Italian Shoes (23 page)

Louise understood how I must miss him, while Harriet wondered how I could possibly feel sad about an old cripple of a dog who was finally at peace.

Weeks passed, and still I didn't start work on the boat. It was as if I were waiting for something to happen. Perhaps I ought to write a letter to myself, and explain what my plans for the future were?

The days became longer. The snow in the rock crevices started to melt. But the sea was still frozen.

In the end, the ice began to lose its grip. I woke up one morning to find navigable channels running all the way to the open sea. Jansson arrived in his motorboat: he had put the hydrocopter in store. He had decided to buy a hovercraft in time for next winter. I'm not sure that I understood what a hovercraft was, despite the fact that he gave me a detailed description without my asking for it. He begged me to examine his left shoulder. Could I feel that there was a lump there? Might it be a tumour?

There was nothing. Jansson was still as fit as a fiddle.

That same day I removed the tarpaulin from the boat, and started to scrape the shell. I managed to clear the stern of old paint.

My intention was to continue the following day. But something happened to prevent that. As I was on my way down to take my morning bath, I discovered that a little motorboat was beached by the jetty.

I stopped dead and held my breath.

The door to the boathouse was open.

Somebody had come to pay me a visit.

THERE WAS A
glint of light inside the boathouse. Sima emerged from the darkness, sword in hand.

‘I thought you were never going to wake up.'

‘How did you get here? What's that boat you've beached down by the jetty?'

‘I took it.'

‘Took?'

‘From the harbour. It was locked. But the chain that can stop me hasn't been invented yet.'

‘You mean you stole the boat?'

My cat had come to the jetty, and was observing Sima from a distance.

‘Where's your dog?'

‘He's dead.'

‘What do you mean, dead?'

‘Dead. There's only one kind of dead. When you're dead, you're not alive. Unalive. Dead. My dog is dead.'

‘I had a dog once. It's dead as well.'

‘Dogs die. My cat won't live much longer either. She's also old.'

‘Are you going to shoot it? Do you have a rifle?'

‘I wouldn't dream of telling you. I want to know what you're doing here, and why you stole a boat.'

‘I wanted to see you.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I didn't like you.'

‘You wanted to see me because you don't like me?'

‘I want to know why I don't like you.'

‘You're mad. How come you know how to handle a boat?'

‘I spent some time at a reform school on the shore of Lake Vättern. They had a boat.'

‘How did you know where I lived?'

‘I asked an old bloke sweeping up leaves outside the church. It wasn't hard. I just asked about a doctor who'd hidden himself away on an island. I told him I was your daughter.'

I gave up. She had an answer to every question. Hugo Persson was employed to keep the churchyard in good order, and I knew he was a gossip. He had presumably told the girl how to get here – it wasn't difficult: straight out towards Mittbåden where the lighthouse was, then through the Järnsundet channel with the high cliffs on either side, and so to my island, where there were two broom beacons close to the rocks at the mouth of the inlet to my boathouse.

I could see that she was tired. Her eyes were dull, her face pale, her hair carelessly pinned up with cheap hairslides. She was dressed entirely in black, and her trainers had a red stripe.

‘Come with me to the house,' I said. ‘You must be hungry. I'll get you some food. Then I'll call the coastguards and tell them that you're here, and that you've stolen a boat. They can come and fetch you.'

She said nothing, nor did she threaten me with her sword. When we'd settled down in the kitchen, I asked her what she wanted.

‘Porridge.'

‘I didn't think people ate porridge any more.'

‘I've no idea what people do. But I want porridge. I can make it myself.'

I had some oats, and a tin of apple sauce that wasn't too far past its use-by date. She made the porridge very thick, pushed the tin of apple sauce out of the way and filled up her bowl with milk. She ate slowly. The sword was lying on the table. I asked if she wanted coffee or tea. She shook her head. She wanted only porridge. I tried to work out why she'd come to the island to visit me. What did she want? The last time we'd met, she had come running at me with the sword brandished over her head. Now she was sitting at my kitchen table, eating porridge. It didn't make sense. She rinsed out her bowl and stood it on the draining board.

