Travelling Light (3 page)

Vilhelm went on. “For instance, about this business of maybe fifty a week. They run themselves ragged. And still they only have time for the young ones, the bastards.”

“Who?” I asked.

“The art critics. Fifty shows a week.”

“And no one asks any more,” Keke said. “We’re over and done with. We were critiqued long ago.” He thought for a moment. “My bum’s getting cold. Let’s make a move.”

As we walked further along the quayside, he asked me what I wanted from life.

I hesitated. Then I said, “Love. Security, maybe?”

“Of course,” he said. “That’s right. In a way – for you at least.”

“And travel,” I added. “I’ve got this real passion to travel.”

Keke was quiet for a while and then he said, “Passion. As you can see, I’ve lived quite a long time, which is to say I’ve been working for quite a long time, which is the same thing. And you know what? In the whole silly business, the only thing that really matters is passion. It comes and it goes. At first it just comes to you free of charge, and you don’t understand, and you waste it. And then it becomes a thing to nurture.”

It was awfully cold. He was walking too slowly, and I was freezing.

Then he said, “You lose sight of the picture. I think we’re out of cigarettes.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Juksu. “Philip Morris – Grandma shoved them in my pocket. She knows what it’s like.”

Keke went over to the other two men. They lit their cigarettes and walked on as slowly as before.

Jonny and I followed them. I whispered, “Are you tired of this? You want to go home?”

“Ssh,” he said. “I want to hear what they’re saying.”

“His clay,” Vilhelm was saying. “It went to an amateur. Some pushy little nobody. He hadn’t been dead two days when this creep comes along and buys the clay from his widow for nothing. And he was old; just imagine that clay.”

“Hang on a minute, Jonny,” I said. “I’ve got sand in my shoes.” But Jonny went on ahead with the others.

When he came back he told me excitedly how clay becomes more and more a living thing over time and how you always use the same clay for every sculpture and you can’t ever let it dry out, and new clay just isn’t the same, it’s not alive…

I asked him which of them was the actual sculptor, but he didn’t know.

“They were just talking about seeing a picture,” he said, “so I don’t know.” But he was very excited and asked if we had anything at home, anything we could offer them. After all, it wasn’t that late. “And anyway,” Jonny said, “this isn’t a chance we’ll ever have again. I really want to.”

I knew we didn’t have much in the house, and Jonny knew it too, perfectly well. Some anchovies, bread and butter and cheese, but only one bottle of red wine.

“That’s enough,” said Jonny. “You and I can just pretend to drink. They’ll stay for a while, long enough, don’t you think? And it’s only just around the corner.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” I said, and he laughed.

Brunnspark was beautiful: everything growing and bursting into leaf. Suddenly I wasn’t tired any more; all I knew was that Jonny was happy.

We all stopped in front of a large bird-cherry tree that was already in full bloom, shining chalk-white in the spring night. As I looked at the tree, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t loved Jonny the way I could have loved him, totally.

Keke looked at me and said, “That’s only a gift; it doesn’t mean anything.”

I didn’t understand. We walked on.

He said, “You know your grandmother never painted anything but trees, and always trees in the same park. In the end she knew trees, the very essence of trees. She’s very strong. She never lost her passion.”

Of course I had huge respect for these men who did nothing but search for their lost passion and cared about nothing else, but at the same time I was worried there wasn’t enough coffee and the house was a mess. And I started thinking about what was on our walls; maybe our pictures were completely unacceptable, just things we liked without having any idea why. Keke asked me if I was cold.

“No,” I said, “One more street and we’ll be home.”

“Your grandmother,” said Keke, “has she ever talked to you about her work?”

“No, she never has.”

“Good,” Keke said, “that’s good. They wrote her off in the sixties but she stuck to her guns. You know, my dear – I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“May,” I said.

“Perfect. You know, it was all Informalism then,
everywhere
; everyone was supposed to paint the same way.” He looked at me and could see I didn’t understand. “Informalism means, roughly, painting without using definite forms, just colour. What happened was that a lot of old, very talented artists hid away in their studios and tried to paint like young people. They were afraid of being left behind. Some managed to do it, more or less, and others got lost and never found their way back. But your grandmother stuck to her own style and it was still there when all that other stuff had had its day. She was brave, or maybe stubborn.”

