My Struggle: Book 2: A Man in Love (57 page)

‘So in your opinion he really thought he was writing the truth?’

‘Oh yes, no doubt about it. He’s a good man. But there is something of the pathological liar in him. He eventually begins to believe his own stories.’

‘How is he taking it?’

‘I don’t know. Right now that’s not the first thing you talk about with Arne.’

‘Of course,’ I said with a smile. I drank the last drop of
folkøl
, ate a roll and leaned back in my chair. I knew there was no question of me being allowed to help with the washing-up or anything like that, so I didn’t even bother to offer my services.

‘Shall we go for a walk?’ Linda suggested, looking at me. ‘Then Vanja might go to sleep.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘She could stay here with me,’ Ingrid said, ‘if you want to be on your own.’

‘No, it’s all right, thanks. We’ll take her with us. Come here, my little troll, we’re off now,’ she said, lifted Vanja and went to wash her mouth and hands while I put on my outdoor clothes and prepared the buggy.

We took the path leading down to the lake. A cold wind blew across the fields. On the other side some crows or magpies were hopping around. Up above them, among the trees, large motionless cows stood staring into the distance. Some of the trees were oaks, and they were old, from the eighteenth century, I would have thought, perhaps even older, what did I know? Behind them ran a railway line, and a roar came every time a train passed and resounded across the countryside whenever a train passed. The path ended by a beautiful small brick house. In it lived an old priest – the father of Lars Ohly, chairman of the left-wing Swedish
Vänster
party – who was said to have once been a Nazi. Whether that was true or not I had no idea, rumours of that nature sprang up so easily around famous figures. But now and then he hobbled around, hunchbacked and stooped.

Once in Venice I had seen an old man whose head was so bowed it was horizontal. His neck was at ninety degrees to his shoulders. All he could see was the ground in front of his feet. It took him an eternity to shuffle across the piazza. It was in Arsenale, next to a church where a choir was practising, I was sitting in a café smoking, unable to take my eyes off him from the moment I spotted him. It was an evening at the beginning of December. Apart from the two of us and the three waiters standing with their arms crossed by the entrance, there wasn’t a person in the vicinity. Mist hung above the roofs. The cobblestones and all the old stone buildings, which were covered in moisture, glinted in the light from the lamps. He stopped by a door, produced a key, and he
tipped
his whole body backwards so that he could see where, roughly, the lock was. His fingers groped their way to the keyhole. The deformity meant that none of his body’s movements seemed to belong to him, or rather the unmoving downward-facing head became the focus of attention, which as a result became a kind of centrepiece, a part of the body, though independent of it, where all the decisions were taken and all the movements were decided.

He opened the door and went in. From behind, it looked as if his head was missing. And then, with an unexpectedly violent movement which I would have considered impossible, he slammed the door.

It was eerie, eerie.

A red estate car came up the hill a few hundred metres in front of us. The snow swirled after it in the undertow. We moved to the side as it approached. The rear seats had been taken out and two white dogs ran around barking in the freed space.

‘Did you see them?’ I said. ‘They looked like huskies. But they can’t be, can they?’

Linda shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I think they’re the ones in the house by the bend, aren’t they? The ones that are always barking.’

‘Never been any dogs there when I walked past,’ I said. ‘But I know you’ve said that before. Were you afraid of them? Was that what it was?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe a little,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty unpleasant. They’re on retractable leashes and then they come bounding . . .’

She had lived here for lengthy periods when she was so depressed she couldn’t look after herself. By and large she had spent all day watching TV from her bed in the guest cabin. She hardly spoke to Vidar and her mother, didn’t want anything, couldn’t do anything, everything inside her had come to a halt. I didn’t know how long this had lasted. She had barely said a word about it. But I saw it in many places, such as the concern for her I noticed in neighbours’ eyes or voices.

