I shrugged.
‘There perhaps?’ I said, motioning towards the chair by the bookshelves. She took out the DAT player, I fetched a pen and paper, sat down and put on the headset, she raised her eyebrows, I nodded and she pressed play.
After she had cleared the table I sat there alone listening. I already knew her father’s story, but it was something else to hear it from his own mouth. His name was Roland and he was born in 1941 in one of the towns up in Norrland. He grew up without a father, with his mother and two younger siblings. His mother died when he was fifteen and from then on he was responsible for his little brother and sister. They lived alone without any adult support except for a woman who came to clean and cook for them. He went to school for four further years, became what was known in Sweden as a gymnas engineer, started working, played football in his free time, as goalkeeper for his local club, and thrived up there. At a dance he met Ingrid; she was the same age as him, had been to a domestic science college, worked as a secretary in a mining company office and was exceptionally beautiful. They became a couple and got married. Ingrid, however, had acting dreams, and when she was accepted for drama school in Stockholm, Roland abandoned the whole of his former life and moved with her to the capital. The life that awaited her, as an actress at the Royal Dramatic Theatre, had nothing to offer him, there was a gulf between his life as a goalkeeper and gymnas engineer in a provincial Norrland town and the one he had now, as the husband of a beautiful actress on the country’s most important stage. They had two children in quick succession, but that was not enough to keep them together, they soon divorced and straight afterwards he fell ill for the first time. The illness he had was boundless and caused him to fluctuate between manic heights and depressive abysses, and once it had him in its grip it never let go. From then on he was in and out of institutions. When I met him for the first time, in the spring of 2004, he hadn’t worked since the mid-1970s. Linda had not met him for many years. Even though I had seen photographs of him I still wasn’t ready for what was awaiting me when I opened the door and he stood outside. His face was utterly open: it was as though there was nothing between him and the world. He had no protection against it, he was wholly defenceless, and to see that hurt you deep into your soul.
‘So you’re Karl Ove, are you?’ he said.
I nodded and shook his hand.
‘Roland Boström,’ he said. ‘Linda’s father.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ I said. ‘Come in!’
Behind me stood Linda with Vanja in her arms.
‘Hi, dad,’ she said. ‘This is Vanja.’
He stood quite still and looked at Vanja, who looked back, equally still.
‘Oohh,’ he said. His eyes glistened.
‘Let me take your coat,’ I said. ‘Then we can go in and have a cup of coffee.’
His face was open, but his movements were stiff, almost mechanical.
‘Did you do the painting?’ he said as we entered the living room.
‘Yes,’ I said.
He went to the nearest wall and stared at it.
‘Did you do the painting, Karl Ove?’
‘Yes.’
‘You made a grand job of it! You have to be very precise when you paint, and you have been. I’m painting my flat now, you see. Turquoise in the bedroom and creamy white in the sitting room. But I haven’t got any further than the bedroom, the back wall.’
‘That’s good,’ Linda said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be lovely.’
‘Yes, it will be, that’s for certain.’
Something I had never seen before had come over Linda. She adapted to him, she was subordinate to him somehow, she was his child, she gave him attention and her company while also being above him in the sense that she was constantly trying to hide — although never quite succeeding — her shame. He sat down on the sofa, I poured the coffee, went to the kitchen for the cinnamon snails we had bought that morning and returned with a dish. He ate in silence. Linda sat beside him with Vanja on her lap. She showed him her child. I had never imagined it would mean so much to her.
‘Nice buns,’ he said. ‘And the coffee was good too. Did you make it, Karl Ove?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got a coffee machine?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s good,’ he said.
Pause.
‘I wish you all the best,’ he went on to say. ‘Linda’s my only daughter. I’m happy and grateful that I can come and visit you.’
‘Do you feel like seeing some photos, dad?’ Linda asked. ‘Of Vanja when she was born?’
He nodded.
‘Take Vanja for a bit, will you,’ she said to me. The hot little bundle was placed into my arms, her eyes rolled on the brink of sleep while Linda got up and went to the shelves for the photo album.
‘Mhm,’ he said to every picture he was shown.
When they had been through the whole album he stretched out a hand for his cup of coffee on the table, raised it to his mouth in one slow, careful, well-considered movement and drank two big gulps.
‘I’ve been to Norway only once, Karl Ove,’ he said. ‘To Narvik. I was in goal for some football club, and we went there to play a Norwegian team.’
‘Oh yes!’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding.
‘Karl Ove has also played football,’ Linda said.
‘Long time ago now,’ I said. ‘And at a very modest level.’
‘Were you in goal?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’
Pause.
He took another swig of coffee in the same, somehow scrupulously planned, way.
‘Well, this has been nice,’ he said when the cup was back on his coaster. ‘But now I’d better think about getting home.’
He stood up.
‘But you’ve only just come!’ Linda said.
‘It was perfect,’ he said. ‘I’d like to invite you to a meal. It’s my turn. Is Tuesday convenient?’
I met Linda’s eyes. It was her decision.
‘It is,’ she said.
‘Then that’s a deal,’ he said. ‘Five o’clock on Tuesday.’
On the way to the hall he peered through the open bedroom door and stopped.
‘Did you do the painting here as well?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘May I see?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
We followed him in. He stood in front of the wall and looked up behind the enormous wood burner.
‘It wasn’t easy to paint there, I can see,’ he said. ‘But it looks good!’
Vanja made a little noise. She was lying on my arm so I couldn’t see her face, and I laid her down on the bed. She smiled. Roland sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand around her foot.
‘Don’t you want to hold her?’ Linda asked. ‘You can if you want.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen her now.’
Then he got up, went into the hallway and put on his coat. As he was about to leave he hugged me. His stubble rubbed against my cheek.
‘Nice to meet you, Karl Ove,’ he said. He hugged Linda, grabbed Vanja’s foot again and set off down the stairs in his long coat.
Linda avoided my gaze as she passed Vanja to me and went into the living room to clear the table. I followed.
‘What do you think of him?’ she asked airily on her way.
‘He’s a nice man,’ I said. ‘But he has absolutely no filter against the world. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who radiates such immense vulnerability.’
‘He’s like a child, isn’t he.’
‘Yes, he is. There’s no doubt about that.’
She walked past me with three coffee cups on top of each other in one hand, the cake basket in the other.
‘That’s quite some grandfather Vanja has got,’ I said.
‘Yes, what is it going to be like?’ she asked. There was no irony in her voice; the question came straight from the darkness of her heart.