The Summer Book (12 page)

“You really think so?” moaned Sophia, sitting up.

“Awful,” her grandmother assured her. “They’ve got shiny silk curtains that are brown and gold and puce, and they’ve got standing lamps and plastic plates and paintings on velvet – humorous ones, which makes it worse …”

“Okay, okay,” said Sophia impatiently. “Go on.”

“And if someone hadn’t given them the boat they would have stolen it.”

“Who from?”

“From a poor smuggler. And they stole all his contraband, too, every bit of it, and they only drink fizzy drinks themselves. They only took it for the money,” Grandmother went on, warming to her subject. “And they went off without a map and without any oars!”

“But why did they come to our place?”

“So they could hide everything in the ravine and then come back and get it later.”

“Do you believe all that?”

“Some of it,” said Grandmother cautiously.

Sophia stood up and blew her nose. “Now,” she said. “Now I’ll tell you what happened last night. You sit down and listen. When Papa came down to their boat, they wanted him to buy a bottle of ninety-six proof, and it was really expensive. Now you be Papa. Say what he said.”

“He said, very proudly, ‘It’s beneath my dignity to buy ninety-six proof. I’ll find my own liquor if I want some, salvage it from the sea at the risk of my life. So keep your precious rotgut, my dear sir. What’s more, my family doesn’t like the taste.’ Now it’s your turn.”

“‘Oh indeed? So you have a family, sir? And where is this family of yours, pray tell?’”

“‘Nowhere nearby.’”

“But we were right here all the time!” Sophia shouted. “Why didn’t he say we were here?”

“To spare us.”

“Why? Why do we have to be spared whenever something happens? That’s not the truth. We didn’t have to be spared if they were playing dance music!”

“They had the radio on,” Grandmother said. “Just the radio. They were waiting for the weather and the news – to find out if the police were after them.”

“You can’t fool me!” Sophia shouted. “There isn’t any news at one o’clock in the morning. They were having a party and having fun, and we missed it!”

“Have it your own way,” Grandmother said angrily. “They had a party and a lot of fun. But we don’t go to parties with just anyone.”

“I do,” said Sophia defiantly. “I go to parties with just anyone, as long as I can dance! Papa and I both do!”

“Well, then, go ahead,” Grandmother said, and started to walk away along the shore. “Go to a party with crooks if you want. As long as your legs hold out – that’s the main thing. You don’t care about anything else.”

The boat had thrown its rubbish overboard – expensive rubbish that showed exactly what they’d been doing. Most of it had washed up on the rocks.

“Orange peels and sweet wrappers. And crayfish!” said Sophia with emphasis.

“Crooks are famous for eating crayfish,” Grandmother observed. “Didn’t you know that?” She was tired of the whole business and had a feeling the conversation should have been used for some more instructive purpose. And, for that matter, why shouldn’t crooks eat crayfish?

“You’re saying the wrong thing,” Sophia said. “Now, think for a minute. I was saying that Papa had a crayfish party with the crooks and forgot about us. That was how the whole thing started.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Grandmother said. “Well, make up something for yourself then, if you don’t believe my story.”

An empty bottle of
Old Smuggler
was bumping gently against a rock. It was quite possible that he hadn’t forgotten at all, that he just thought it was nice to be on his own. Perfectly understandable, actually.

“
Now
I know,” Sophia burst out. “They gave him a sleeping potion. Just when he was about to go and get us, they put a pinch of sleeping powder in his glass, and that’s why he’s sleeping so late!”

“
Nembutal
,” Grandmother suggested. Grandmother liked to sleep. Sophia stared at her with wide-open eyes. “Don’t say that!” she screamed. “What if he never wakes up!” She turned around and started to run. She was crying out loud in terror, and she turned and jumped and started running, and right then, right there, on top of a rock, held down with a stone, was a huge box of chocolates. It was a great big pink-and-green package tied with silver ribbon. The bright colours made the rest of the island look greyer than ever, and there was no doubt that the wonderful box was a present. There was a little card inside the bow. Grandmother put on her glasses and read it to herself. “Love and kisses to those too old and too young to come to the party.” “How tactless!” she muttered through her teeth.

