The Voices Beyond: (Oland Quartet Series 4) (6 page)

On the coast road down to Kalmar, Lisa glimpsed the island out in the Baltic several times, like a long, black strip on the horizon, and it was frustrating that the Öland bridge went over to the southern end of the island when she wanted to be in the north. She would have to drive down, then back up again.

Eventually, she reached the long, high bridge across the Sound. She had been here on a school trip fifteen years ago when she was only ten; it was cool to be back.

There was a solid line of cars on the bridge, like a shimmering ribbon, and as Lisa pulled up, the smell from the engine quickly got worse.

The bridge was one of the longest in Europe, and it certainly felt like it today as the traffic edged along. The waves glittered far below as the sun blazed down on the tarmac. She hoped her vinyl records wouldn’t melt in the heat. Surely things couldn’t get any worse.

She was wrong. As the car began the climb to the highest point of the bridge, the engine started smoking.

She clutched the wheel and took her foot off the accelerator. The car stopped dead, right in the middle of the traffic. There was nowhere to pull off the road, and soon the cars behind her were sounding their horns. It was midsummer, and ten thousand people had decided to go over to the island at the same time. Every single one of them just wanted to get there.

The sun burned in through the windows, the inside of the car grew hotter and hotter, and Lisa hadn’t thought to bring any water or soft drinks. All she had was chewing gum.

What should she do? Turn around and forget about Öland?

A traffic cop on a motorbike rode up between the cars and pulled into the gap that had appeared when Lisa stopped halfway up the hill.

Fuck.
She lowered her head and hoped he would keep on going.

He didn’t, of course. He got off his bike and knocked on the window. She wound it down.

‘You can’t stop here,’ he said.

‘I don’t want to stop here,’ she said, nodding towards the bonnet. ‘Something’s wrong under there.’

‘With the engine?’ He sniffed the air. ‘I can smell burning.’

‘Me too …’

‘It’s probably the clutch. You’ve been overdoing it on the way up the hill.’ He pointed to the other side of the bridge. ‘It’s OK to drive, but pull off at the first car park and let the engine cool down. You’ll find some of my colleagues over there – they’ll help you out.’

Lisa nodded. She had held a driving licence for five years, but felt like a complete novice as she put the car in gear and gently pressed the accelerator to rejoin the queue of traffic.

She felt much better once she had passed the highest point and was on her way downhill. The acrid, burning smell was still powerful inside the car, but when she opened the window the stench of exhaust fumes came pouring in instead. The queue of vehicles and caravans stretched the entire length of the bridge, and was moving at roughly the same speed as a rowing boat. It was almost twelve thirty. The gig in Stenvik started at two – under normal circumstances, she would have had plenty of time.

It took twenty-five minutes to cover the seven kilometres over the bridge and to reach the island, but the traffic jam continued on the other side. Lisa spotted a large car park on the right and turned off the road.

There wasn’t much room – the police were there, just as the traffic cop had said, and had stopped several cars. Most were small and battered, with very young drivers and passengers who had been asked to get out and open the boot.

Lisa got out and opened the bonnet. God, it stank. The engine was red-hot and ticking angrily, but at least there wasn’t any smoke now. She would wait for a little while before setting off again; that would give her an hour before the gig.

After a while, a police officer came over to the car. She was younger than the cop on the bridge, probably around thirty; she was tanned and wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

‘Problems?’

Lisa nodded.

‘But I think it’s just temporary … Apparently, the clutch needs to cool down.’

‘Good – we need all the space we can get. We’re pulling in a lot of cars.’

‘Is it a speed check?’

‘No. Booze.’

‘Booze?’

The officer nodded over towards an old red Volvo estate. Three lads a few years younger than Lisa were unloading box after box of bottles of wine from the boot, under the watchful eye of two policemen. None of them looked particularly happy.

‘People bring too much alcohol with them at midsummer,’ the officer said. ‘If they’re under age, or seem to be bootleggers, we confiscate it.’

‘Do they get it back?’

‘No, I’m afraid we pour it all away.’ She looked at Lisa’s car. ‘How does it seem now?’

