Uncle Kent’s car was red with black stripes, and it looked a bit like a spaceship. It felt like a rocket inside, too, low and narrow, particularly in the back seat. Jonas still had some growing to do, but he still had to bend his legs to one side to fit in. His older brother, Mats, had a bit more room because he was sitting behind Niklas, their father, who had shorter legs.
‘Are you going to fine me?’ Uncle Kent said.
‘Indeed I am.’
‘Typical, on the sunniest day of the summer so far.’ He smiled at the police officer. ‘But I hold my hands up... I broke the law.’
Jonas looked at his father, who still hadn’t said a word. Nor had he so much as looked at the policeman.
Uncle Kent had picked up Jonas and Mats and their father from the station in Kalmar in his red Corvette. He owned a big Volvo as well, but in the summer he preferred to drive his sports car. And it was fast.
They had left the Öland bridge half an hour earlier, whizzing northwards as his father and Uncle Kent chatted in the front, but when the motorcycle came up alongside them and waved the car over to the side of the road, his father had immediately fallen silent. He had stopped speaking and shuffled down in his seat.
Uncle Kent was doing all the talking. He sat there with his hands resting on the wheel, seeming totally relaxed, as if this was merely a minor hiccup on the road to Villa Kloss.
‘Do I pay the fine directly to you?’ he said.
The police officer shook his head.
‘I’ll write you a ticket.’
‘How much?’
‘Eight hundred kronor.’
Uncle Kent looked away and sighed. He gazed out across the sunlit cornfields to the right of the road, then glanced back at the police officer.
‘What’s your name?’
No reply was forthcoming.
‘Is it a secret?’ Uncle Kent persisted. ‘What’s your first name?’
The police officer shook his head. He took a pad and a pen out of his inside pocket.
‘My name is Sören,’ he said eventually.
‘Thank you, Sören. I’m Kent Kloss.’ He nodded to his right. ‘This is my younger brother, Niklas, and his two boys. We’re all going to spend the summer together.’
The officer nodded impassively, but Uncle Kent kept on talking.
‘Just one thing, Sören... Here we are on a dry, flat road, two days before midsummer. The sun is shining, it’s a beautiful day. A fantastic summer’s day, the kind of day when you feel most alive... What would you have done, if you were me? Would you have stayed behind that caravan all the way to Borgholm?’
Sören didn’t bother to answer; he finished filling in the penalty notice and passed it through the window. Kent took it, but refused to give up: ‘Couldn’t you at least admit it, Sören?’
‘Admit what?’
‘That you would have done the same thing? If you’d been the one stuck behind that caravan, in the summer sun on your way to the sea? Wouldn’t you have put your foot down... well, maybe not put your foot down, but gone just a little bit over the speed limit? Won’t you admit that?’
Kent wasn’t smiling now, he was deadly serious.
The traffic policeman sighed. ‘OK, Kent. If it makes you feel better.’
‘A little better,’ said Kent, smiling once more.
‘Good. Drive carefully now.’
He went back to his motorbike and started it up, then did a U-turn and headed south.
‘You see that? Look at the speed he’s going, the bastard!’ Uncle Kent nodded to Jonas and Mats. ‘Never let them get the upper hand, boys. Just you remember that!’
With that, the engine kicked into life with a dull roar and Uncle Kent pulled out on to the road, right in front of yet another caravan. He quickly increased his speed.
The sun was shining, the road was flat and straight. Jonas had a warm breeze on his face and the scent of wild flowers in his nostrils. Uncle Kent still had his window down, his left elbow sticking out as he steered the car with one hand, fingers resting lightly on the wheel. Nothing more.
His mobile rang. He answered using his free hand, listened for twelve or fourteen seconds then interrupted loudly: ‘No. A supporting wall, I said. What for? Support, of course! I want it to look old, kind of medieval, but modern at the same time. Made of stone, or railway sleepers. And I want the pipework under the wall, not next to it. Good... Has the digger arrived?’ He listened again. ‘Fantastic! In that case, we can... Hello?’ He lowered the mobile. ‘Lost the connection — typical.’
Uncle Kent had certain favourite words, like ‘typical’ and ‘fantastic’. He imbued them with an energy and self-confidence that Jonas could never manage, whatever he said.
Kent slipped his mobile into his pocket and said, ‘Shall we take the boat out when we arrive?’
‘Sure,’ Jonas’s dad agreed at once. ‘As long as it’s not too rough out there.’
Uncle Kent laughed.
‘Motorboats like waves, they just jump over them! We’ll take a little trip, then we can have a Cosmo on the decking.’
Niklas nodded, but he didn’t look particularly happy.
‘OK.’
Jonas had no idea what a Cosmo was, but he didn’t ask. The trick when it came to looking grown up was to listen and to look as if you knew exactly what was going on. And to laugh along with everyone else.
Kent glanced in the rear-view mirror.
‘We’re going to get you up on those skis this summer, JK. All right? Things didn’t go too well a couple of years ago, as I recall...’
He always called Jonas by his initials, JK.
‘I’ll give it a go,’ Jonas said.
He didn’t really want to think about water-skiing. He didn’t want to think about that summer either, when his father had just started serving his sentence and Jonas and Mats had come to Öland on their own.
He could see the expanse of the Sound now; they had reached the village and were passing the kiosk and the restaurant. They turned left on to the coast road, with the ridge on one side of the car and houses on the other.
Jonas hadn’t managed to get up on his skis once that summer. Uncle Kent must have tried to pull him up with the line from the motorboat at least fifteen times; Jonas had coughed up water and clung to the handle so tightly that his knuckles turned white, but he always ended up pitching forward after just a few metres. In the evenings, his legs had felt like spaghetti.
‘You’re not going to give it a go, JK, you’re going to do it! You’re much tougher this year. How old are you now?’
‘Twelve,’ Jonas said, although his birthday wasn’t until August. He glanced at his brother, afraid of a scornful correction, but Mats was gazing out at the water and didn’t appear to be listening.
They had arrived. The summer place was known as Villa Kloss, even though it consisted of two houses side by side, with huge panoramic windows overlooking the sea. Aunt Veronica and the cousins lived in the north house, Uncle Kent in the south.
Jonas’s father no longer had a house of his own. They would be staying in the guest chalets.
‘Twelve years old, that’s the best time of your life,’ Kent said as the Corvette swung into his drive. ‘You’re totally free. You’re going to have a fantastic summer here, JK!’
‘Mmm,’ said Jonas.
But he didn’t feel free. Just small.
Gerlof
Gerlof met the Swedish-American on the way to the dance.
He was late, leaning on his chestnut walking stick and making his way along the coast road as quickly as he could. He wouldn’t be dancing around the maypole himself, of course, but he enjoyed listening to the music. Midsummer came along only once a year, after all.