Dark Angel (22 page)

Emma’s parents lived at the northernmost tip of the island, near the great sand dune called Norsta Auren. Their white limestone house stood all alone, with only a low wall separating the property from the beach. On one side was a bird promontory, which attracted ornithologists wanting to study the enormous number of seabirds that occupied the spit of land. On the other side of the house was the long, sandy beach, which extended for several kilometres. The light-coloured, fine-grained sand on the beach, which was several hundred metres wide in places, reminded visitors of sun-drenched July days in the Caribbean or South Pacific. The shoreline curved in a gentle arc, reaching all the way to the lighthouse, which was Fårö’s furthest outpost.

When Johan turned his car on to the bumpy, narrow road leading to the house, Emma and Elin came walking towards him, hand in hand. He stopped the car and jumped out. He saw Elin’s joyous face and Emma’s warm eyes. He pulled both of them into his arms, giving them a big hug.

After dinner with Emma’s parents, they took a bike ride out to Ekeviken, a lovely beach and summer-house area about a kilometre to the south. All the preparations for Walpurgis Eve had been carefully made, and the bonfire would be lit at eight o’clock. During the past month, people who lived in the vicinity had gathered wood for the pyre, which now loomed, tall and stately, in the middle of the beach. The entire island was involved in the celebration. Small booths set up along the shore were selling sausages, coffee and Gotland specialities such as leg of mutton, saffron pancakes, honey and blue raspberry jam. The vendors were also offering lambskins, ceramics and other handicrafts made on the island. Children dashed about, tossing as many branches as they could find on to the pyre before it was lit.

A choir of young people wearing their white graduation caps was singing ‘Winter Spills Out of Our Mountains’. Not that there were any real mountains on Gotland. The highest point was Lojsta Heath, which was no more than 82 metres above sea level.

Johan squeezed Emma’s hand. This holiday was something he sorely needed.

The last notes of the song faded, and then a former cabinet minister, who lived on Fårö in the summertime, climbed up on the improvised stage. He was a tall, blond and athletic man in his forties who seemed to have everything going for him. He was youthful, charming and also terribly handsome, at least according to the ladies, including Emma. The hundred or so people who had gathered fell silent, turning their attention to the stage. Even the kids who had been romping around with their dogs stopped to listen. There was something magical about the man; with his golden locks and hand-knitted sweater, he seemed the very epitome of the healthy, sporty and confident Swede. As if he’d stepped right out of the pages of a Dressmann catalogue, thought Johan sourly.

Of course his speech was a big hit, filled as it was with warmth and a sense of commitment. Johan was amused to see that Emma looked utterly enraptured as she applauded along with everyone else.

The former cabinet minister concluded his performance by tossing the first burning torch on to the pyre while the choir sang another rendition of their springtime song. Everyone joined in, and an enchanted mood settled over the crowd. The fire rose up towards the sky, which had now grown dark, and the flames glittered in the reflection on the water’s surface. The words of the song drifted out over the sea, and Johan was again filled with the joy of being a family man. He hadn’t been to a Walpurgis Eve celebration since he was a boy. He put his arm around Emma and kissed the top of her head.

Her hair smelled of shampoo and wood smoke.

EARLY AFTERNOON. THE
rain is beating against the windowpanes.

I was woken a moment ago by the insistent beeping of a refuse lorry backing up. It was entering the ugly alleyway outside my bedroom window.

I have a merciless encounter with my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My face is mute and blank. I’m trying to spare myself. My eyes are two black stones, without intensity or life. My lips are dry and cracked from not speaking or having contact with anyone else. The pills I take dry out my body from the inside, and my skin feels more taut every day that passes. My hands are chapped. As my body dries up, my brain is also shrivelling. I’m finding it increasingly hard to keep my thoughts straight; they keep merging, creating incomprehensible patterns inside my head, impossible to dissect. In most cases, I just leave them there in a tangled heap, like a ball of yarn that has unrolled and then become hopelessly snarled. Impenetrable.