‘I'm tired. I need to get some sleep.'

‘There's a bed in that room over there. You can sleep there. But I should warn you that there's an anthill in the room. And as it's spring now, they've started to become active.'

She believed me. She'd been doubtful about whether my dog was dead, but she believed what I said about the anthill. She pointed at the sofa in the kitchen.

‘I can sleep there.'

I gave her a pillow and a blanket. She didn't take any clothes off, nor did she remove her shoes; she just pulled
the blanket over her head and fell asleep. I waited until I was sure, then went to get dressed.

Accompanied by the cat, I went back to the inlet. The boat was a Ryd with a Mercury outboard motor, 25 h.p. The bottom of the boat had scraped hard against the stones on the seabed. There was no doubt that she had beached the boat intentionally. I tried to see if the plastic had split, but I couldn't find any holes.

It was a post day: Jansson would notice the boat. I had only a few hours in which to decide what to do. It wasn't a foregone conclusion that I would in fact call the coastguards. If possible, I would prefer to persuade her to go back to Agnes without the authorities being involved. I also had my own interests to think about. It was hardly appropriate for an old doctor to be visited by runaway girls who stole boats.

With the aid of a boathook and a plank used as a lever, I managed to get the boat back into the water. I used the boathook to propel it as far as the jetty and tied it to the stern of my little rowing boat. There was an electric starter, but it needed a key and, needless to say, that hadn't been in the ignition when Sima stole the boat. She had used the drawstring, and I did the same. The engine started at the fourth attempt. The propeller and pinion were undamaged. I reversed away from the jetty, and aimed the boat at two rocky skerries known as the Sighs. Between them was a small natural harbour hidden from view. I could leave the stolen boat there for the time being.

It is not clear why the two skerries are known as the Sighs. Jansson maintains that a long time ago, there was
a wildfowler in these parts by the name of MÃ¥sse who used to sigh every time he shot an eider.

I don't know if it's true. The skerries are not named on any of my charts. But I like the idea of barren rocks rising out of the sea being called the Sighs. You sometimes get the feeling that trees are whispering, flowers murmuring, berry bushes humming unknown melodies, and that the wild roses in the crevices behind Grandma's apple tree are playing beautiful tunes on invisible instruments. So why shouldn't skerries sigh?

It took me almost an hour to row back to the jetty. No chance of a morning bath today. I walked back up to the house. Sima was asleep under the blanket. She hadn't moved at all since lying down. As I watched her, I heard the throbbing sound of Jansson's boat. I walked back down to the jetty and waited for him. There was a gentle north-easterly breeze, the temperature was around plus five, and spring still seemed a long way off. I noticed a pike near the end of the jetty, but then it darted away.

Jansson had problems with his scalp today. He was afraid that he was starting to go bald. I suggested he should consult a hairdresser. Instead, he unfolded a page he'd ripped out from some weekly magazine or other and asked me to read it. It was a whole-page advertisement for a miraculous potion that promised immediate results; I noticed that one of the ingredients was lavender. I thought of my mother, and told Jansson that he shouldn't believe everything he read in expensive advertisements.

‘I want you to give me some advice.'

‘I already have done. Consult a hairdresser. He will no doubt know a lot more about hair loss than I do.'

‘Didn't you learn anything about baldness when you trained as a doctor?'

‘Not a lot, I have to admit.'

He took off his cap and bowed his head as if he were suddenly expressing subservience. As far as I could tell his hair was thick and healthy, not least on the crown of his head.

‘Can't you see that it's getting thinner?'

‘That's only natural as you grow older.'

‘According to that advert, you're wrong.'

‘In that case I suggest you order the stuff and massage it into your scalp.'

Jansson crumpled up the page.

‘I sometimes wonder if you really are a doctor.'

‘Whatever, I can tell the difference between people with genuine aches and pains, and hypochondriac postmen.'

