‘We’re closing now.’
He couldn’t raise his head but saw a hand and a light-blue cloth wiping the bar in circles. He grabbed his glass and raised it to his lips, downed the whisky and immediately felt like throwing up. He stumbled off the bar-stool and tried to get control of the nausea but couldn’t. Something had to come out. Without looking round he rushed towards the door and made it about ten metres outside before the contents of his stomach spewed out on the pavement. He stood there leaning over with his hands on his knees and saw through his tears the vomit on his shoes. He couldn’t go home like this. He’d have to walk for a while to sober up a bit. Most of all he wanted to go home to bed and sleep as long as necessary, so he could wake up and no longer feel the way he felt.
The streets were deserted and the city seemed different. What had been concealed in the bustle of the day became visible at night. He wandered aimlessly along the streets of Östermalm. Occasionally he would meet a bunch of youths on their way downtown, those who were in the process of finding a life for themselves. Now and then he saw a middle-aged night roamer who at the midpoint of his life had dis covered that what he’d found was no good and set out to search again. And occasionally he saw one of those who’d got lost and was stumbling about with paper bags hoping only for a miracle, or death.
He grew increasingly cold and thirsty. Not until the ground stopped pitching up and down and a mild headache set in did he dare head home. In the stairwell he went into the utility room and threw away his shoes. In his stockinged feet he walked up the stairs; the risk of meeting someone at this time of night was slim. As quietly as he could he put the key in the door and turned it. He stopped and listened. It was almost three in the morning, and if he was in luck she would already be asleep. Gingerly he pressed down the handle and opened the door a crack. Only the little lamp on the hall table was on; the rest of the flat was dark. He hung up his coat and went straight to the bathroom and put his mouth under the tap to quench his thirst. Then he tossed all his clothes in the laundry basked and got into the shower. The nausea had retreated, to be replaced by disgust. He should have come straight home instead of sitting in a bar. She would ask him where he’d been and why he hadn’t called, and he had no intention of telling her. Confess to her that his sister had hanged herself and his parents had lied about it for all these years? He knew what she thought about his family and didn’t plan to give her more grist for the mill.
He stepped out of the shower and dried himself, rubbing the towel harder than was comfortable. Then he drank more water in the hope of easing his headache. After brushing his teeth thoroughly and wiping off all the white spots on the bathroom mirror even more thoroughly, he stood and looked at himself. He had a hard time meeting his own gaze. He had to cut down on the drinking, he really did; he hated hangovers. It was already creeping over him. It would force him to suffer through the anxiety his boozing had postponed.
He unlocked the door and peered out cautiously. Everything was quiet. Only the unpleasant sound of his own heartbeat pulsated like the bass on a dance floor. He padded down the hall past Ellen’s door and went into his office. Reached behind the books but changed his mind before his hand found the bottle. He wanted it, and yet he didn’t. He went out to the living room. The door to the bedroom was closed and no light seeped through the little crack at the bottom.
On the table in the kitchen stood a candelabra with candles that had never been lit, and in front of the chair where he usually sat were a wine glass, a plate and half a bottle of wine. Two saucepans on the stove. He closed his eyes. It was just a matter of accepting that everything was untenable in the long run. It was only a question of time before it all began to crumble. Couldn’t anyone tell him what to do? This morning’s conversation came back to him, but suddenly all the rage had drained out of him. All he was appealing for was calm, all he wanted was to be forgiven. He would do better, see to it that there was a change, he really would! Imagine if what he had done tonight was the last straw, the final thing that made her decide. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. He pressed his hand against his chest. He would stop drinking, he would, and now he really meant it, because this wasn’t worth it, not by a long shot. He went back out to the living room and looked at the closed bedroom door. So many times he had wished that she wouldn’t lie in there waiting, but now, faced with the possibility of having his wish granted, he imagined for the first time in earnest that the room really was empty. That instead she lay in another bed next to some other man. That Ellen’s room was empty and quiet and that another pappa who was better suited would take his place. All at once he wanted to cry, but no tears came and instead he got a cramp in his chest. Something broke loose inside and came bubbling up to the surface, from all the way down in the depths, where it had lain submerged in the blackest ooze.
An overwhelming fear that Louise would abandon him, leaving him all alone.
16
Axel lay wide awake. Since not even one of the twenty-four hours made any specific demands, they were all interchangeable. He often lay sleepless at night. Waking hours that were compensated for during the day when he was still lying there. But tonight there was something else hovering over his wakefulness. Jan-Erik’s visit and everything he’d said had dragged him away from where he wanted to be and left him with memories he didn’t want to confront. Now they were streaming in from every direction, like old acquaintances happy that he’d finally got in touch. Eager to contribute what they could, as if they’d never been banished. Shadows crowded around the bed, all talking at once to fill in the gaps. Piece after piece was dragged out to complete the picture. Even the emotions he’d once felt, which he’d always wanted to forget. Because like spilled water one could never take back what one had once said and done.
The desire to be perfect. To know that not a single shadow could stain. To be able to lean on his life’s work, and deep inside know that it was untouchable.
He was back in the little room where they gathered, where the bookseller was informing them of the order of events at Västerås Theatre.
‘… and we thought that Axel should close the show. Then there’ll be a book signing in the foyer, where tables and book displays will be set up, and when the whole thing is over we’ll serve some hot food, canapés and sweets, and then the evening can continue as long as you like.’
Axel thumbed through his book and noticed that his hands were sweaty. This was the fourth Book Day event he had participated in this autumn, and as usual they wanted him to close it. Implicit in this was that he was the big name of the evening, a fact not always appreciated by the other authors.
‘I hope there’s a little something for the throat as well, and not just hot food.’
Scattered laughter followed Torgny Wennberg’s comment. He was the one who had the honour of opening the evening.
‘I don’t think anyone will be disappointed.’
They were sitting in a room behind the stage. Book Day was a popular event out in the country, and the tickets were sold out. The authors had an opportunity to read aloud and discuss their books and perhaps sell a few copies. In the early seventies the book trade had fluctuated as book prices rose, sales dropped and bookshops closed. Now optimism had begun to grow, but publishers were still being cautious with their lists. Even though Axel was comparatively safe, he had sensed an undertone of concern from his publisher that it had been a long time since he had delivered a new manuscript. In the end it was his publisher who had convinced him to show up at some Book Day celebrations during the autumn, even though he had nothing new to offer. Axel had been reluctant. The book he was struggling with was far from ready, and he feared more and more that he might never finish it. For days he sat ensconced in his office without squeezing out a single word, and with each day he grew more frustrated. Worried that something had been lost. Before, creativity had been taken for granted, as if all he had to do was open up to the universe and take notes – a collaboration with a divine source that flowed through his pen. His duty and calling was to write down what came to him. He had a feeling of being chosen. The process was very delicate and required that he shield himself from earthly distractions.