The Double Silence (2 page)

A few years back they had created a new tradition. Three couples in the neighbourhood who were particularly close friends decided to take a brief trip together each summer. A grown-up trip without the children. Sam Dahlberg was the one who had come up with the idea. He was the driving force in the group, inventive and creative. He thought that since the children were older now, they could treat themselves to a holiday without them for a few days once a year. But it wasn’t supposed to be just an ordinary trip. It had to include some sort of activity, something original. And they couldn’t be away very long, since they had to find someone to take care of the children. Just a few days.

They had gone horse riding in Iceland and river rafting near Jukkasjärvi in northern Sweden. They had bicycled through the vineyard areas of Provence and gone mountain climbing on the North Cape. This year they had decided on a simpler holiday.

First they would attend the annual Bergman festival week on the island of Fårö, then continue on to Stora Karlsö to see the thousands of young guillemots that, at this time of year, glided down from the steep limestone cliffs to set off for their winter habitat in the southern Baltic Sea. The phenomenon was a famous event.

Stina got up with a sigh. Outside the window she caught sight of Andrea walking past, dressed in shorts and a top that fitted snugly to her tall, toned body.

She was walking at a frenetically brisk pace, looking unabashedly alert and energetic. Sometimes Andrea’s efficiency wore Stina out, and she didn’t feel like going along. She had declined Andrea’s invitation when she had phoned earlier. Stina had clearly heard the disappointment in her friend’s voice, but she couldn’t help the fact that she didn’t want to go. Things weren’t the same as before.

Nowadays she mostly went running by herself. When she was alone in the woods her thoughts had free rein, often wandering to the other side of the world. Stina had been adopted from Vietnam, and for as long as she could remember, she had yearned to rediscover her roots. Fragmentary images danced in her mind. The smells of Hanoi’s slums still clung to her nostrils. She had memories of her grandmother’s sinewy hands washing dishes in the sink, of her own feet touching the stone floor, of the privy out in the yard. Just after Stina turned five she had been left on the steps of the orphanage with a note hanging from a string around her neck and a toy rabbit in her arms. When she was six, an unimaginably big couple had come and taken her away from there. She had no memory of her biological mother, or her father. But her grandmother’s face still appeared to her in the night. A wrinkled, toothless old lady with tiny black streaks for eyes, and rough but warm hands. She missed those comforting hands. She had longed for them all her life. For her, they were home, although they undoubtedly no longer existed. Stina was now thirty-seven, and back when she was five, her grandmother had already been old. Not that she had any plans to try to find her. As a teenager Stina had attempted to get in touch with the orphanage, but it had been shut down years before. She had tried to get help from the embassy, but that proved difficult. There was no information about her. All she had was the address where the orphanage had once been located. And her adoptive parents had convinced her that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go there. She wouldn’t find what she was looking for. Sorrow and a nostalgia for her origins and her grandmother’s hands had settled like a dark weight inside of her, casting a shadow over her life.

She tried to gloss over it, to think about how fortunate she had been. She could have easily died of starvation on the streets or been sold to one
of Hanoi’s many brothels. Instead, she had enjoyed a secure and sheltered life and never lacked for anything.

Her adoptive parents were calm and nice, although slightly reserved in a way she had never been able to understand. They always kept a certain distance; it felt as if deep in their hearts they regarded her as a stranger, no matter how much they tried to show that they loved her, that she was their very own daughter. Really and truly. They treated her well and with respect, but their good-night hugs had seemed more obligatory than heartfelt. Her adoptive mother frequently said that she loved Stina, but there was no warmth in her voice. Her maternal solicitude was marked by an uncertainty that Stina was aware of throughout her childhood. Sometimes she would catch her mother surreptitiously studying her. On those occasions, the look in her eyes was surprised, almost frightened, with even a trace of aversion. That look told Stina more than all the years filled with assurances of love, the splendid birthday presents, and generous pocket money. At times Stina wondered why her parents had adopted her. She sensed that, in any case, she had never met their expectations.