I said, very carefully, “Or maybe she could only paint her own way?”

“Marvellous,” said Keke. “She simply had no choice. You comfort me.”

We’d come to the door of our building, and I said, “Now we have to be quiet or the neighbours will complain. Jonny, you go up and get something out of the fridge – whatever you can find.”

We got in. Jonny put out the red wine and glasses and our guests sat down and went on with their conversation. We didn’t turn on the lamp; there was enough light from the window.

After a bit Jonny said he had something they might like to see, and I knew he wanted to show them his model ship. He’s been working on it for a couple of years, every detail handmade. So they went into the spare room and Jonny switched on the overhead light. I could hear a murmur of conversation but left them in peace and went to the pantry to put on some coffee.

By and by, Jonny came out into our little kitchen. “They said I’ve got a passion,” he whispered. “A vision of my own.” He was very agitated. “But it’s not theirs, it’s not the one they’re searching for.”

“Great!” I said. “You take in the coffee and I’ll bring the rest.”

When I came out, Vilhelm was talking about the flowering bird cherry we’d seen on the way home. He said, “What can you do with something like that?”

“Just let it flower,” said Keke. “Look, here’s our lovely hostess! Isn’t that right – shouldn’t we just let it flower and admire it? It’s one way to live. Trying to recreate it is another. That’s what it boils down to.”

After the party broke up, Jonny was silent till we went to bed. Then he said, “Maybe my passion is nothing special, but at least it’s mine.”

“It is that,” I said.

I
T WAS CLEAR
from the very start that nobody at Backen liked him. He was a thin, gloomy child of eleven, who somehow always looked hungry. The boy should have aroused people’s most tender protective instincts, but he just didn’t. Partly it was his way of looking at people or, rather, of observing them, with a suspicious
piercing
stare that was anything but childlike. And then he would hold forth in his odd precocious way, and dear God the things he came out with!

It would have been easier to overlook all this if Elis had come from a poor home, but he did not. His clothes and his suitcase were clearly expensive and his father’s car had delivered him to the ferry landing. It had all been arranged by advert and telephone: the Fredrikson family were offering a holiday home to a child for the summer out of the goodness of their hearts, and for a small fee, of course. Axel and Hanna had discussed it thoroughly – all the big-city children in need of fresh air, woods, water, and good food. They had said all the things people usually say to convince themselves that only one course of action would allow them to sleep easily at night. Meanwhile there was all the rest of the work that had to be done in June. Many of the summer residents’ boats were still on their slips and a couple of them hadn’t even been properly checked over.

And so the boy arrived, carrying a bunch of roses for his hostess.

“You really didn’t need to, Elis,” said Hanna, thanking him. “Or was it your mother who sent them?”

“No, Mrs Fredrikson,” Elis answered. “My mother’s remarried. It was my father who bought them.”

“Very kind of him… But couldn’t he have waited a little before driving off?”

“I’m afraid not, an important conference. He sends his respects.”

“Yes, yes, right,” said Axel Fredrikson. “Well, let’s get aboard and get home. The kids can’t wait to meet you. That’s quite a suitcase you’ve got there.”

Elis told them it had cost eight hundred and fifty marks.

Axel’s boat was quite large, a sturdy fishing-boat with a deckhouse, and he’d built it himself. The boy climbed awkwardly aboard and at the first splash of spray he grabbed hold of the seat and closed his eyes tight.

“Axel, don’t drive so fast,” said Hanna.

“He can go in the deckhouse.”

But Elis wouldn’t let go of the seat or even once look out at the sea the whole way there.

The children were waiting expectantly on the dock – Tom, Oswald and little Camilla, whom they all called Mia.

“Well,” said Axel. “This is Elis. He’s about the same age as Tom, so you should get on fine.”

Elis stepped onto the dock, went up to Tom, took his hand, gave a short bow and said his full name: “Elis Gräsbäck”. Then he did the same with Oswald, but just looked at Mia, who giggled uncontrollably and put her hands over her mouth. They walked up to the cottage, Axel carrying the suitcase while Hanna carried a basket of shopping from the local store. She put on the water for coffee; the sandwiches were already made. The children sat round the table staring at Elis.

