Gerda didn’t respond. Just stood there inside the door with her eyes fixed on the carpet.
‘Was there anything else?’
He hesitated. Should he mention the note? If she had read it, anything he said would only draw attention to it. If she hadn’t read it, what he said would be a form of confession. He decided to let the matter rest. If Halina got in touch he would clearly and unequivocally declare his lack of interest, and Gerda would know nothing more about it. The whole thing would be over, and everything could carry on as usual.
‘No, that will be all.’
Gerda curtseyed and quickly left the room.
Axel sat there looking at the closed door. Gerda, and all she represented, was a reminder of a vanished era. In the present day it was considered inappropriate to have a housekeeper, especially in left-wing intellectual circles where the gap between classes was supposed to be non-existent. But the truth was, they couldn’t get along without her.
Four days passed. Four days of writing nothing. The piece of paper that met him each morning was still a blank blinding white when he gave up in the evening. Alice had a few good days when nothing in particular provoked her, and she mostly stayed in the library. In the evenings the sound of the TV seeped into his office. Sometimes he would emerge and try to keep her company. Silently they would watch Columbo until he could no longer stand it and went back to his office. He knew that she missed Jan-Erik and was sad that they rarely heard from him. Whenever a letter arrived it was always addressed to Annika. Sometimes he got the feeling that Alice was more attached to the children when they were out of sight. As far as he knew, she didn’t devote many hours to the teenager who was still living here. He couldn’t understand why Alice didn’t try to write anything again. When the children were small she’d complained that she didn’t have time, but her excuse was no longer valid. Sometimes, staring at the blank page, he envied her. Her right not even to try.
When he went to bed she was still up. As he waited for sleep to come his thoughts flew to his night with Halina. Not to her personally; her face was robbed of all its features. His fantasies followed the path of his hand over skin, a woman’s skin. He recalled how his hands had grabbed greedily for her, how she willingly opened up, the sounds she made. How she gave herself without reservation in a way Alice had never done, not even long ago before it had all mouldered away. Now he wondered whether he’d made a fatal mistake by awakening an urge he had no longer missed. Because how could he satisfy it now? With Alice downstairs in front of the TV? The thought was implausible, almost repulsive. But what if? Could he find the courage necessary to take the initiative after all these years? To risk being rejected? Was it even possible to reawaken the passion he’d once felt for her, which had long since been submerged by all the quarrels, all the indifference, all the silence? He remembered how he’d felt in their early years together. When they had made love and lain close to each other and listened to each other’s heartbeat. The feeling that no one could ever be less alone than this.
He realised it was more difficult to have sex with his wife than with a strange woman at a hotel. The thought intrigued. Maybe he could use it in his book.
The feeling of guilt had begun to dissipate. Once in a while a memory would flit past, but it was easy enough to ignore. What was done was done, and only time could dilute his mistake. But on the fifth day after his night with Halina a thick, oversized, unstamped envelope was lying on his desk when he returned to his office. He turned it over. His fury was instantaneous when he saw the single letter H. Just an H. As if they had a secret intimacy. He went out to look for Gerda. He found her on her knees in front of the tile stove in the living room. ‘Where did this come from?’
Gerda stood up quickly and smoothed out her apron. He held out the envelope.
‘It was hanging in a bag on the front door. It must have come by courier, although I didn’t hear anyone ring the doorbell.’
Through the doorway to the library Axel caught sight of his wife sitting in one of the easy chairs reading a book.
Without taking her eyes from its pages she asked, ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘I haven’t opened it yet.’
‘Well, why don’t you? That might explain things.’
He said no more and headed back to his office. With the door closed he hurriedly ripped open the envelope and pulled out a wad of paper. He knew at once it was her manuscript. Handwritten on lined paper. A typed letter was fastened with a paperclip to the first page, and he quickly scanned the words.
Axel, the hours that have passed have not been lonely. You are still with me in my thoughts. Since I’ve had a hard time getting away I thought I’d just send you my book anyway. I’d be grateful to have your wise views on it. No one else has read it (as you will see, it’s far above Torgny’s head). My book longs only for your lovely eyes to read it.
Your Halina
P.S. I’m so glad that we finally met! H
At first he couldn’t decide what angered him more. Her intimate tone, which assumed her interest was reciprocated or her shameless demand on his valuable time. If he’d wanted to be an editor he would have taken a job at a publishing company; nothing could interest him less than the desperate ambitions of a first-time author.
He stuffed the letter and the manuscript back in the envelope and unlocked the door to the cupboard. He put it on top of a pile and went back to his typewriter.
It was twenty past two.
By evening he still hadn’t written a single word.
The low pressure that had settled in during the summer was stubbornly hanging on. For four days it had been raining, and the sky was so dark they had to turn on the lights in the morning. Water had leaked in through the letter-box, but Axel could clearly read the writing on the card that Gerda delivered to him when the post arrived. Written in ink and open to public gaze.
Prinsen Restaurant 17.00 today. Your H
Gerda had left, and again he sat bewildered. He couldn’t quite work out why it was so important to him to know whether Gerda understood or not. She would never tell tales to Alice, so that couldn’t be the reason; it must be something else. There was something in him that sought Gerda’s approval. He had heard the happy laughter from the kitchen whenever his parents were visiting, easy-going conversations that faltered when he tried to participate. The community from which he was now excluded. He wanted to have Gerda on his side, to assure himself that what she told them about him was well-intentioned, what she said to the two people he could no longer reach. She was his link to what had been taken from him.
He turned over the card. A picture of a little kitten on a pink cushion. The key to the cupboard lay in his desk drawer, and he opened it up and put the card in a box of fan mail.
Naturally he wouldn’t go to the restaurant, but her boldness had ruined his concentration. Anything other than ignoring her would be meeting her halfway. For a long time he’d been used to having people around him respect his orders, and if anything bothered him, measures were immediately taken. Now he was being subjected to her unwelcome approaches. She kept cropping up in his thoughts; she had acquired a power she had never been granted. The whole situation was untenable, and at the present moment it was intolerable.
The rain continued. It was reported on the news that the record had been broken. Never before had so much rain fallen in eastern Svealand as in these two months.