The Best Intentions (9 page)

Count:
Don't you
dare
speak to the countess.

Henrik:
I'll have to.

Count:
You're a damned scoundrel, Bergman. Clearly you weren't thrashed enough in your childhood.

Henrik:
And you, sir, if I may say so, are a bounder who was presumably thrashed far too much in your childhood.

Count:
What if I make up for some of your father's sins of neglect by giving you a good thrashing here and now?

Henrik:
If you do, sir, you can count on me hitting back. Go ahead. You may strike first since you, sir, are undoubtedly the elder. The nobler.

Count:
I have high blood pressure and am not supposed to get annoyed like this.

Henrik:
May one hope for a slight stroke. In that case, God is merciful, freeing the earth of such a scoundrel.

Svante Svantesson de Fèste now starts laughing and punches Henrik in the chest with his fist. Henrik smiles in confusion.

Count:
Damn it, you're quite something of an apprentice priest. Well, not bad at all, young man. If you're to get anywhere in this rotten world, you have to stand up for yourself. Did you say the first of September? Then I owe you for July and August. That'll be two hundred and fifty riksdaler. Let's settle up on the spot, and not a word to the ladies, eh?

Henrik:
Our agreement actually included food and lodging until the first of September. But I'll forego that.

Count:
Stay on, won't you? It's pleasant here. And pretty girls! And good food! You must admit we eat well.

Henrik:
No, thank you.

Count:
Christ, you really are stuck-up. Don't you forgive easily, either?

Henrik:
Not in this case.

Count:
Come on then, we'll go and have coffee with the countess and the girls. And your companion. What was his name again?

Henrik:
Ernst.

The count, in a good mood, slaps Henrik on the back.

The day is growing hot, the dust swirling around in the dry puffs of wind. Henrik and Ernst are on their way to Upsala. They are cycling side by side along the bumpy road. Sandals, trousers rolled up a little, shirts open at the neck. Rucksacks filled with diverse necessities. Jackets, underclothes, socks rolled up in raincoats on the carriers. Student caps. Leisurely pace. They set off at five o'clock and after a great many rests and swims have got as far as Jumkils Church.

There are people about, standing in groups and walking along the side of the road, men in their best suits and round hats, collars and
ties. Suddenly Ernst gets a lump of earth between his shoulder blades. He stops and turns around. Henrik stops a little ahead of him. A group of men pass, talking to each other, but not looking at Ernst. A tall, thin man suddenly rushes up and snatches off Henrik's student cap, spits on it, hurls it to the ground, and stamps on it. Henrik is dumbfounded. Ernst pedals past and signals for him to get a move on.

They pass Bälinge station. A special train with a large number of cars has stopped on a siding, and there's a great deal of activity near the train, a brass band unpacking its instruments, flags being unfurled. A hundred or so men are moving about on the dusty sunny-white
open space outside the station.

Ernst:
We'll see if there's going to be any autumn term at all.

Henrik:
Why shouldn't there be an autumn term?

Ernst:
Don't you ever read the newspapers?

Henrik:
How can I afford to?

Ernst:
They say there'll be a general strike and a big lockout. In August at the latest.

Henrik says nothing. He is confused and embarrassed because, as usual, he is ignorant of such matters.

They arrive at about one o'clock at an Upsala empty of people. The sun is straight above Trädgårdsgatan, and the shadows have retreated far in under the chestnuts. They put their bicycles in the cobbled courtyard and unstrap their packs. Anna has already seen them and comes running out. Her cheeks are red, and she is sunburned, her hair in one thick braid. She wears a big kitchen apron with pleated shoulder straps as wide as angel wings on top of her linen dress. She embraces Ernst and kisses him on the mouth, then turns to Henrik and, smiling, holds out her hand.

Anna:
How nice you could both come. Good day, Henrik. Welcome to Trädgårdsgatan.

Henrik:
It's very nice to see you again, Anna.

They are formal and a trifle embarrassed. All of this is in fact unlawful, taking place without parental knowledge and permission.

Ernst:
Cold sponge-down, cold beer, two hours' sleep, and a good dinner, and
after that,
festivities and improvisations. Does that sound good?