I’ve been sitting in the kitchen, watching the refuse lorry and all the activity surrounding that rumbling behemoth that is now blocking the entire street. The kitchen window faces the same alley. Sometimes it’s liberating not to look at the view that’s visible from all the other windows in the flat.

Two men in overalls come out of the back door of the restaurant. They fling big black bags into the maw of the lorry. Imagine if you could do the same thing with your own shit. Just dump it somewhere and then start
over
afresh. Shit you never asked for, which was simply foisted upon you. And there was nothing you could do to escape it.

On the other side of the alley I can see people in the windows. Office drones at their desks, staring at their computers. Every now and then they pick up the phone, lean back and stare listlessly out of the window. They drink endless cups of coffee, pick their noses, unaware that they’re being watched. One man has a habit of sticking his hand down his crotch while he talks on the phone. Inside the waistband of his dapper-looking suit trousers. Then he holds his hand up to his nose. People are disgusting.

What sort of lives do they have, those people in that office? Who is loved or not loved? Are any of them happy? Do they like each other? I doubt it. People meet, have dinner together, go to various social functions, but how many of them really enjoy spending time with one another?

Like Mamma and my siblings. Birthday parties, Christmas Eve celebrations, the obligatory flower bouquets, comments, compliments. I used to think they were fun, but now I see things much more clearly. Do my siblings share my view? When I was younger, I took that for granted. Now I see reality differently. There are too many obstacles. We were never encouraged to take care of each other, to support one another. Instead, Mamma split us apart, making us feel like three isolated islands without any connection to each other, which made us all the more dependent on her.

Of course that was exactly what she wanted.

I don’t know how many times she has told me how wonderful my sister is and how much she loves her. More than anyone else. ‘She’s the apple of my eye,’ she once said to me, giving me an intent look. Then what does that make me? How does she expect me to respond? What does she want me to say, feel, think?

On the other hand, she doesn’t hesitate to complain, loud and clear. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how he could say something like that to me, his own mother. Can you understand it? When I went to visit him, at the dinner table I asked him for some pickles, and all he said was: They’re in the fridge. Can you imagine that? I was supposed to get up and go and
look
for them myself in the refrigerator! I would never have treated my own mother that way. Another time I asked your sister to return the rug that I gave her because I decided it would look so nice in the living room now that I’ve had it repainted. But she got furious and told me it was hers to keep. Good Lord, after all I’ve done for her, and that’s the thanks I get?’

One day I have to listen to how adorable my siblings are; the next day I’m expected to comfort my mother because they’ve treated her so badly. And worst of all, they show her no gratitude. The same story, year in and year out. It never ends.

On top of everything else, we’re expected to put up with her constant reminders of what she has done for us. We’re supposed to be so bloody grateful, because of all the sacrifices she has made.

Mamma has always made it perfectly clear that she could have been a big star if it weren’t for us. She once sang on the radio, after all. If she hadn’t given up her career for her children, she could have been another Birgitta Andersson or Lill Lindfors. She was so gifted when she was young. A great dramatic talent. And she could really sing. She was simply amazing – none of her siblings could measure up to her. She was special. But no one saw her greatness, and no one discovered her glory. She received no encouragement at home. And we felt sorry for her, of course. How awful that nobody realized what a promising artist Mamma was. What an awful fate to give birth to us and then be forced to live on a desolate island in the Baltic, far from all the glamour and opportunities in the capital. The fact that things had gone relatively well for all of us – meaning that we had jobs and hadn’t ended up as drug addicts – was solely due to her efforts. If she hadn’t sacrificed herself like a lamb on the altar and squandered her unique talents on three snot-nosed kids, well …

In spite of how self-absorbed my mother was, for years I felt a great admiration for her. I hate duplicity. Even today, it’s not something I’ve been able to master.

I picture her in my mind. My beautiful mother who would hug me and kiss me and love me. And in the next second crush me. A remark, a glance, an expression of disapproval. She had dreams; she encouraged
me
to travel, to experience things and enjoy life. She was ill but she still helped me with my homework. Stroked my hair. Made me hot cocoa. What happened to all that?