Lisa sniffed, but she couldn’t smell burning any more. Just exhaust fumes.

‘I think I can probably risk it … Do you know if the traffic eases off as you head north?’

‘Not so you’d notice. It is midsummer, after all.’

‘I know,’ Lisa said.

She rejoined the queue; a friendly caravan driver braked to let her in. The traffic was moving a little faster, but still at only fifty kilometres an hour. She wouldn’t gain much time if she tried overtaking; all she could do was relax and try to enjoy the summer weather.

Try to forget about Silas for a while.

It took her almost forty minutes to reach Borgholm, where a lot of cars turned off. After that, Lisa was able to increase her speed, but by then she had only fifteen minutes to go before she was due on stage.

She consoled herself with the thought that she was only the accompanist. Of course, she would have preferred not to play her guitar at the dance at all – she had given up children’s parties and corporate events several years ago – but she needed the money.

At four minutes to two, she turned off the main road and drove down towards the village. The festival site was right by the road, almost at the water’s edge, and it was easy to find: the maypole had been raised on the grass, and the audience had gathered.

Lisa jumped out of the car, took a deep breath of sea air, grabbed her guitar – which was no doubt out of tune by now, thanks to the heat, but would have to do – and ran towards the maypole. It must have been set up that morning, because the birch leaves were still bright green in the sunshine. The two flower garlands beneath the crossbar were dancing in the wind, high above the heads of well-dressed children and adults.

Everyone looked horribly cheerful. A load of rich people in the country. Lisa quickly made her way through the crowd.

‘Excuse me … excuse me …’

She held the guitar by the neck in front of her, almost like a cudgel, and people jumped and moved out of the way when she gave them a shove.

Two older men were waiting on the far side of the pole, one holding a microphone, the other with an enormous accordion resting on his belly. They both nodded to her as she arrived.

‘Aha, here’s our accompanist … Are you Lisa Turesson?’

She nodded, looped the guitar around her neck and took a plectrum out of her pocket. She ran it over the strings and quickly tuned up. That would have to do.

‘We start at two o’clock,’ the accordionist said. ‘You knew that, I presume?’

Lisa stared at him from beneath her fringe.

‘There was a traffic jam on the bridge.’

‘You should have set off in plenty of time,’ the singer said. He looked at her guitar. ‘Ready?’

‘Absolutely.’

He raised the microphone, every trace of irritation gone.

‘Good afternoon, everybody! Can you hear me? Excellent, in that case let me welcome both young and old to Stenvik’s midsummer celebrations. I’m Sune, and Gunnar and Lisa will be accompanying me today. We’re going to sing and play so that you can all dance before you go home and eat your herring and potatoes. Does that sound good?’

A few voices answered, ‘Yeesss …’

‘Good, then take one another by the hand. Don’t be shy now!’

People did as they were told, linking together like a living chain.

‘We’re starting off with “The Priest’s Little Crow” …’ He looked at Lisa. ‘… the song about the poor bird who went out for a drive but ended up in the ditch. Is everyone ready?’

Sune counted them in, and Gunnar and Lisa began to play. People started dancing around the maypole, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

Summer had arrived, and Lisa was earning money.

Everyone was dancing around the maypole. The cult of the sun had begun. Gerlof was sitting on his chair on the grass, wondering if all this wasn’t in fact too late. The summer solstice had fallen four days ago so, technically, the autumn was closer than the spring at this stage, and the darkness closer than the light.

But the sun and the summer were being celebrated anyway, and Gerlof saw many smiling faces beneath the garlands. Several hundred people of all ages were moving in wide circles around the maypole.

Gerlof couldn’t dance; he sat on his chair with stiff legs, thinking longingly of the smorgasbord to come, the herring and potatoes and schnapps. But there was a good atmosphere; he enjoyed listening to the music and watching the people.

He was particularly pleased to see Julia dancing. She had stayed away from Öland for a long time, after her young son disappeared without a trace. Gerlof had brooded about the tragedy for many years and, eventually, he had solved the mystery. One man had ended up in prison and, at long last, Julia had been able to move on, together with a new husband and his children.

