He chose to walk up the four flights of stairs, even though there was an elevator. He'd never been able to tolerate elevators. Outside the apartment door he stopped to catch his breath. He fixed his eyes on the shiny brass plate with the name engraved in elegant script. Again he felt uncertain. Of course, they had met before, but not here. They barely knew each other. What if the man waiting for him was not alone? He fumbled to pull a handkerchief out of his inside breast pocket. Not a sound came from the neighboring apartments. Not a sign of life.
Uneasiness struck him once more and quickly grew stronger; he felt dizzy. Not again, he thought.
The muted walls began to shrink around him, coming closer. Thoughts raced back and forth in his head. He couldn't do it; he had to turn around. The doors were enemies, barriers that were keeping him out; they didn't want him here. The porcelain pot in the window with the magnificent white azalea seemed to be staring at him with hostility: You have no business being here. Go back to the alley where you came from.
He stood there paralyzed, concentrating on his breathing, trying to regulate his heartbeat. He had suffered from panic attacks for as long as he could remember. He had to leave that's what he had now decided. First he just needed to marshal his forces and concentrate so that he wouldn't faint. What a fine mess that would bettor be found here, lying stretched out on the marble floor. What an impression that would make.
Far below he heard the front door open and close. He waited tensely. The building had five floors, and he was up on the fourth. If he was unlucky, the person who had just come in would be heading for the top floor.
Suddenly he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps got louder. Someone was about to appear on the stairs at any second, and he wanted at all costs to avoid being seen here. Swiftly he wiped the worst of the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath. He had to go inside now; he had to force himself to act normal. Resolutely he rang the doorbell.
One hospital delivery room was like any other. Emma wondered if this was the same room in which she had given birth to Sara and Filip. That was almost ten years ago. It seemed to her an eternity as she was maneuvered inside and expert arms moved her over to the birthing bed. Her cervix was now dilated to almost three inches, and everything was happening fast. The nurse was young and dressed in white. She had kind eyes, and her blond hair was wound into a knot on top of her head. She gave Emma's arm a reassuring pat as she recorded the contractions on a chart.
"We've brought you in here because it won't be long now. Soon you'll be all the way open."
The contractions came rushing over her like an earthquake, gradually increasing in strength; everything went black when they exploded into fireworks of pain, only to slowly fade away into a brief respite before the next one rolled through her. They came and went, like swells on the sea outside the window.
Even though Johan was only five minutes away from the hospital, Emma hadn't called him as she had promised to do when the labor pains started. Everything was so complicated, and she had convinced herself that it would be best if she handled the birth on her own. Now she regretted her decision. Johan was the father of her child; that was an irrevocable fact. What did it matter if she allowed him to give her some support? Her pride bordered on pig-headed stupidity. Here she lay, at the mercy of her pain, and she had only herself to blame. She had chosen not to summon him here, to share the moment with her. He could have held her hand, consoled her, and massaged her aching back.
She breathed according to the instructions she had been given in the prenatal course she had attended when she was pregnant with Sara. How different things were back then. They had been so happy- she and Olle. His face flickered past. They had practiced breathing together, they had spent weeks preparing for how they would handle the labor pains, and she had taught him how she wanted to be massaged.
"It's only a matter of minutes now," said the nurse gently as she wiped the sweat from Emma's brow.
"I want Johan to come," whimpered Emma. "The father."
"All right. How do we get hold of him?"
"Call his cell phone. Please."
The young woman didn't waste any time. She rushed out and came right back with a cordless phone. Emma rattled off Johan's number.
She didn't know how much time had passed before the door opened and she saw Johan's face, looking worried and tense. He took her hand.
"How are you?"
"I'm sorry," she said before the pain overwhelmed her again with even greater force, making any further conversation impossible. She clutched his hand as hard as she could. Now I'm going to die, she thought. I'm going to die.
"You're open all the way now," said the midwife. "Breathe now, breathe. Don't start pushing yet."
Emma panted like a thirsty dog. The bearing-down contractions tore at her, trying to pull her along with them. She had to use all her strength not to give in.
"Don't push," she heard the midwife urging her.
In a haze she noticed the obstetrician come in and sit beside the midwife, down there somewhere between her white legs, spread wide apart. A sheet covered her, so at least she didn't have to look at all the misery. She had intended to stand up to give birth, or at least to squat down. How shameful this was. She had absolutely no strength left in her legs.
Every now and then, in her groggy state, she was aware of Johan next to her, his hand holding hers.
She lost all sense of time and space as she listened to her own hysterical breathing-it was the only thing that could stop her from pushing.
Suddenly Emma heard a voice that she had heard before. Another midwife had come into the room. She recognized the woman's Danish accent from one of her previous births.
"All right, here's what we're going to do."
Emma no longer cared about what was happening around her; she had slipped into a vacuum in which she felt no pain. It didn't matter whether she died right here and now. There was something liberating about that thought.
A woman is never so close to death as when she gives life, thought Emma.
Night arrived with unusually high temperatures. The air was oppressive, and the ventilation in the building, which was more than a hundred years old, was all but nonexistent. Warfsholm's youth hostel resembled a merchant's villa from the nineteenth century, but it had originally been built as a public bathhouse. It stood off by itself, right near the water, as an annex to the main building, which housed the hotel and dining room and was several hundred yards farther out on the promontory.
In front of the youth hostel was a neatly mown lawn with some garden furniture, a small parking lot, and an area with juniper shrubs nearly six feet high that grew in a labyrinth before giving way to tall reeds and the water. Behind the hostel was a wooden footbridge that extended three hundred yards out over the water and led to the harbor and the road to the town of Klintehamn.
At this time of day it was tranquil and quiet.
The guests had sat outside for a long time, enjoying the warm night, but now they had all gone off to bed. Outdoor lamps lit up the building. Not that it was needed-the nights at this time of year were very bright. It never really got completely dark.
The hallway on the ground floor was deserted. The doors to the rooms had been decorated with hand-painted signs: grotlingbo, hablingbo, havdhem. Each of them had been named for a parish on Gotland. The doors were closed, and not a sound penetrated through the solid walls.