Every word was like a sharp stone paving the path to my ruin. From the very first words: Diagnosis: chondrosarcoma of the proximal humerus sin, to the last one of all, Bandaging.
Bandaging. That was all. The operation was over, the patient was wheeled away to the recovery room. Minus an arm, but still with that confounded tumour in the bone of the other upper arm.
I read: Pre-op assessment. Twenty-year-old right-handed woman, previously basically healthy, examined in Stockholm due to swollen left upper arm. MRI scan shows low-grade chondrosarcoma left upper arm. Subsequent scan confirms diagnosis, patient agrees to amputation of proximal humerus which allows adequate margin. Operation: intubation narcosis, sunbed position, arm exposed. Usual antibiotic prophylaxis. Incision from coracoid process along lower edge of deltoid to the anterior fold of the axilla. Ligation of a cephalic vein and detachment of pectoralis. Identification of vascular structure, ligation of veins and securing of arteries with double ligatures. Extrusion of nerves from wound, and division. Then separation of deltoid muscle from humerus, and of latissimus dorsi and teres major. Separation of long and short head of biceps, also of coracobrachialis slightly below amputation level. Humerus sawn off at surgical neck and filed. Stump covered by triceps, which are separated, and by coracobrachialis. Pectoralis sewn to lateral edge of humerus using osteo-sutures. Drain inserted and skin flaps stitched together with no tension. Bandaging.
I supposed Agnes Klarström must have read this text many times, and had it explained to her. She must have noticed that among all the Latin terms, an everyday word suddenly cropped up: she had been operated on in a ‘sunbed position’. As if she had been lying on a beach or a veranda, with her arm exposed, and the operating theatre lights the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness. I had submitted her to an outrageous injustice while she was resting on a sunbed.
Could it possibly be a different Agnes Klarström? She had been young then — maybe she had married and acquired a new surname? Her entry in the telephone directory had evidently not indicated if she was Miss, or Mrs, or had any other title.
It was a scary but also a crucial night. I could no longer run away. I must speak to her, explain what was impossible to explain. And tell her that in so many ways I had also amputated myself.
I lay awake on top of the bed for a very long time before falling asleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was morning. Jansson would not be delivering any post today. I would be able to cut my way into my hole in the ice without interruption.
I had to use a crowbar in order to break through the thick ice. My dog sat on the jetty, watching my exertions. The cat had vanished into the boathouse looking for mice. I finally managed to create a big enough hole and stepped down into the burning cold. I thought about Harriet and Louise, and wondered if I would have enough courage today to ring Agnes Klarström and ask her if she was the woman I was looking for.
I didn’t ring that day. Instead, in a fit of frenzied activity, I gave the house a spring clean, as there was a thick layer of dust everywhere. I managed to start my ancient washing machine and washed my bedlinen, which was so filthy that it could easily have been a homeless tramp who’d been sleeping in my bed. Then I went for a walk round the island, surveyed the icy wastes with my binoculars, and accepted that I must make up my mind what to do next.
An old woman standing on the ice, a daughter I didn’t know I had in a caravan. At the age of sixty-six I was having to accept that everything I’d thought was definite and done with was starting to change.
After lunch I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote two letters. One was to Harriet and Louise, and the other to Agnes Klarström. Jansson would be surprised when I handed over two letters. To be on the safe side, I secured them with Sellotape. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to read all my correspondence.
What did I write? I told Harriet and Louise that my fury had passed. I understood them, but I wasn’t able to see them at the moment. I had returned to my island to look after my abandoned animals. But I took it for granted that we should meet again soon. Our conversations and our social intercourse must continue, obviously.
It took a long time to write those few lines. By the time I thought I had written something that might suffice, the kitchen floor was covered in scrunched-up paper. What I had put wasn’t actually true. My fury had not passed, my animals could have survived for a while longer — Jansson could have managed. Nor was I entirely sure that I wanted to meet them again in the near future. I needed time to think things over. Not least to decide what to say to Agnes Klarström, if I could find her.
The letter to Agnes Klarström did not take long to write. I realised that I had been carrying it around in my head for many years. I just wanted to meet her, that was all. I sent her my address and signed it: she would no doubt never be able to forget that name. I hoped I was writing to the right person.
When Jansson arrived the following day, it had turned windy. I noted in my logbook that the temperature had fallen during the night, and the squally wind was veering between west and south-west.
Jansson was on time. I gave him three hundred kronor for collecting me, and insisted that he accepted the payment.
‘I’d like you to post these two letters for me,’ I said, handing them to him.
I had taped all four corners on each of them. He made no attempt to disguise his astonishment that I was holding two letters in my hand.
‘I write when I have to. Otherwise not.’
‘That picture postcard you sent me was very pretty.’
‘A fence covered in snow? What’s pretty about that?’
I was getting impatient.
‘How is the toothache?’ I asked, in an attempt to cover up my irritation.
‘It comes and goes. It’s worst up here on the right.’
Jansson opened his mouth wide.
‘I can’t see anything wrong,’ I said. ‘Talk to a dentist.’
Jansson tried to close his mouth. There was a creaking sound. His jaw locked, and he stood there with his mouth half open. I could see that it was painful. He tried to speak, but it was impossible to understand what he said. I pressed gently with my thumbs on either side of his face, feeling for his jawbone, and massaged until he could close his mouth again.
‘That hurt.’
‘Try to avoid yawning or opening your mouth too wide for a few days.’
‘Is this an indication of some serious illness?’
‘Not at all. You don’t need to worry.’
Jansson drove off with my letters. The wind bit into my face as I walked back to the house.
That afternoon I opened the door to the ant room. Still more of the tablecloth seemed to have been swallowed up by the constantly growing anthill. But generally speaking, the room and the bed where Harriet had slept were still as they were when we’d left them.
Days passed and nothing happened. I walked over the ice until I came to the open sea. I measured the thickness of the ice in three different places. I didn’t need to consult my earlier logbooks in order to establish that the ice had never been as thick as this before, for as long as I’d lived on the island.