Gerlof remembered that he had resolved not to pre-judge strangers, so he went over to the man.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘We know one another, don’t we?’
The man hesitated, then stepped away from the mailboxes and looked Gerlof in the eye once more.
‘We’ve met,’ he said. ‘But it was a long time ago.’
He spoke with an Öland accent, but there was a hint of something else there. Gerlof held out his hand.
‘My name is Davidsson, Gerlof Davidsson.’
The man shook his hand.
‘OK, now I remember,’ he said. ‘Gerlof... we went out fishing one evening in your beautiful boat.’
‘She’s not so beautiful these days.’ Gerlof suddenly found the memory he was searching for. ‘And you’re a Swedish-American, aren’t you?’
The man nodded.
‘More American than Swedish, though. My name is Bill Carlson, and I’m from Lansing in Michigan. My cousin is Arne Carlson in Långvik... I’m visiting his kids this summer.’
He fell silent and glanced over at the mailboxes again. Gerlof realized that not all Americans were talkative.
‘I used to know Arne well,’ he said. ‘Welcome home, Bill.’
‘I’ve never lived here,’ the American said, looking almost embarrassed. ‘My father emigrated from Öland when he was young. But we spoke Swedish at home, and I usually come over to see the family every five years or so. But there aren’t many of them left. I was just looking at the names on these mailboxes, but I hardly recognize any...’
‘You’re not the only one,’ Gerlof reassured him. ‘So many new people come to the island in the summer these days... And you never see hide nor hair of them for the rest of the year.’ He nodded in the direction of the maypole. ‘Are you coming to listen to the music?’
‘Absolutely,’ said the American. ‘The song about the little frogs is my favourite!’
They set off together, with Bill taking long strides and Gerlof following as best he could. He struggled to keep up so that they could continue the conversation.
‘How old are you, Bill — if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Almost eighty-six. But I don’t feel a day over seventy.’
Gerlof envied the ease with which Bill made his way over the grass. He found sprightly folk who were older than him a little difficult. Some people just never seemed to get old.
Lisa
Lisa slept badly the night before the trip, because Silas had gone out during the evening and hadn’t come back until dawn. In the summer he stayed out longer, and lived rough. When Lisa got out of bed at seven o’clock in the morning, it looked as if a pile of rags was lying on the sofa.
She tiptoed past without saying anything. There was no point. She packed quietly, locked the door behind her without a sound. No goodbyes. Silas would ring her soon in any case. Silas always rang her.
The old Passat was parked on the street. The lock was as useless as the rest of the car, so she kept her guitar and her records in the apartment. She stowed them in the boot and set off, heading south.
She had played almost every weekend over the past year, and had got used to driving, so she put her foot down once she hit the main road. However, only an hour or so after leaving Stockholm, she became aware of an acrid smell, like burnt rubber or something equally alarming.
Shit. But she was late for the midsummer gig, and she just had to hope the car would make it. She kept on going, blinking and yawning.
Lisa could never get to sleep when she was waiting for Silas. And the nights were too light as well. The summer heat was lovely, but she didn’t like it when the line between day and night became blurred.
The southbound traffic was heavy and slow; the midsummer revellers who were on the road now were seriously late. There were a lot of them, and they didn’t have much patience.
On the coast road down to Kalmar, Lisa glimpsed the island out in the Baltic several times, like a long, black strip on the horizon, and it was frustrating that the Öland bridge went over to the southern end of the island when she wanted to be in the north. She would have to drive down, then back up again.
Eventually, she reached the long, high bridge across the Sound. She had been here on a school trip fifteen years ago when she was only ten; it was cool to be back.
There was a solid line of cars on the bridge, like a shimmering ribbon, and as Lisa pulled up, the smell from the engine quickly got worse.
The bridge was one of the longest in Europe, and it certainly felt like it today as the traffic edged along. The waves glittered far below as the sun blazed down on the tarmac. She hoped her vinyl records wouldn’t melt in the heat. Surely things couldn’t get any worse.
She was wrong. As the car began the climb to the highest point of the bridge, the engine started smoking.
She clutched the wheel and took her foot off the accelerator. The car stopped dead, right in the middle of the traffic. There was nowhere to pull off the road, and soon the cars behind her were sounding their horns. It was midsummer, and ten thousand people had decided to go over to the island at the same time. Every single one of them just wanted to get there.
The sun burned in through the windows, the inside of the car grew hotter and hotter, and Lisa hadn’t thought to bring any water or soft drinks. All she had was chewing gum.
What should she do? Turn around and forget about Öland?
A traffic cop on a motorbike rode up between the cars and pulled into the gap that had appeared when Lisa stopped halfway up the hill.
Fuck. She lowered her head and hoped he would keep on going.
He didn’t, of course. He got off his bike and knocked on the window. She wound it down.
‘You can’t stop here,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to stop here,’ she said, nodding towards the bonnet. ‘Something’s wrong under there.’
‘With the engine?’ He sniffed the air. ‘I can smell burning.’
‘Me too...’
‘It’s probably the clutch. You’ve been overdoing it on the way up the hill.’ He pointed to the other side of the bridge. ‘It’s OK to drive, but pull off at the first car park and let the engine cool down. You’ll find some of my colleagues over there — they’ll help you out.’
Lisa nodded. She had held a driving licence for five years, but felt like a complete novice as she put the car in gear and gently pressed the accelerator to rejoin the queue of traffic.
She felt much better once she had passed the highest point and was on her way downhill. The acrid, burning smell was still powerful inside the car, but when she opened the window the stench of exhaust fumes came pouring in instead. The queue of vehicles and caravans stretched the entire length of the bridge, and was moving at roughly the same speed as a rowing boat. It was almost twelve thirty. The gig in Stenvik started at two — under normal circumstances, she would have had plenty of time.
It took twenty-five minutes to cover the seven kilometres over the bridge and to reach the island, but the traffic jam continued on the other side. Lisa spotted a large car park on the right and turned off the road.
There wasn’t much room — the police were there, just as the traffic cop had said, and had stopped several cars. Most were small and battered, with very young drivers and passengers who had been asked to get out and open the boot.
Lisa got out and opened the bonnet. God, it stank. The engine was red-hot and ticking angrily, but at least there wasn’t any smoke now. She would wait for a little while before setting off again; that would give her an hour before the gig.
After a while, a police officer came over to the car. She was younger than the cop on the bridge, probably around thirty; she was tanned and wearing a short-sleeved shirt.