As soon as she had turned eighteen, she had moved away from home and applied for a job with various airlines; the biggest of them hired her. It wasn’t long before she met Håkan on a flight across the Atlantic. He looked to be at least ten years older than her and projected a self-confidence that she had never before encountered in a man. They chatted more than she usually did with passengers, and before he got off the plane, he had given her his business card.

A few days later Stina was seized by an impulse and phoned him. He sounded happy to hear from her and invited her to lunch in Stockholm. A year later she moved in with him on Gotland, in the house where he and his ex-wife had lived. At first that bothered her. Håkan already had two children and a dog, and living all around them were neighbours and former friends that he and his wife had known. And then she arrived. A mere slip of a woman, sixteen years younger than Håkan, and to top it all off, Asian in appearance – as if directly imported. Of course people had made an effort to be nice, but she was aware of what they said when her back was turned. It was a relief to move away from there to the newly
developed Terra Nova, where everyone was starting from scratch. Nobody knew anyone else. She had been pregnant and immediately found new friends. All it took was one visit to the antenatal clinic. There she met Andrea, who had just moved in and was also expecting a baby. They became best friends, and gradually their group of acquaintances expanded.

As her family and social circle grew, Stina began to feel more secure. And they had a good life, she and Håkan. Two wonderful daughters, a big house with a garden and a swimming pool that they’d had installed last year when the company gave Håkan an extra big bonus. She still enjoyed her job as a flight attendant. Maybe it was because the atmosphere on board suited her. It was a temporary situation; everyone was always on their way somewhere else, and she had only superficial contact with the passengers. She forged no permanent bonds with anyone. Her colleagues came and went, and she was always working with new people.

She had filled the emptiness in her own way. No one had any idea what went on underneath, but soon everything was going to change. Her life was about to take a dramatic turn. Although she was terrified by the thought of the consequences, she realized that this change was inevitable. She had reached a crossroads. With one blow her secure existence would be turned upside down, and she was the one who had made that choice.

There was no going back.

AT THE FOOT
of the stairs, she stops abruptly. She is staring upwards, nervously biting her lower lip. Her expression is rigid, focused. Her body is on high alert, like a hunted animal, listening, watching. Not a sound. She is pale but beautiful; her lips are painted red. Her dark tresses reach all the way past her waist. Her body is slender; she has long bare arms; she is wearing a skimpy top and shorts. She has kicked off her shoes. She puts one foot on the stairs made of Gotland limestone. Her red-painted toenails look like ripe wild strawberries – a lovely contrast with the grey. The light falls in from the side, creating a suggestive shadow play.

Just as she’s about to go upstairs, she hears a sweeping sound behind her and she freezes. In a second the man is upon her, grabbing hold of her long hair and yanking her backwards. She falls on to the hall floor.

‘Cut!’

Sam Dahlberg lifted his eyes from the monitor, relaxed, and brushed the hair back from his forehead. The actors cast him enquiring looks. Was he finally satisfied? This was the twelfth take of the same scene. The lead actress, Julia Berger, was starting to get a headache.

‘We’ll take it one more time.’

Stifled sighs, resigned expressions. One person dared to shake his head, cursing the director who was never satisfied. And the cinematographer felt the same way. It was stuffy and hot in the house near Bungeviken where they were shooting the very last scenes, and the crew was running out of patience. It was past seven in the evening, and they’d been at it since dawn.

Everyone was exhausted and hungry. Julia Berger shrugged and turned her hands palm up as she spoke to the director.

‘First, I’m going to need a cigarette and a glass of water. Just so you know.’

She and her fellow actor disappeared out to the veranda facing the sea. A crew member rushed to take them some water. It was important to keep the star in a good mood. She was a temperamental diva, and on more than one occasion she had simply walked out, leaving the whole film crew in the lurch, because she’d lost patience and didn’t get her own way.

Sam Dahlberg refused to be deterred. He could feel in his gut that this movie was going to be good. Really good. That was why he didn’t want to take any risks. Retakes were necessary. He and the cinematographer had agreed to make sure that they had enough footage when they went to the editing room.

Sam quickly finished off a bottle of mineral water. In spite of the heavy downpour, it was damned hot. The crew relaxed, chatting to each other. One person ran to the toilet; another went out for a smoke. Everybody knew that the break would last a few minutes.