Many of the dancers were strangers to him, but Gerlof did recognize the Kloss family, the owners of the Ölandic Resort. They were standing slightly apart, on the edge of the festival site, and they weren’t dancing. Kent Kloss often appeared in the newspaper, pontificating about the importance of tourism to the island. His younger brother, Niklas, was next to him, wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

Their sister Veronica was there too, in a white dress, her chestnut locks flowing. Gerlof hadn’t seen her since last year, when she gave a talk about the Kloss family history in the common room up at the home in Marnäs. She had made the men in the audience – Gerlof included – smile, their eyes sparkling, even though some of them were over ninety. Veronica Kloss was tall and imposing. She could easily have stood on a palace balcony, waving to the masses.

The children were there too today, all boys, just as suntanned as their parents.

Bill Carlson reappeared, wandering around and clicking away in all directions with his camera. Finally, he came over to Gerlof, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Could anything be more Swedish than this?’

‘Swedish?’ Gerlof said with a little smile. ‘Don’t tell Anders Zorn or Carl Larsson, but this is a German festival.’

‘Really?’

‘Originally, yes. German bowmen used a maypole for target practice, before it was adorned with spring flowers. Then the German merchants brought the idea of a flower-clad pole over to Sweden … But most of our flowers don’t come out until June, so the celebration was moved back a month.’

‘Well, there you go,’ Bill said. ‘From warfare to flower power.’

‘That’s what happens sometimes.’

‘So you read a lot of history, Gerlof? It’s something that interests you?’

‘Yes. My own history and that of others.’

Gerlof glanced over at the Kloss family again. They looked relaxed but, for them and the rest of the tourist industry, this was the weekend when everything got under way, for six weeks from midsummer onwards. Tourism on Öland was like a Bengal fire that burned only in the summer, brief but intense.

The dancing went on for half an hour and ended with an exploding ‘rocket’. Everyone gathered around the pole, clapping their hands, stamping their feet and whooping up into the sky and jumping as high as they could to simulate a rocket. They did this three times, and then the party was over.

The circles broke up and people started heading home. Gerlof had no responsibilities, as his daughters were taking care of everything, but he remembered his vow to be polite to strangers, and looked up at his new acquaintance, Bill from America.

‘Are you cycling back up to Långvik, Bill?’

‘Yes. Home for the smorgasbord.’

‘Would you care for a little something before you set off? A glass of wormwood schnapps, maybe?’

‘Can I take a raincheck on that?’ Bill said. ‘Strong drink goes straight to my head these days, and that road is full of potholes …’

Gerlof nodded.

‘Another time, then.’

They kept each other company part of the way along the coast, together with lots of other villagers who were on their way home. Gerlof saw girls picking daisies and speedwell by the roadside, in spite of the fact that, according to tradition, they should be picked after sunset to bring the best possible luck.

Midsummer’s Eve was the long day when everything was supposed to happen but very little actually did. There was love in the air, the youngsters’ love for one another and the older people’s love for nature, but it was often swept away overnight.

Bill and Gerlof parted company at the northern end of the road leading to the village.

‘Give me your phone number,’ Gerlof said. ‘We’re fixing up the boat, so we might manage a fishing trip towards the end of the summer.’

‘Great. And there are more old Americans here on the island who would love to come along, if there’s room.’

‘Possibly,’ Gerlof said. ‘But when it comes to groups, Bill … I think I prefer birds.’

After half an hour, the celebrations were over. They finished off with the song about the three old ladies from Nora, then all the children had to scream as loudly as they could, pretending to be rockets shooting off into the sky.

Then everybody let out a long breath and set off home. The only trace of the dance was wide circles of trampled-down grass around the maypole. Lisa took off her guitar and relaxed.

‘Well done,’ Sune said.

‘Thanks.’

He nodded in the direction of the village bar and restaurant.

‘I hear you’re playing there this summer?’

‘A few times, yes, but mostly down at the Ölandic Resort.’

That reminded her of something important. ‘What about the money?’