The huge tin bath is dragged out onto the kitchen floor, and buckets full of water are poured into it. Henrik and Ernst wash themselves and each other with soap and sponge. Anna has put out two bottles of beer, chilled in the icebox. After they have toweled themselves dry — Anna sitting on the wood box in the hall — and poured the water down the drain by the courtyard pump, they repair to their rooms: Ernst in his usual room and Henrik in the maid's room behind the kitchen. The latter room faces north, is cool and a little dark. The wallpaper is verdigris green and smells of arsenic, the ceiling is high and has damp patches all over it. Henrik stretches out on the narrow, protesting bed. On the wall is a picture of a stagecoach stopping at a country inn, people moving busily around carriages and houses, dogs barking, a horse rearing. A four-legged gilt clock stands on a tall brown-painted chest of drawers with brass fittings, busily and kindly ticking away. The sheets and pillow smell of lavender. The heavy foliage just outside the window is quite still. Then a little breeze comes; the leaves turn slowly and rustle for a moment. Then all is quiet again.

Henrik can hear the brother and sister laughing and talking somewhere deep inside the apartment. He suddenly feels a profound peace. He hardly knows what it is that makes tears come to his eyes. What's really the matter with me? he says to himself. Then he falls asleep.

Ernst rudely shakes him awake: “God, you're a demon for sleep. You've slept for three hours. Come on now, wake up, and I'll show you something amusing. But quiet, go quietly, so that she doesn't notice anything.” Ernst takes Henrik by the hand and leads him out into the kitchen where some preparations for dinner are evident. The door into the hall is half-open. They can hear Anna's voice from the hall. She's talking on the telephone.

Anna:
How nice of you to phone, Mama! Yes, Ernst has arrived all in one piece. What? He was fine. I told you. At the moment he's snoring his head off. I can't hear you very well. I said I couldn't
hear you
very well. Has Papa got a stomachache? He's always having them, poor Papa. What are we going to do this evening? We'll probably go to Odinslund and take in a concert there. Are we alone? What do you mean, Mama? There's only Ernst and me. Goodness, this'll be an expensive call, Mammchen. Give my love to everyone! Big kiss, Mammchen, and don't forget to give Papa a hug from me. What did you say, Mama? My voice sounds peculiar? You imagined it. The line's so bad. Good-bye, Mama. We'll ring off at the same time.

Anna puts down the receiver and winds the handle, then rushes out into the kitchen, pulls her brother's hair, and flings her arms round
his waist. “Watch out for my sister,” says Ernst with tenderness. “Do watch out for her! She's the most honest hypocrite and the cleverest liar in Christendom.”

Dinner is perhaps not particularly well cooked but is festive nonetheless. Ernst has coaxed open the lock to the traffic superintendent's wine cellar and chilled a few bottles of white Burgundy, and there's port wine in the medicine cupboard. The windows are open onto the dusk and the silent street. A thunderstorm is on its way somewhere, and the sun has disappeared, sunk below a purple cloud beyond the copper roof of the library. Anna has got dressed up and is wearing a thin sepia-colored silk blouse with a square neck, long sleeves, and lace cuffs. Her skirt is elegantly tailored, her belt wide with a silver buckle. She has put up her hair into a low knot. Her earrings are small and glitter discreetly, but expensively.

What are they talking9/2/2011 about? Well, the strange experience at Bälinge station, of course, and then about Torsten Bohlin, who has gone to Weimar and is to continue on to Heidelberg. He has written several letters to Anna, which she now finds here at TrädgÃ¥rdsgatan. No one put in a request for the mail to be forwarded. “I've only myself to blame,” says Anna. “Papa never likes my admirers.” “Only Ernst,” says Ernst, and all three of them laugh. Anna takes her brother's hand. “Go and see if there are any cigars in Papa's box,” she says.

