When he was little, he’d sometimes thought that it was possible to bring time to a standstill. To cling on to a moment he’d enjoyed. But that wasn’t possible any longer. Joel wondered what exactly it meant, being grown up. Before, he’d have asked Samuel. But that wasn’t possible any more.
Nothing would be like it used to be. Nothing at all.
I’m so lonely now, Joel thought.
Samuel is dead. And Jenny Rydén can never be my mum. She can only be a friend. In the same way that Eva and Maria can only be my friends.
In a few hours’ time I shall leave this place.
Nobody will come to the station to wave me off. Nobody will notice that I vanish.
Joel could feel that he was starting to cry. He didn’t want to do that. He was fifteen years old, and a sailor. Somebody like that doesn’t cry. Children can cry. And adults. But not somebody who’s fifteen years old. That’s an age when it’s forbidden to give in to anything. Especially tears.
Joel listened. The walls creaked. He allowed the thoughts and memories to wander through his mind. He’d always lived in this house. Once upon a time Mummy Jenny had lived here as well. But one morning she packed a suitcase and went away. He’d been so little at the time that he didn’t remember it happening. The only person around for the whole of Joel’s life had been Samuel. Nobody else. Samuel with his drooping shoulders and badly shaved cheeks, his tired eyes and his longing for the sea.
Celestine had always been there as well, in her case. And the sea charts over which they had made their fantasy voyages together.
Joel wondered if Samuel had ever really believed that he would go to sea again. Or had it only been an impossible dream? From the very start? Joel didn’t know. And now it was too late to find an answer.
Everything that had existed before was now too late. Samuel was lying in the churchyard. He would never speak to anybody again. His voice was dead. Samuel with his badly shaved cheeks. And his drooping shoulders.
Joel made another attempt to understand. What exactly did it mean, being dead? How long would anybody have to be dead? A thousand years? Or longer? He thought the worst thing about it was having to be dead for such a long time. What existed before you were born didn’t count. But afterwards, when your life was over, what existed then? Samuel hadn’t merely gone out for a short walk. He was lying under the ground, and would be dead so long that nobody knew how long that would be. Or perhaps there was no end?
He noticed that the pain in his stomach was getting worse now. He got up and folded up the blanket. He felt very uneasy, but there was nothing he could do about that. It was a bit easier if he moved about. He wrapped the blanket round his shoulders. He went to the kitchen, then clambered up into the window seat. It was a cold night. The single streetlight lit up the snow-covered road. Everything was motionless. The only thing moving was invisible time passing. Somewhere out there in the darkness and the cold, a new morning was waiting.
Joel suddenly recalled that night when he’d been sitting on the window seat and seen a solitary dog walking away down the street. That was a lot of years ago. But he’d never managed to forget that dog. He started to think about it yet again. Where had it been heading for? For a whole year Joel had run a secret society whose only task was to look for that secretive dog. Then he hadn’t thought about it for quite a long time.
But now it was as if the dog had returned.
He strained his eyes. He felt certain that the dog would come running out of the darkness on silent paws. From the opposite direction. To say goodbye. He could feel his heart starting to beat faster, But the road was deserted.
Joel stood up. The light from the streetlamp shone into the kitchen. He shuddered. Now all he wanted was to get away as quickly as possible. The empty flat scared him. The walls were no longer creaking. It seemed as if they were howling.
Perhaps a house was capable of grieving as well? Perhaps the walls were howling over the loss of Samuel? Samuel who was now lying under the ground and would never come trudging up those stairs again. Joel folded the blanket and quickly fastened his boots. He’d put the alarm clock on the kitchen table. He thought he could see the marks made on the wall by the case containing Celestine.
Then he found himself in two minds.
It was still far too soon to go to the station. But he didn’t want to stay in the flat. He picked up his suitcase and his sailor’s kitbag and walked down the stairs for the last time. He hesitated on the last step. How many times had he walked up and down these stairs? How many times had he run? He didn’t know. But he could still remember how proud he’d been when he cleared the whole staircase in three enormous leaps.
Then he raised his foot. The last step. For the last time. There was no going back now. It was as if he were opening a new door, at the same time as the door to his childhood slowly closed, creaking all the way.
When he’d locked the front door he removed his mitten and pushed the key under the door.
It was cold. He pulled up his scarf to cover his mouth and nose. What should he do? Wander round the old streets one last time before heading for the station? He didn’t know.
But as he passed through the gate and entered the street, he made up his mind.
He would go to the railway bridge. If there was one place he ought to say farewell to, it was the bridge and the river.
He hurried down the street and turned off down the hill leading to the bridge. He was walking alongside the railway lines. There was an old, rickety platform where the milk churns used to stand. He hid his suitcase and kitbag behind it. Then he started running so as to keep warm.
He had the feeling that there were several boys running alongside him. A full gang, in fact. It was really himself at different ages. He felt that he was surrounded by what he used to be.
He paused when he came to the abutment. He was alone again now. His ghostly companions had left. The arch of the bridge loomed high over his head. He couldn’t resist the temptation to place one hand on the freezing cold iron. The chill penetrated him immediately. He shuddered.
At that very moment it occurred to him that there was one person he ought to say goodbye to. Gertrud. Noseless Gertrud who lived in her strange house on the other side of the river. But something held him back. No doubt she was asleep in bed. Besides, he didn’t want to say goodbye to her. It was as if he wanted to cling on to something. Something that linked him with this little town. Something that would give him an obligation to come back. Not just to plant a palm tree on Samuel’s grave, but also to meet Gertrud and say goodbye properly.
To prevent his feet from getting too cold, he sprinted over the bridge. He didn’t stop until he came to Gertrud’s house.
The light was on in her kitchen. He stopped outside her gate. Remembered the time when he and Ture had hacked open a frozen anthill and then thrown the bits into her kitchen through the window. He slowly opened the gate and crept up to the window. The snow creaked under his boots. He raised himself on tiptoe.
The kitchen was empty. Gertrud sometimes left a light on when she went to bed. She was bound to be fast asleep now. He tiptoed further along the wall until he came to her bedroom window. When he pressed his cheek against the windowpane he could hear her snoring. But how could somebody without a nose snore? He regretted the thought.
He ought not to think like that about Gertrud.
Despite everything, she was one of the few friends he had.
He didn’t know where the feeling came from.