He was about to respond when I noticed that his gaze deviated from my face and focused on something behind my back. I turned round. Sima was standing there. She had the cat in her arms, and the samurai sword was hanging from her belt. She said nothing, only smiled. Jansson stared. Within days the whole of the archipelago would know that I was being visited by a young lady with dark eyes, tousled hair and a samurai sword.

‘I think I'll go ahead and order that lotion,' Jansson said in a friendly voice. ‘I'd better not disturb you any longer. I haven't got any post for you today.'

I watched as he backed away from the jetty. When I turned round, Sima was on her way to the house. She had put the cat down halfway up the hill.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking, when I entered.

‘Where's the boat?' she asked.

‘I've moved it to where it can't be seen.'

‘Who was that you were talking to down by the jetty?'

‘His name's Jansson, and he delivers mail out here in the archipelago. It wasn't good for him to have seen you here.'

‘Why not?'

‘He gossips. He blabs.'

‘That doesn't bother me.'

‘You don't live here. But I do.'

She stubbed out her cigarette in one of Grandma's old coffee saucers. I didn't like that.

‘I dreamt that you were pouring an anthill over me. I tried to defend myself with the sword, but the blade broke. Then I woke up. Why do you have an anthill in that room?'

‘There was no reason for you to go in there.'

‘I think it's pretty cool. Half the tablecloth has been swallowed up by it. In a few years the whole table will have been covered.'

I suddenly noticed something I had overlooked before. Sima was agitated. Her movements were nervous, and when I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was rubbing her fingers together.

It struck me that many years ago I had seen that same
strange, nervous finger-rubbing in a patient whose leg I'd been forced to amputate, because of complications to do with his diabetes. He had an acute fear of germs, and was unstable mentally, suffering deep depressions.

The cat jumped up on to the table. Until a few years ago I always used to shoo it down again, but I no longer did. The cat has beaten me. I moved the sword so that she wouldn't injure her paws. When I touched the hilt of the sword, Sima gave a start. The cat rolled up into a ball on the waxed cloth and started purring. Sima and I watched her in silence.

‘Come clean,' I said. ‘Tell me why you're here and where you think you're going to. Then we can work out the best way of proceeding without unnecessary problems.'

‘Where's the boat?'

‘I've moored it in a little cove between two small islands known as the Sighs.'

‘Why would anybody call an island a sigh?'

‘There's a reef out here called the Copper Bottom. And some shallows just off Bogholmen are called the Fart. Islands have names just like people do. Sometimes nobody knows where they come from.'

‘So you've hidden the boat?'

‘Yes.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I don't know if that's anything to thank me for. But if you don't come clean soon I shall pick up the phone and ring the coastguard. They'll be here within half an hour and take you away.'

‘If you touch that phone I shall cut your hand off.'

I took a deep breath and said: ‘You don't want to touch that sword because I've had hold of it. You're afraid of germs. You're terrified your body is going to be invaded by contagious diseases.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

I was right. A sort of invisible shudder passed right through her body. Her hard exterior had been penetrated. So she counter-attacked. She grabbed my ancient cat by the scruff of its neck and threw her in the direction of the firewood box. Then she started screaming at me in her native language. I stared at her, and tried to tell myself that she wasn't my daughter, wasn't my responsibility.

She suddenly stopped yelling.

‘Aren't you going to pick the sword up? Aren't you going to take hold of the hilt? Cut me to pieces?'

‘Why are you so horrible?'

‘Nobody treats my cat the way you've just done.'

‘I can't stand cat fur. I'm allergic.'

‘That doesn't give you the right to kill my cat.'

I stood up to let the cat out. She was sitting next to the outside door, eyeing me suspiciously. I went out with her, thinking that Sima might need to be alone for a while. The sun had broken through the cloud cover, it was dead calm, and the warmest spring day so far. The cat disappeared round the corner of the house. I glanced surreptitiously in through the window. Sima was standing at the sink, washing her hands. Then she dried them carefully, rubbed the hilt of the sword with the towel and put the sword back on the table.