When Sam once again took his seat in the director’s chair, the effect was immediate.

‘OK, let’s do it again,’ shouted the director’s assistant.

The hum of voices stopped at once. Everyone turned to look at Sam, then at each other. Their posture changed from relaxed to alert, their expressions attentive. An air of concentration filled the set. Sam looked at the people around him. It was like a dream play every time. The actors, the script, the cinematographer, and the rest of the film crew: everyone with an important part to play in completing the scene. He loved it, the way everybody joined forces in one intense moment. There was something magical about it. And an unpredictability. It was impossible to tell what might happen. Often something unexpected would occur, no matter how well he planned the production, going through the script in great detail with everyone involved, spending weeks in advance with the cinematographer and checking out all the film locations. He had to know how the light fell at various times of the day, what sounds they could
count on hearing, how the site would function in practice for everyone involved. He liked to be well prepared. Only then was there room for spontaneity. Sam Dahlberg had spent years learning these techniques. He loved his job. For him, it was the very heart of his life, giving him the space to breathe. He surveyed the set one last time. Everything was ready. A giddy feeling filled his stomach; everyone was awaiting his signal. All of these people. They were waiting for him and no one else. He cast a quick glance at his assistant director.

‘Quiet. Rolling. Camera.’

The same scene was repeated. In Julia Berger’s defence, it had to be said that even though she might be feeling annoyed, she gave her all every time the cameras rolled – no matter now many takes it took. He admired her professionalism. When they finished the scene, everyone waited in tense silence. Now Sam had everyone’s attention. He hid his face behind a handkerchief and wiped away both the sweat and a few tears that had trickled from his eyes. Then he looked at his colleagues and his face broke into a happy grin.

‘Bloody good job. I think, by God, that we’ve just done the last take on the film. Just a second.’

He motioned for the cinematographer, and together they watched the scene on the monitor, accompanied by some indistinct murmuring. Then they nodded and slapped each other on the back. Everyone waited tensely. Sam raised his eyes.

‘I think we’ve made a movie here.’

A grateful cheer rose from the set. The lead actors, who had just been involved in a fight, embraced each other a bit longer than might be considered purely professional, if anyone from the film crew had bothered to notice. But everybody was busy congratulating each other, hugging and patting one another on the back.

‘Unbelievable,’ exclaimed Sam happily. ‘That’s a wrap. Two months of filming are over. You’ve all been amazing. Now it’s time to celebrate.’

HÅKAN EK LEFT
the office early on that Friday afternoon. He had five weeks of holiday ahead of him. He couldn’t remember when he’d been away from his job for so many weeks in a row. If ever. He enjoyed his work as the sales manager for a large electronics company in Visby, but now he felt he needed a holiday.

His mobile beeped before he’d even left the car park. A message from Klara.
Phone me
. He frowned. What now? His daughter from his first marriage was his only real worry. She was a restless young woman who lived in central Stockholm and suffered from an eating disorder. She’d also had problems finding a job and coping with various boyfriends. But Håkan was used to it. By now Klara’s troubles were an inevitable aspect of his life, like a body part that was always tender and needed care.

But his daughter was not his only child from a failed relationship. From his second marriage he had a son who was now in his late teens, but he had little contact with the boy. The divorce had been a painful and long-drawn-out affair. He hardly ever spoke to his second wife, Helena. After they divorced, she and their son had moved in with her parents in Haparanda in the far north. But he was in regular touch with his first wife, Ingrid. Their marriage had fizzled out so many years ago that it felt like another lifetime. After they went their separate ways, it had taken years before she decided to remarry. She said she was very picky. She used to quip that she was used to the best. Håkan appreciated the fact that they were able to joke about their past, sometimes talking on the phone for hours. Nobody could make him laugh the way she did. The thought
regularly occurred to him that he’d actually been happier with Ingrid than he was with Stina. They both belonged to the fifties generation and had a lot in common. They had watched the same TV programmes, gone to the same dance clubs. They knew the same dances, songs and bands. They liked the same musicians, and they had the same sense of humour.