We enjoying clowning around as we cleaned, and Mamma would laugh so hard that she had to double over when I teased her with the hose of the vacuum cleaner. I loved to play the buffoon for her. The best thing I knew was making her laugh.

She used to dance in the living room to Miriam Makeba’s song ‘Pata Pata’. Turning and spinning, her eyes closed as she twirled the skirt of her dress. She loved Mikis Theodorakis, Lill Lindfors and Gösta Linderholm. She sang loudly as she did the cleaning. And she looked so cute with a chic scarf wrapped around her blond hair, with those dark eyebrows of hers, and those pink lips.

She was always short of cash, but she liked to set the table with nice things and make it cosy with lighted candles. She made pizza capricciosa, she baked rolls, and she booked a holiday in the mountains even though we really couldn’t afford it. She wanted us to learn to ski, she said.

On Saturdays we would go into town to shop for groceries and buy a treat at the pastry shop. Mamma would buy fancy clothes for herself in the boutiques. We were allowed to drink Cokes through a straw and eat coconut buns. She laughed loudly, she always sang in the car, and she made delicious ham sandwiches to take to the beach. I loved to place my ear against her flat stomach, which always gurgled merrily. And she smelled so good. The skin under her chin was soft and smooth, and I felt so warm when she hugged me.

Her sobbing was heartbreaking. It split me apart.

When I was little, I thought she was perfect – an ideal human being. I was never ashamed of her. And everyone thought she looked so young. In my eyes, she was the most magnificent person in the whole world.

I don’t know what happened after that.

* * *

Whenever Mamma calls, I’m filled with sorrow, tenderness and loathing. I have to stop myself from slamming down the phone when I hear her voice. I force myself to suffer through the conversation. Limit my replies to a few words. Allow her to dump all of her complaints on me, as usual. I hold the receiver several centimetres away from my ear and try to think about something else. But my patience is wearing thin. The conversations have been getting shorter. I can’t stand to listen to her voice.

Soon I won’t be able to control myself any longer.

That inescapable thought keeps rumbling in the back of my mind, like an approaching thunderstorm. I dread what might happen when the storm breaks loose. When the lightning flashes in the sky and the clouds open up to send rain down upon us. Then there will be no turning back. Then all hope will be lost.

And then there will be only one option if I’m going to be free.

KNUTAS CELEBRATED WALPURGIS
Eve with his family at the cottage in Lickershamn. They had a relaxing holiday playing cards, making a fire in the fireplace, eating good food, and taking walks along the shore. Just the four of them.

Normally they spent the Walpurgis holiday with good friends, but this year he and Lina had declined all invitations. Much to the disappointment of his elderly parents, they had even decided against the traditional 1 May dinner at their farm. And the twins weren’t allowed to bring along any friends, as they usually did. Knutas and Lina had agreed that they needed to shut out everything else so the family could spend some time together.

Knutas was nervous before they left, anxious about how things would go. He was uncertain how to act in order to regain Nils’s trust. If that was even possible. The stunned despair that he’d felt immediately after the big scene with his son had gradually subsided. But Nils’s words had left deep wounds, and he wondered if they’d ever heal.

After the fight they had both been polite but cautious towards each other. Knutas didn’t know if it would be wise to broach the subject again, or whether that might just make matters worse. He wished that Nils would take the first step towards reconciliation. When the kids were younger, he’d made sure he had a talk with them after he had yelled at them or they had argued. It was his responsibility as an adult to make things good again. He had always thought that the process of reconciliation was very important. But now he was unsure what would be best. It felt as if everything had been turned upside down. Deep in his heart, he probably
thought
that Nils should apologize for his cruel words. Provided he hadn’t really meant what he’d said, of course. But maybe he did. Knutas felt ill at the thought.

He wondered how this breach of trust had come about. He and Lina seldom fought, he didn’t have any sort of addiction problem, and he wasn’t a violent man. They had a good life together; he did his job and paid the bills. There was always food on the table, and they always attended the parent-teacher meetings at school. The family took a holiday trip every year, and they spent time at their summer cottage. They seldom said no if the children wanted money for the cinema or asked if they could invite friends home. How much could realistically be expected of parents?