“Just help yourselves,” Hanna urged them. “Elis is new here, so he can go first.”

Elis half stood up, took a sandwich with a sort of little bow, and said it was remarkably hot for the time of year. The children continued to goggle at him as if bewitched and Mia said, “Mum? Why’s he like that?”

“Ssh,” said Hanna. “Elis, please help yourself to some salmon. We caught four on Thursday.”

Elis stood halfway up again and observed that it was remarkable you could still find salmon when the water was so polluted. Then he told them what salmon cost in town, meaning of course for those who could afford to eat salmon outside of special occasions. Somehow he made them all uncomfortable.

In the evening, when Tom went to empty the slop pail into the bay, Elis followed and saw what he did and talked on and on about the polluted oceans and how irresponsible people were destroying the whole world.

“He’s weird,” Tom said. “You can’t talk to him. He just talks nonstop about pollution and how much everything costs.”

“Ignore it,” said Hanna. “He’s our guest.”

“Weird sort of guest! He follows me round all the time!”

It was quite true. Wherever Tom went, Elis was right behind: the boathouse, the fishing beach, the woodpile, absolutely everywhere.

“What are you doing now?”

“Making a bailer dipper, obviously.”

“Why don’t you have plastic bailers?”

“Just what we need,” said Tom contemptuously. “This dipper’s going to be a special shape, and it’ll take me a while to make it.”

Elis accepted this and said seriously, “Of course. What with decorating it, as well. But it’s such a waste of good work.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, since the world’s going to end, you might as well use plastic.”

And then he’d start in again, the whole thing, nuclear war and God knows what, blah, blah, blah, nothing but endless blather.

Their room was in the attic over the kitchen, with a sloping roof and a window that looked out toward the meadow. In the evening Elis would take ages folding his clothes and hanging them up, placing his right shoe properly next to the left and winding up his wristwatch.

“Yes, but what’s the point of all that?” Tom said. “You said a nuclear war could happen any minute, even tomorrow. Then it’s all down the drain with Friberg’s gherkins.”

“Friberg’s gherkins?”

“It’s just a saying.”

“Why? Who’s Friberg?”

“Lie down and go to sleep and stop being stupid. I don’t feel like talking.”

Elis turned to the wall. His silence was compact, but you knew very well what he was thinking, and you knew that little by little it would all come out, there was no stopping it, and come it did, a soft-spoken litany about the ruined sea and the ruined air and then all the wars and all the people who had nothing to eat and were dying everywhere all the time and what can we do, what can we do…

Tom sat up in bed and said, “But that’s all a million miles away. Come on, what’s really up with you?”

“I don’t know,” said Elis, adding after a while, “don’t be angry with me.”

Then, at last, silence.

* * *

Tom was used to being the eldest and making decisions and giving orders to Oswald and Mia and sorting out the silly things they did; it was just what older brothers do. But for some reason it was different with Elis; totally impossible to get any sense into him even though he was the same age as Tom. You just got angry with him. It didn’t even feel good when he admired you. And it was all so unfair. Like that business with the grebe. It wasn’t Tom’s fault the bird got stuck in the net. These things happen. He threw it in the water and Elis made a big deal out of it. “Tom. That grebe took a long time to die. They can dive tens of metres deep. Did you know that? Think how she must have felt, how long she must have tried to hold her breath…”

“You’re crazy,” Tom said, but it made him feel bad.

Or he might say, “I know what you do with kittens, you drown them. Do you have any idea…?” And on and on – it was unbearable.

Elis buried the grebe up near the road to the town where there had been a forest fire and there was nothing left among the tree stumps but willowherb; trust him to find a spot like that. He put up a cross with a number on it. Number one. Other graves followed – rat-trap victims, birds that had flown into windows, poisoned field mice, all solemnly buried and numbered. Sometimes Elis would remark in passing about all the lonely graves that had no one to care for them. “And where is your own family graveyard? I’m interested. Do you have a lot of relatives buried there?”