‘I thought you were never going to wake up.’
‘How did you get here? What’s that boat you’ve beached down by the jetty?’
‘I took it.’
‘Took?’
‘From the harbour. It was locked. But the chain that can stop me hasn’t been invented yet.’
‘You mean you stole the boat?’
My cat had come to the jetty, and was observing Sima from a distance.
‘Where’s your dog?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘What do you mean, dead?’
‘Dead. There’s only one kind of dead. When you’re dead, you’re not alive. Unalive. Dead. My dog is dead.’
‘I had a dog once. It’s dead as well.’
‘Dogs die. My cat won’t live much longer either. She’s also old.’
‘Are you going to shoot it? Do you have a rifle?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of telling you. I want to know what you’re doing here, and why you stole a boat.’
‘I wanted to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I didn’t like you.’
‘You wanted to see me because you don’t like me?’
‘I want to know why I don’t like you.’
‘You’re mad. How come you know how to handle a boat?’
‘I spent some time at a reform school on the shore of Lake Vättern. They had a boat.’
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘I asked an old bloke sweeping up leaves outside the church. It wasn’t hard. I just asked about a doctor who’d hidden himself away on an island. I told him I was your daughter.’
I gave up. She had an answer to every question. Hugo Persson was employed to keep the churchyard in good order, and I knew he was a gossip. He had presumably told the girl how to get here — it wasn’t difficult: straight out towards Mittbåden where the lighthouse was, then through the Järnsundet channel with the high cliffs on either side, and so to my island, where there were two broom beacons close to the rocks at the mouth of the inlet to my boathouse.
I could see that she was tired. Her eyes were dull, her face pale, her hair carelessly pinned up with cheap hairslides. She was dressed entirely in black, and her trainers had a red stripe.
‘Come with me to the house,’ I said. ‘You must be hungry. I’ll get you some food. Then I’ll call the coastguards and tell them that you’re here, and that you’ve stolen a boat. They can come and fetch you.’
She said nothing, nor did she threaten me with her sword. When we’d settled down in the kitchen, I asked her what she wanted.
‘Porridge.’
‘I didn’t think people ate porridge any more.’
‘I’ve no idea what people do. But I want porridge. I can make it myself.’
I had some oats, and a tin of apple sauce that wasn’t too far past its use-by date. She made the porridge very thick, pushed the tin of apple sauce out of the way and filled up her bowl with milk. She ate slowly. The sword was lying on the table. I asked if she wanted coffee or tea. She shook her head. She wanted only porridge. I tried to work out why she’d come to the island to visit me. What did she want? The last time we’d met, she had come running at me with the sword brandished over her head. Now she was sitting at my kitchen table, eating porridge. It didn’t make sense. She rinsed out her bowl and stood it on the draining board.
‘I’m tired. I need to get some sleep.’
‘There’s a bed in that room over there. You can sleep there. But I should warn you that there’s an anthill in the room. And as it’s spring now, they’ve started to become active.’
She believed me. She’d been doubtful about whether my dog was dead, but she believed what I said about the anthill. She pointed at the sofa in the kitchen.
‘I can sleep there.’
I gave her a pillow and a blanket. She didn’t take any clothes off, nor did she remove her shoes; she just pulled the blanket over her head and fell asleep. I waited until I was sure, then went to get dressed.
Accompanied by the cat, I went back to the inlet. The boat was a Ryd with a Mercury outboard motor, 25 h.p. The bottom of the boat had scraped hard against the stones on the seabed. There was no doubt that she had beached the boat intentionally. I tried to see if the plastic had split, but I couldn’t find any holes.
It was a post day: Jansson would notice the boat. I had only a few hours in which to decide what to do. It wasn’t a foregone conclusion that I would in fact call the coastguards. If possible, I would prefer to persuade her to go back to Agnes without the authorities being involved. I also had my own interests to think about. It was hardly appropriate for an old doctor to be visited by runaway girls who stole boats.
With the aid of a boathook and a plank used as a lever, I managed to get the boat back into the water. I used the boathook to propel it as far as the jetty and tied it to the stern of my little rowing boat. There was an electric starter, but it needed a key and, needless to say, that hadn’t been in the ignition when Sima stole the boat. She had used the drawstring, and I did the same. The engine started at the fourth attempt. The propeller and pinion were undamaged. I reversed away from the jetty, and aimed the boat at two rocky skerries known as the Sighs. Between them was a small natural harbour hidden from view. I could leave the stolen boat there for the time being.
It is not clear why the two skerries are known as the Sighs. Jansson maintains that a long time ago, there was a wildfowler in these parts by the name of Måsse who used to sigh every time he shot an eider.
I don’t know if it’s true. The skerries are not named on any of my charts. But I like the idea of barren rocks rising out of the sea being called the Sighs. You sometimes get the feeling that trees are whispering, flowers murmuring, berry bushes humming unknown melodies, and that the wild roses in the crevices behind Grandma’s apple tree are playing beautiful tunes on invisible instruments. So why shouldn’t skerries sigh?
It took me almost an hour to row back to the jetty. No chance of a morning bath today. I walked back up to the house. Sima was asleep under the blanket. She hadn’t moved at all since lying down. As I watched her, I heard the throbbing sound of Jansson’s boat. I walked back down to the jetty and waited for him. There was a gentle north-easterly breeze, the temperature was around plus five, and spring still seemed a long way off. I noticed a pike near the end of the jetty, but then it darted away.
Jansson had problems with his scalp today. He was afraid that he was starting to go bald. I suggested he should consult a hairdresser. Instead, he unfolded a page he’d ripped out from some weekly magazine or other and asked me to read it. It was a whole-page advertisement for a miraculous potion that promised immediate results; I noticed that one of the ingredients was lavender. I thought of my mother, and told Jansson that he shouldn’t believe everything he read in expensive advertisements.
‘I want you to give me some advice.’
‘I already have done. Consult a hairdresser. He will no doubt know a lot more about hair loss than I do.’
‘Didn’t you learn anything about baldness when you trained as a doctor?’
‘Not a lot, I have to admit.’
He took off his cap and bowed his head as if he were suddenly expressing subservience. As far as I could tell his hair was thick and healthy, not least on the crown of his head.
‘Can’t you see that it’s getting thinner?’
‘That’s only natural as you grow older.’
‘According to that advert, you’re wrong.’
‘In that case I suggest you order the stuff and massage it into your scalp.’
Jansson crumpled up the page.
‘I sometimes wonder if you really are a doctor.’
‘Whatever, I can tell the difference between people with genuine aches and pains, and hypochondriac postmen.’