We stood in silence in the forest for a little while. This was my seventieth New Year’s Day. The thought of how few I had left was a frightening one. I shuddered, and Lisa turned to face me. She was smiling.
‘Coffee,’ she said. ‘I’m going to write a detailed account of last night’s fire.’
Everything was quiet in her apartment block. As if to protest at the unwelcoming silence, she stomped noisily up the concrete stairs. A dog started barking, but stopped when a man yelled at it. I followed one step behind and reached out my hand, but I didn’t touch her.
She made coffee while I sat on the sofa where I had once tried to sleep.
We drank our coffee at the kitchen table, ate a couple of sandwiches, didn’t say much.
‘I ought to get some sleep,’ she said as she cleared the table. ‘Otherwise I’ll think it was all a dream.’
‘I can assure you that house really did burn down.’
Lisa leaned against the draining board and looked at me.
‘What’s going on out there on your islands? Houses going up in flames in the small hours. I’d never experienced the roar of a fire until last night.’
‘It was arson,’ I said. ‘There’s no proof yet, but everyone knows. Someone who helped to put out the fire probably started it.’
‘It shouldn’t be impossible to find out who’s responsible,’ she said almost crossly. ‘There aren’t very many of you. There are comparatively few inhabited islands.’
‘No one profited from burning down my house. Who has anything to gain from destroying the Valfridssons’ property? Or from seeing the widow Westerfeldt’s pretty home collapse in ruins? It seems like total insanity to me.’
‘Could it be revenge?’
‘We all have our differences; envy can eat away at someone over the years. But surely no one would go so far as to risk people being burned alive!’
‘The desire for revenge can send you crazy.’
‘We’re too simple for that kind of thing out here on the islands.’
‘You don’t come from the islands.’
I looked at Lisa in surprise.
‘I don’t, but my family does. I also have a profession which the local residents approve of; I’m a doctor, I’m regarded as useful. I have a kind of honorary status as an islander. I probably don’t really “belong” in the archipelago; I don’t have a stamp on my soul. But I’m accepted.’
We didn’t say any more. I could tell from her expression that she didn’t agree with me, but it wasn’t worth pursuing the matter.
As if it were the most self-evident thing in the world, we went and lay down on her big bed. I listened to her steady breathing as it grew deeper. At first I saw the flames dancing, then I fell asleep.
It was ten thirty when I woke up. My head felt heavy, my mouth was dry. I could hear the muted sound of the radio from the kitchen, the clink of coffee cups. I coughed, and a chair scraped. Lisa appeared in the doorway in her dark blue dressing gown with a glass of water in her hand.
‘If you feel the way I do you’ll want a glass of water,’ she said.
I drained the glass as she watched.
‘Painkillers?’ I said.
She came back with the same glass, this time full of a sparkling analgesic solution.
I drank it down and leaned back against the pillows.
‘How’s it going with your article?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t started it yet. But soon.’
‘Are you going to write about the voluntary firefighter who’s sleeping in your bed?’
‘I don’t think anyone would be interested in that.’
My phone rang; it was Kolbjörn, the electrician. He didn’t ask where I was, he simply wished me a Happy New Year then got to the point. He’s not a man who converses unnecessarily.
Apparently a small group of those who had helped out last night had come to a decision and were ringing round other residents of the archipelago. Kolbjörn had been asked to contact me.
I could tell from his gravelly voice that he was hungover. Or perhaps he was still drunk. There were rumours that he was something of a binge drinker, but no actual proof. He had never given the impression that he had been drinking when he worked for me, nor in my grandparents’ day when he was a young electrician serving his apprenticeship with a man called Ruben. That was before he joined the merchant navy.
‘We’re going to have a meeting in the local history association centre,’ he explained. ‘We’ve decided to wait until Twelfth Night. Two o’clock in the afternoon. We want as many people as possible to be there; we’re going to talk about these arson attacks and what we can do.’
‘To stop them?’
‘To catch whoever’s responsible. Then they’ll stop.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said. ‘Two o’clock.’
Lisa had left the bedroom while I was on the phone; the door of her study was ajar.
She was sitting at her desk, writing. Her dressing gown had ridden up her thighs. I realised that my need for sex was not a spring that had dried up for the rest of my life. That definitely wasn’t true.
However, I didn’t want her to see me peeping through the door. I moved away, made a noise with my glass and sat down at the table.
She emerged with the notepad in her hand.
‘I’m writing about the fire, but I’m saying that I ended up there because I was at a New Year’s party on one of the islands. I’m not mentioning any names.’
‘Shouldn’t you at least mention Jansson’s name? The former postman who was at the party? If nothing else, it would please him greatly if he appeared in the local paper. His first name is Ture.’
Suddenly I realised she wasn’t listening. She looked anxious, but her voice was firm when she spoke.
‘I’m used to being alone. Right now I need to be alone. And I need to write.’
‘You won’t even notice I’m here. I’ve perfected the art of being quiet.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I need to close everything down around me.’
I sat down on the chair in the hallway to tie my shoes. Lisa stood in the kitchen doorway, still holding the notepad. When I got up and attempted to give her a hug, she moved away.
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’m not being unkind, that’s just the way it is.’
I drove to the harbour. In a field next to the long inlet I saw a skier making his way over the thin covering of snow. A dog was racing along in front of him, as if tracking some unknown quarry.
I parked the car in its usual place. A biting wind was blowing in off the sea. I couldn’t resist the temptation to go and take a look at Oslovski’s garage, but it was all locked up. Through the dirty window I could see the emptiness left behind after the theft of her DeSoto Fireflite. I had a lump in my throat; I missed the person called Oslovski, the person I had hardly known but who had been close to me. Her glass eye had seen me more clearly than others’ eyes. Perhaps I was actually experiencing grief at her loss?
I walked down to the harbour, which was deserted on this New Year’s morning. As I set off for home, the black sea seemed to be feeling the cold just as much as I was.
It snowed during the night of 5 January. When I reached the local history association centre, which was situated in an inlet below the church, I could see footprints leading up from the jetty. I squeezed my boat in between an old wooden craft from Krutholmen and Holmén the pilot’s Pettersson boat from 1942. It looked as if a lot of people had turned up. The tracks in the snow made me think of a flock of crows that had wandered around for a long time before flying away.
The aroma of coffee and a welcoming fire greeted me as I walked into the spacious room. Kolbjörn Eriksson nodded, then came over and shook hands. His own hand was as big as a bear’s paw.