In the valley we walked past the manor – which was not grand and the buildings were somewhat dilapidated – where the elderly, shrunken patriarch lived. Light shone in the windows, but there was no one to be seen inside. In the drive between the barn and the house were three old cars, one on blocks. They were covered in snow.

It was scarcely credible that we had once sat there, at a set table, beside the swimming pool, one hot dark August evening, gorging on crabs. But indeed we had. Paper lanterns glowing in the darkness, happy voices, a bulging pile of red glistening crabs at each end of the long table. Beer cans, bottles of aquavit, laughter and song. The sound of grasshoppers, distant traffic. Linda had surprised me that night, I remembered, she tapped her glass, stood up and sang a drinking song. Twice she did it. She said this was required of her here, she had always done it. She had been the type of child who performed for adults. She had performed in
The Sound of Music
for more than a year at a theatre in Stockholm when she was at school. Also at parties at home, I supposed. An exhibitionist, as I had been, and equally happy to hide.

Ingrid also made an appearance. When she mingled with the neighbours, hugged everyone, showed the food she had brought along, chatted and laughed she became the centre of attention and everyone had a word to say to her. When there were social arrangements in the district, she always gave a hand, by baking or cooking something, and if anyone was ill or in need of help she cycled over to see them and do what she could.

The party began, everyone sat hunched over their dish of crabs, which had been caught in the lake below, and tossed their heads back now and then as they sank what Swedes call a
nubbe
, a schnapps. The atmosphere was festive. Then came the sudden sound of voices from the barn, a man shouting at a woman, the mood round the table evaporated, some looked, some tried to avoid looking, but everyone knew. It was the son of the old man who owned the manor, he was known to have a violent temper, and now he was taking it out on his teenage daughter, who had been smoking. Ingrid stood up at once and walked over with firm swift steps, her whole body quivering with suppressed fury. She stopped in front of the man, he was about thirty-five, well built, strong, with hard eyes, and railed at him with such vehemence that he shrank before her. After she had finished and he had driven off she put her hand on the daughter’s shoulder – she had been standing close by and crying – and led her to the table. The second Ingrid sat down she tuned into the previous mood and started chatting, laughing and pulling the others along with her.

Now everything was white and still.

Below the manor the path led up to holiday cabins. The snow hadn’t been cleared; no one was here at this time of the year.

During my work on
A Time to Every Purpose Under Heaven
it was Ingrid I had in mind when I was writing about Anna, Noah’s sister. A woman who was stronger than all of them, a woman who, when the flood came, took the whole family up the mountain, and, when the water reached them, took them higher until they could go no further and all hope was lost. A woman who never gave up and who would sacrifice everything for her children and grandchildren.

She was a remarkable person. She filled the room when she appeared while still remaining humble. She might give the impression she was superficial, yet there was a depth in her eyes which contradicted that. She tried to keep her distance, she always kept to the background, always set great store by not getting in the way, yet she was the person closest to us.

‘Do you think Fredrik and Karin had a good time last night?’ Linda said, looking up at me.

‘Ye-es, I think they did,’ I said. ‘It was very nice.’

Somewhere in the distance there was a roar.

‘Even though he called me Hamsun a couple of times too often,’ I continued.

‘He was just messing around!’

‘I did understand that.’

‘They like you very much, both of them.’

‘That, however, I don’t understand. I say almost nothing when we meet.’

‘Oh, you do. Anyway, you’re so attentive it doesn’t seem like that.’

‘Mhm.’

Sometimes I had a bad conscience about being so quiet and uninvolved with Linda’s friends, about my lack of interest in them; it was enough to be present when they were there, like a duty. For me it was a duty, but for Linda it was life, and I didn’t take part. She had never complained, but I had a feeling she wished it were different.

The roar increased in volume. From the crossing bells began to go off.
Ding ding ding ding.
Then I glimpsed movement between the trees. The next moment a train shot out from the forest. Snow rose like a cloud around it. It ran alongside the lake for a few hundred metres, a long line of goods wagons carrying containers of various colours gleaming in all the whiteness and greyness, and then it was gone behind the trees in the forest on the other side.

