lives could be.
That Rosberg himself was missing from the party, and out driving timber, was nothing remarkable. Everyone knew he would come over once the family had gone. After the evening milking he would wash up and take the well-worn path to the cottage. They would have a couple of sandwiches and share a beer. Maybe they would listen to the radio. Not much would be said. At half past nine he would take his leave.
Come spring, Rosberg was planning to get rid of the critters, so this was perhaps the last time that Sven-Arne would drink the neighbour’s milk. He had always liked Rosberg. The warmth of the cowshed, the low grinding sound of the animals masticating, and the smell of the farmer’s entryway were intimately connected with his childhood.
They would have been able to shovel the snow from the roof with ease, it would be done in half an hour, but they preferred to sit in the warmth and pretend to be city-modern and adult.
‘I can do it,’ he said.
‘What?’ his uncle said.
‘Go over to Rosberg’s.’
Emil did not reply, but flashed a grin. Agnes put a hand on Sven-Arne’s shoulder.
‘Me and the boy,’ Ante said.
‘You want the boy to fall to his death?’ Erik objected.
‘The cows can’t get up there,’ Ante said. ‘Rosberg can’t either. The snow has to come down. Someone has to do it, that’s all there is to it.’
The view from the barn roof made Sven-Arne pause in his shovelling for long periods at a time. The road to the church curved at the horizon and was swallowed by the forest. From up here the narrow road looked completely different, much more interesting than from the country bus. Ax – the bus driver – would joke with Sven-Arne and call him his ‘little pal.’ Once he had stopped the bus, climbed out, and urinated on one of the front tyres. He did as he pleased, but was generally well-liked. He made an effort, made sure packages got to the remote cottages, and ran errands for the isolated elderly in the village.
Two other small farms also took on a different perspective from above. The distance ennobled the small outhouses. What looked insignificant from the ground attained grandeur from another perspective. Sven-Arne saw someone moving on a plot of yard several hundreds of metres away.
Rosberg was on the hill leading up to the farm. He had not showed any surprise when Ante and Sven-Arne turned up and offered their services, and had immediately gone out to unhook the ladder from the wall.
‘You’ll be careful, won’t you,’ he yelled.
Arne waved reassuringly, turned to Sven-Arne, and smiled. ‘You cold?’
Sven-Arne shook his head.
‘I’ll tie the rope around you so you can slide down to the edge.’
It was around six metres to the ground, but since the barn backed onto a hillside that sloped sharply down, the impression of height appeared great. Sven-Arne slid across the roof tiles, a shovel in his hand, pushing the snow in front of him. He felt the rope around his middle. The thudding sound of the snow masses leaving the roof and hitting the ground made him smile and turn.
‘Good job,’ Ante said. ‘You can do almost anything.’
Bam went the next landing. Ante pulled him up to the ridge and then they kept going. Ante like a conquering general, broad-legged, with bowed legs but a straight back. Sven-Arne like a front-line soldier on the attack, pulled back by the commander only to attack the enemy once more.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Ante said, when a roof tile clattered with an almost metallic sound. ‘The barn’s coming down in the spring anyhow.’
Maybe it was the windowpane in the front door, flashing with a reflection from the sun, that caused Sven-Arne to turn his head. He spotted his father and cousins on his grandmother’s garden.
‘Do you see the bugs?’ Ante asked.
Should he wave to them? No, they could stand there and stare. Soon they would get cold and have to go in. Sven-Arne unconsciously slowed his pace, resting a moment with his hand on the handle, and spitting over the edge of the roof. He shot Ante a look.
‘What is it with Hungary?’ he asked. ‘You’re always arguing about it.’
‘Just shovel,’ Ante shot back.
‘But what is it about?’
Sven-Arne saw the indecision in his uncle’s face. If he hadn’t known him so well he would have interpreted it as pain.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said with nonchalance and picked his shovel back up.
Rosberg had also gone over to the other side and was watching intently. Suddenly Ante sat down on the roof ridge, pulled his gloves off, and laid them beside him.
‘Sit down,’ he said, and made a gesture of invitation. ‘Sit on the gloves!’
Sven-Arne did as he said. His uncle looked off toward the forest.
‘Sunset,’ he said after a while.
Then he started talking about the war he had been in. Sven-Arne did not understand everything, but did not want to irritate him with questions. His uncle’s stubble glowed black. The high cheekbones he had inherited from his mother and the large nose created a sharp profile. He talked slowly, as if he had to look for the words a long way back in the past.
He repeated some of the words, particularly place names. I want to go there too, Sven-Arne thought, each time his uncle mentioned the name of a village or city.
Sven-Arne relived the feeling of grandeur he had felt earlier in his grandmother’s garden. It felt as if every individual word his uncle was uttering was important, as if Ante was sending them out into space as a message. He was sending a message from Rosberg’s roof. He was addressing the forest, and Sven-Arne. Rosberg heard him but understood nothing. The bugs heard but understood nothing. Only he got the message. Only he was allowed to take part in the knowledge of what really happened.
Suddenly Ante finished, smiled sadly, and looked at Sven-Arne.
‘You know, sometimes I don’t want to live,’ he said. ‘It’s as if nothing means anything anymore. I look around me and nothing seems appealing. There is no medicine for the pain I feel. It’s in here.’ He thumped his chest. ‘I knew it would go like this. Do you know what I had in my backpack when I walked ashore in France?’
Sven-Arne shook his head. He wanted to reach out to Ante, hug him.