“What does it say? What did they write?” Sophia shouted.

“It says,” her grandmother said, “what it says is: ‘We have behaved very badly, and it’s all our fault. Forgive us if you can.’”

“Can we?” Sophia asked.

“No,” said Grandmother.

“Yes. We ought to forgive them. In fact, you should always forgive crooks. How nice they really
were
crooks after all. Do you think the chocolates are poisoned?”

“No, I don’t think so. And that sleeping powder was probably pretty weak.”

“Poor Papa,” Sophia sighed. “He just barely escaped.”

And indeed he had. He had a headache all day long and could neither eat nor work.

The Visitor

S
OPHIA’S FATHER EMPTI ED THE GROUNDS
from the coffee pot and carried the flowerpots out to the veranda.

“What’s he doing that for?” Grandmother asked, and Sophia said the plants would be better off outdoors while he was gone.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Grandmother asked.

“For a whole week,” Sophia said. “And we’re going to stay with some people on one of the inner islands till he gets back.”

“I didn’t know that,” Grandmother said. “No one told me.” She went into the guest room and tried to read. Of course, you moved a potted plant to wherever it would get on best. It would do fine on the veranda for a week. If you were going to be gone longer than that, you had to leave it with someone who could water it. It was a nuisance. Even potted plants got to be a responsibility, like everything else you took care of that couldn’t make decisions for itself.

“Come and eat!” Sophia called from outside the door.

“I’m not hungry,” Grandmother said.

“Don’t you feel well?”

“No,” Grandmother said.

The wind blew and blew. The wind was always blowing on this island, from one direction or another. A sanctuary for someone with work to do, a wild garden for someone growing up, but otherwise just days on top of days, and passing time.

“Are you mad?” Sophia said, but her grandmother didn’t answer. The Övergårds came by with the mail, and Papa found out he didn’t have to go into town after all. “Oh, good,” Sophia said, but Grandmother didn’t say a word. She became very quiet and no longer made bark boats, and when she did the dishes or cleaned fish, she didn’t look as if she enjoyed it. And on nice mornings she no longer sat in the woodyard and combed her hair, slowly, with her face turned towards the sun. She just read, and didn’t even care how the books came out.

“Can you make kites?” Sophia said, but Grandmother said she could not. As the days went by, they became strangers to each other, with a shyness that was almost hostile.

“Is it true you were born in the eighteen-hundreds?” Sophia yelled through the window.

“What of it?” Grandmother answered, very distinctly. “What do you know about the eighteen-hundreds?”

“Nothing, and I’m not interested, either,” Sophia shouted and ran away.

The island was blessed with mild night rain. A lot of lumber drifted by and was salvaged. No one came to visit, and there was no mail. An orchid bloomed. Everything was fine, and yet everything was overshadowed by a great sadness. It was August, and the weather was sometimes stormy and sometimes nice, but for Grandmother, no matter what happened, it was only time on top of time, since everything is vanity and a chasing after the wind. Papa did nothing but work at his desk.

One evening, Sophia wrote a letter and stuck it under the door. It said, “I hate you. With warm personal wishes, Sophia.”

All the words were correctly spelled.

Sophia made a kite. The directions were in a newspaper she found in the attic, but even though she did exactly what it said, the kite did not turn out right. The tape wouldn’t stick and the tissue paper tore and the paste got in all the wrong places. When the kite was finished, it refused to fly and kept slamming into the ground as if it wanted to destroy itself, and finally it threw itself in the marsh. Sophia put it outside Grandmother’s door and went away.

What a smart little girl, Grandmother thought. She knows that sooner or later I’ll make her a kite that can fly, but that doesn’t help. That doesn’t matter at all.

One calm day, a little white boat with an outboard motor approached the island. “It’s Verner,” Grandmother said. “He’s back with another bottle of sherry.” For a while she considered being ill, but she changed her mind and went down to meet him.

Verner was looking very dapper, with a linen hat. The boat was obviously from the inner islands, but it made an attempt to be sporty. It had a hogged keel. Verner declined assistance and came towards her with his arms spread wide and called out, “Dear old friend, are you still alive?”