‘Vanja should have seen that,’ I said. But she was asleep and oblivious to the world. Her face was almost completely submerged beneath the executioner’s cap that went round her neck like a collar and, over it, the red polyester hat with white lining and thick earflaps. She had a scarf as well and padded red overalls with a woollen jumper and woollen trousers underneath.

‘Fredrik was so good to me when I was ill,’ Linda said. ‘He used to come into the ward and fetch me. Then we went to the cinema. Didn’t say a lot. But it was a great help, just getting out. And his taking care of me like that.’

‘All your friends must have done that, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, each in their own way. And there was something about . . . I suppose I understood that I’ve always been on the other side, always been the one to help, the one to understand, the one to give . . . Not unconditionally of course, but in the main. My brother when we were growing up, my father and also my mother, sometimes. And then everything was turned on its head: when I fell ill I was on the receiving end. I had to accept help. The strange thing is . . . Well, the only moments I’ve had of freedom, where I’ve done what I wanted, were when I was manic. But the freedom was so great I couldn’t handle it. It hurt. There was something good about it though. Finally being free. But of course it couldn’t work. Not like that.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Two things actually. One has nothing to do with you. But it was what you said about receiving. It struck me that if I’d been in your position I wouldn’t have accepted anything. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see me. And definitely not to help me. This is so strong in me you have no idea. Receiving is not for me. And it never will be, either. That’s one thing. The second was wondering what you did when you were manic. I mean, since you connect it with freedom so much. What did you do when you were free?’

‘If you won’t receive how can anyone reach you?’

‘What makes you think I want to be reached?’

‘But that’s no good.’

‘Come on, you answer my question first.’

On the left the festival green came into sight. It was a small patch of grass with a few benches and a long table at the back which was generally used only on Midsummer Night, when everyone in the area gathered together to dance round the tall leaf-bedecked pole in the middle, to eat cake, drink coffee and participate in a quiz with an award ceremony concluding the formal part of the evening. I joined in for the first time that summer and waited intuitively for someone to set fire to the post. Surely there couldn’t be a Midsummer celebration without a fire? Linda laughed when I told her. No, no fire, no magic, just children dancing to the ‘Little Frogs’ song around the enormous phallus and drinking fizzy drinks, as everyone did in the smaller communities all over Sweden that night.

The pole was still there. The leaves were withered and reddish-brown with white streaks of snow.

‘It wasn’t so much what I did as how I felt,’ she said. ‘The feeling that anything was possible. That there were no hindrances. I could have been president of the USA, I told mummy once, and the worst of it is that I meant it. When I went out, the social side was not a hindrance; quite the contrary, it was an arena, a place where I could make things happen and be completely and utterly myself. All my inclinations were valid, there wasn’t a speck of self-criticism, there was a sense of anything goes, right, and the point was that anything also
became true
. Do you understand? Anything really
did
go. But I was incredibly restless, of course, there was never enough happening, I had a hunger for more, it mustn’t end, it was not allowed to end, because somewhere I must have had an inkling it would, the trip I was on, that it would end with a fall. A fall into the absolutely immovable. The greatest hell of them all.’

‘That sounds dreadful.’

‘It certainly was. But it wasn’t only dreadful. It’s fantastic to feel so strong. So confident. And somewhere it is
also
real. In other words, it exists in me. But you know what I mean.’

‘In fact, I don’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve never reached that point. I know the feeling. I think I’ve experienced it once, but, heck, that was while I was writing, sitting quietly behind a desk. That’s quite different.’

‘I don’t think so. I think you were manic. You weren’t eating, you weren’t sleeping, you were so happy you didn’t know what to do with yourself. But you have some kind of boundary nevertheless, some security inside you, and this is a lot about not going beyond what you actually, and it is a big actually, can tolerate. If you do something for long enough without the tolerance there are major consequences. You have to pay. It doesn’t come free.’