And there are — rather dry of course, but passable. Ernst persuades Henrik to tell her about the row at Åkerlunda. Then Henrik suddenly turns to Anna, looks hard at her, and says, “You're going to be a nurse, aren't you?” That prompts Anna to go and fetch a small album. “This is Sophiahemmet, you see, and here at the back, with the windows facing the park and Lill-Skogen, that's where our lecture room is. And those are our bedrooms. It's quite grand, only two to each room. The food's good, and the teachers are excellent. Though strict. And the days long, never less than twelve hours. From half past six in the morning until long past six in the evening. You're pretty well beat by then, I'll have you know, Henrik.” Anna is kneeling on a dining room chair, close to Henrik. She smells fresh and sweetish, not exactly of perfume, but perhaps good soap. Or perhaps she just smells like that. Just of herself. Ernst is sitting at the end of the table, rocking his chair, his cigar between thumb and forefinger. He is looking at his sister and his friend with a smile on his face, and may well be a little drunk. Henrik can feel her upper arm against his own, and her hair tickles him when she bends her head, looking for herself in one of the photographs.
“There I am,”
she says. “You may not believe it. The uniform is not exactly becoming, though the cap's pretty, but we don't
get that until we've qualified.” “My sister's going to be a sister, my sister Sister Anna,” says Ernst, and they laugh. “You two look sweet together,” he adds.

Anna at once closes the album and leaves a space between herself and Henrik. “Do you think my sister's attractive?” “She's more than that,” says Henrik gravely. “What do you mean by that?” Ernst persists. “Don't spoil everything just when we're having such a nice time,” says Anna, slightly annoyed and pouring out some port wine for herself. “I've splashed some on my skirt,” she says. “Henrik, dear, give me the water carafe, would you. Ordinary water's best to get it out. Damn! My lovely skirt!” Ernst and Henrik watch while Anna rubs at the spot with her table napkin. The skirt tightens over the curves of her hips and thighs.

They drink up and do the dishes together. Ernst washes up, Henrik dries, Anna sorts and puts things away in cupboards and drawers. What are they talking about now? The siblings are probably talking about Mammchen. Mama does the deciding, Mama controls, Mama decides. Mama goes to Papa, just as he has sat down in his favorite chair with the morning paper and his morning cigar, and says: “Johan, listen to me now,” or, if it's something serious, “Listen to me now, Åkerblom, we really
must
decide whether we're going to help Carl with his debts this time, too, or whether we let him go to the dogs. It'll be the moneylenders as usual, you know that.” “You must decide,” says Papa Johan. “No, Johan,” Mammchen protests, sitting down. “You know I
always
defer to you in money matters. You mustn't wear that jacket any longer. It's beginning to shine at the elbows!”

The siblings are clever at acting comedy They laugh and act the fool, and Henrik is drawn into it. He has never seen such beautiful people before. He feels a violent yearning but doesn't really know what he's yearning for.

“Or like
this”
says Anna eagerly, imitating Mama Karin. “Now listen to me, Ernst. Who was that lady you were with in Ekeberg's coffeehouse on Thursday? I saw you through the window, all right. What were you talking about that was so secret you forgot both your hot chocolate and the Napoleon cakes? Yes, yes, of course she was quite pretty, very pretty, I'll admit, but was she a really
nice
girl? What's happened to Laura? We really liked her, both Papa and I. Such a pity you don't settle down,
dear
Ernst. You're
much too spoiled
with girls. All you have to do is to crook a little finger, and they come galloping up in droves. Your young friend, whatever his name is, Henrik Bergman, that's it, isn't it? He's another of those gadabouts
who's sure to be up to all sorts of things with girls. He's far too good-looking for a young girl to dare trust him.”

It starts raining in the evening. They have sat down in the green drawing room among the shrouded armchairs and draped pictures. In the fading light, the carpetless wooden floor looks whiter than ever, the contours of the curtainless windows even sharper. Ernst is singing a Schubert song. He has a light baritone voice, and Anna is accompanying him on the piano. It is
Die schöne Müllerin,
the eighteenth song:
Ihr Blumlein alle, die sie mir gab, euch soil man legen mit mir ins Grab.
The notes float gently through the dusky room. Two candles illuminate Ernst and Anna as they lean over the notes.
Ach Träinen machen nicht maiengrün, machen tote Liebe nicht wider blühn . . .

Henrik sees Anna's face, the soft line of her mouth, the gentle shine of her eyes, the shimmering wave of hair. Close to her with his face turned to Henrik, Ernst with his soft, thin hair brushed back from his forehead, the pale mouth, the determined, strongly marked features.

Henrik stares steadily at the two siblings, calling a halt to time. It's not to slip away in the old way this time. Nothing has ever been like this before. He didn't know such colors existed. A closed room opens. The light gets stronger, and his head whirls: Naturally it
can
be like this. So it can be like this for himself as well.