After lunch there had been an exchange of presents in the living room, yet another blazing log fire, and enough sofas, armchairs, and other chairs to accommodate even those who hadn’t come. Johansson had as usual been Santa, wearing a red stocking cap but refusing to wear a mask, pleading the heat from the fire, far too many shots at lunch, and the decisive circumstance that the youngest member of the company was actually fifteen years old and clearly old enough to lace his Christmas cider with one or two strong beers when he thought his parents weren’t watching. Although of course he hadn’t said that last thing. It was Christmas, after all, and what did he have to do with it?
At last, however, it was over, and all the food and all the drinks were beginning to have their effect in earnest. The final present from the last of the rows of bast-fiber laundry baskets was doled out; as always to the woman of the house, from the master of the house and without Santa’s assistance. As always more expensive than the rest of the arrangements combined, and as always it was passed around so that everyone could express their proper admiration for the host’s generosity, warm heart, and magnificent financial condition.
“Not too bad,” said Johansson in order to make his brother happy while he held up the glittering necklace. And certainly long enough to go around her waist, thought Johansson, smiling approvingly at his nicely shaped and nowadays, regardless of the season, always suntanned sister-in-law.
“Yes, I’ll be damned how good we rich people have it,” his brother chuckled jovially, waving his thick Christmas cigar and puffing smoke on his youngest brother.
Watch out, thought Johansson, or I’ll sic the business squad on you, and then he withdrew to a corner to talk with his old father in peace and quiet.
“How are you feeling, Papa?” said Johansson in a loud voice as he carefully patted him on the hand.
“Don’t shout, boy, I’m not deaf,” said Papa Evert, grinning with delight at his favorite son and at the same time pushing him in the stomach with his free hand. “It doesn’t look like you’re in want of anything, in any case,” he stated contentedly with a glance at Johansson’s ample middle.
“Papa seems spry,” said Johansson at a normal volume and with filial concern in his voice.
“Oh hell,” said Papa Evert, shaking his head. “It’s probably a good while since I did that sort of thing, and that’s not really something you talk about with your children,” said his papa, who heard what he wanted to hear. “Although I’m spry and sharp, yes indeed, despite all the crap you hear on the radio and read about in the newspaper.”
Almost ninety, almost deaf, half the size he was in his prime, and thin as a rake. But spry, thought Johansson, and you could have it worse than that.
Then Papa Evert got onto his favorite subject-the increasing crime rate that nowadays was more and more often afflicting even Näsåker and its vicinity. There had been a break-in at the school and someone had put their mitts on one of the forestry company’s machines.
“Although with that business at the school I’m damn sure that it’s Marklund’s little bastard, despite the fact that he’s never there otherwise,” said Papa Evert.
It was worse, though, about the forestry machine, considering that such a thing cost several hundred thousand crowns-it had been almost new-and that it was probably someone from outside the district who’d been at it. Lars Martin should send up a few good fellows from the national police in Stockholm. Norrlanders preferably, but it would be best of course if he could come himself.
“You can always ask that brother of yours if you can borrow that bitch of his so you can take the opportunity to do a little hare hunting at the same time,” said Papa Evert, who gladly mixed business with pleasure.
He himself had gotten rid of his hunting dogs the year he turned eighty.
“That’ll be good,” said Papa Evert in order to underscore the weight of his argument, nodding toward his youngest son.
Johansson sighed, not simply from longing for another life than the one he was now living. But before he got involved in a discussion that he preferred to avoid, two of his nephews took over and he went and sat down with his mother.
From the frying pan into the fire, thought Johansson five minutes later, for Mama Elna was not only small, thin, spry, and without the least thing wrong with her hearing, she was worried besides.
“You don’t look healthy, Lars,” said Mama with her head to one side. “You seem overworked, and then I do think you’ve lost a lot of weight since I last saw you.”
Always something, thought Johansson, and at first he almost felt a little encouraged, but that was before she got onto her personal favorite among all the things that worried her where little Lars Martin was concerned.
“You haven’t met anyone,” said Mama Elna, tilting her head from left to right in order to truly show how concerned she was.
“You mean women, Mama,” said Johansson, smiling like a good son.
“Yes, what else would I mean?” said Mama Elna watchfully.
“I guess you always meet one or two,” said Johansson evasively, because he didn’t have the slightest desire to tell his mother about the school of two where he’d wallowed around like a killer whale last week.
“You know what I mean, Lars,” said Mama Elna, who didn’t intend to give up. “I mean something solid, something steady, something like… well, like Papa and me.”
No, thought Johansson. Not like you and Papa, for that kind of thing doesn’t exist anymore.
A while later he excused himself, wished a merry Christmas and good night to all, took his Christmas presents with him-mostly books, including several that clearly appeared to be readable-and went up to his room to read awhile before he fell asleep. For reasons that weren’t entirely clear to him, he also thought about the woman he’d met at the post office up on Körsbärsvägen almost a month ago. Pia, thought Johansson. Pia Hedin, that was her name. Maybe after all, thought Johansson, and then he fell asleep.
The quiet life in the country, Johansson thought a few days later. And for reasons he wasn’t clear about either, and without knowing anything about it, it was life in the Russian countryside he had in mind. The life that was lived in the time of the czars, before the revolution and by a small number of landed gentry. Must be something I’ve read, thought Johansson. Perhaps it was the birch groves down toward the sea, the stillness, the lack of activity while he read his books, took long walks, ate and slept, and watched his brother drive away and come home again in his constant business affairs, the particulars of which he preferred not to think about. No sleigh rides with blazing torches, of course, but no wolves howling in the winter night, either. No balls with champagne and women with plunging necklines who flirted wildly behind open fans in order to keep the cold at a distance. But no anxiety, either, that the cold you caught while you were doing that would also end your brief life.
…
Days came and went, and he himself was only an ordinary, temporarily appointed police superintendent who would soon become a bureau chief and in the meantime was charging his batteries. That was how you ought to look at it. On Saturday, the twenty-eighth of December, the Stockholm chief constable was the birthday child of the day in the big evening tabloid, and because Johansson had met him on several occasions he devoted almost a quarter of an hour of his usual walk to thinking about the day on which his birthday fell. Holy Innocents’ Day, thought Johansson, and regardless of what you thought about the fellow-he had a definite opinion-he was hardly an innocent. Neither in the original meaning of the word nor in the general, everyday pejorative sense it had gotten later. I’m afraid it’s probably worse than that, thought Johansson as he lengthened his stride. For whatever reason, it was certainly the most exciting thing that happened that day.