“As you can see,” said Grandmother dryly, allowing herself to be embraced. She thanked him for the bottle, and he said, “You see that I remember. It’s the same sherry I brought in nineteen-ten.”

How silly, she thought. Why could I never bring myself to tell him I hate sherry? And now it’s too late. It really was a shame, seeing that she had now reached the age where a person can safely be truthful about small things.

They took some perch from the live box and ate a little earlier than usual. “Skoal,” said Verner gravely, and turned towards Grandmother. “To the final landscape of our old age, as summer fades. This is a fine moment. Silence settles around us, each of us wanders his own way, and yet we all meet by the sea in the peaceful sunset.”

They took tiny sips of their sherry.

“I suppose,” Grandmother said. “But they did promise a breeze for tonight. How much horsepower does your motor have?”

“Three,” Sophia guessed.

“Four-and-a-half,” said Verner curtly. He took a piece of cheese and looked out the window.

Grandmother could see that his feelings were hurt. She tried to be as nice as she could through coffee, and then she suggested the two of them go for a walk. They took the path to the potato patch, and she remembered to lean on his arm every time the ground was uneven. It was very warm and still.

“How are your legs?” Verner asked.

“Bad,” said Grandmother heartily. “But sometimes they seem to work all right.” And she asked him what he was doing these days.

“Oh, a little of everything.” He was still offended. Suddenly he burst out, “And now Backmansson is gone.”

“Where did he go?”

“He is no longer among us,” Verner explained angrily.

“Oh, you mean he’s dead,” said Grandmother. She started thinking about all the euphemisms for death, all the anxious taboos that had always fascinated her. It was too bad you could never have an intelligent discussion on the subject. People were either too young or too old, or else they didn’t have time.

Now he was talking about someone else who was gone, and about the assistant at the shop, who was so unfriendly. They were building such ugly houses everywhere, and people went ashore on other people’s land without so much as a by-your-leave, but of course there had to be progress.

“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” Grandmother said. She stopped and turned to face him. “Just because more and more people do the same dumb things, that’s nothing to make such a fuss about. Progress is another thing entirely, you know that. Changes. Big changes.”

“My dear,” said Verner quickly, “I know what you’re going to say. Forgive me for interrupting, but you’re about to ask me if I never read the papers.”

“Not at all!” Grandmother exclaimed, very much hurt. “All I’m asking you is, don’t you ever get curious? Or upset? Or simply terrified?”

“No, I really don’t,” Verner replied frankly. “Though I guess I’ve had my share of upset.” His eyes were troubled. “You’re so hard to please. Why do you use such harsh words? I was only telling you the news.”

They walked by the potato patch and came down to the meadow by the shore. “That’s a real poplar,” said Grandmother, to change the subject. “It’s taking root, look. A friend of ours brought over some genuine swan droppings from Lapland, and it liked them.”

“Taking root,” Verner repeated. He was silent for a moment and then went on. “It must be a great comfort to you to live with your granddaughter.”

“Stop that,” Grandmother said. “Stop talking in symbols, it’s old-fashioned. I talk about taking root and right away you’re into grandchildren. Why do you use so many euphemisms and metaphors? Are you afraid?”

“My dear old friend,” said Verner, greatly distressed.

“I’m sorry,” Grandmother said. “It’s really a kind of politeness; I’m trying to show you I take you seriously.”

“It is clearly an effort,” said Verner gently. “You should be a little more careful with your compliments.”

“You’re right,” Grandmother said.

They walked on towards the point in peaceful silence. Finally, Verner said, “Years ago you never talked about horsepower and fertiliser.”

“I didn’t realise they were interesting. Commonplace things can be fascinating.”

“But yourself, personal things – you don’t talk about that,” Verner observed.

“Maybe not about the things that matter most,” Grandmother said. She stopped to think. “In any case, less than I used to. I suppose I’ve already said most of it by this time. And I realised that it wasn’t worth it. Or that I didn’t have the right to say it.”

Verner was silent.

“Do you have any matches?” she asked. He lit her cigarette, and they turned back towards the house. There was still no wind.

“It isn’t my boat,” he said.

“I didn’t think it was. It has a hogged keel, too. Did you borrow it?”