Then came the newly discovered fear that Louise might leave him; in the morning light it had still felt real. He had promised himself that he would change his behaviour. Never again come home feeling guilty, never again wake up in the straitjacket of a hangover. He would show that he really wanted to fight, though he didn’t actually know for what. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand having such a crucial decision taken over his head. On the way to Central Station he had passed by Louise’s boutique. The ‘closed’ sign was on the door, and she hadn’t answered her mobile. With a nagging sense of uneasiness he had taken a seat on the train and swore to himself to be a better father, a better husband, a better person. He had even considered ringing the therapist, if that’s what it would take.
But then he had stood there on stage in the spotlight. Felt how every pore opened up and gratefully absorbed the unconditional admiration that came rushing towards him from the audience. Felt the adrenaline racing through his veins, the power of approbation. And she had sat there worshipping him, unable to get enough of what he had to give. It was so simple, so impossible to resist.
And once again he’d fallen to temptation.
He thanked God that she had changed her mind.
He would become a better person. He really would.
It was his mobile ringing that woke him the next time. In the hope that it was Louise he fumbled about looking for the phone. He had rung her several times the day before without getting an answer. She hadn’t returned his calls.
He cleared his throat in an attempt to sound less groggy.
‘Yes, this is Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt.’
‘Oh, forgive me, this is Marianne Folkesson. I didn’t wake you, did I?’
He cleared his throat again.
‘No, no, not to worry, I just have a slight cold.’
He sat up with an effort. Some of the little bottles fell to the floor with a clatter.
‘I just wanted to ask if you’d managed to find a photograph for the funeral. Time is getting short, so I really need to know.’
‘I looked all over the house but unfortunately I couldn’t find one.’
He wanted to be of help. Especially this morning. So that not a single person could think ill of him.
‘But I’ll look again. I’m in Västerås right now but I’ll be home this afternoon. Is it all right if I let you know tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course. It’ll be a bit of a rush but I think there’ll be enough time.’
He was going to go straight home. Buy some groceries on the way and have coffee and sandwiches ready when Ellen came home from school.
‘I should also tell you that I gave your phone number to Kristoffer Sandeblom, the one who’s named in the will. I hope that’s all right. He wanted so badly to get in touch with someone who knew her.’
Jan-Erik suddenly remembered the visit in his dressing-room. The strange young man and the awkward circumstances. The absurd notion that he might be Annika’s child, that it had something to do with her suicide. Crazy perhaps, but the stranger’s story had got tangled up in the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind. Thankfully he had worked out that the years didn’t match. With the clarity of distance, he realised what his preposterous idea said about his confidence in his parents. It filled him with sadness.
He cleared his throat again.
‘I’ve already talked with him. He came to meet me yesterday after a lecture, and I must say it was a strange story. Unfortunately I wasn’t much help to him. He is apparently a foundling, but I haven’t the slightest idea what connection he might have had to Gerda.’
‘A foundling, you said?’
‘Yes, that’s what he told me.’
There was silence on the other end.
‘But I promise to let you know tomorrow when I’ve had another chance to look for a photo. I think there must be one somewhere, the question is where. I promise I’ll do my best.’
They said goodbye. There were seven minutes left till checkout time.
He managed to shower but not much more. Embarrassed, he checked out and paid for wreaking havoc with the minibar. He explained to indifferent ears that he’d had some friends visiting and they’d even drunk the small bottles of liqueurs.
His hand was shaking when he signed the bill.
He took the path through the park to the train station. Tiny stones caught in the wheels of his rolling suitcase, and kicking it did no good. He picked up the bag and ran to catch the train, his body protesting at the strain. Thirsty and sweaty he made it in time and found his seat in the first-class carriage. He sat down to catch his breath and noticed at once that he could see into the restaurant car. The feeling of being poisoned was still strong, and he knew very well what would help. The method was well-proven and he would feel so much better if he took a little nip, merely as an antidote to help his body.
He took out his mobile and tried to ring Louise, but he still got no answer. The Swedish Railways magazine lay on the table before him and he leafed through it half-heartedly, without taking in what he read. The door to the restaurant car opened and closed when a passenger went through. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, looked out of the window and then at the restaurant car again. He took out his mobile for a second time and began keying in a text message, but stopped and deleted it. He drummed his fingers some more, looked out of the window, flicked through the magazine. Maybe he ought to buy something to eat; the thought wasn’t appealing, but still. In any case he could see what they had. If nothing else, he could stretch his legs a bit.
He looked out of the window again and continued drumming his fingers.
Lasagne, vegetarian pizza, pancakes. He did a thorough job of reading the entire menu. Chicken salad, tortellini with meatballs. He spied some sandwiches wrapped in plastic near the cashier and went to inspect them. Below them stood the drinks, and he scrutinised all the juices and at last decided on a beer.
Purely medicinal, he argued to himself when he got back to his seat. Even the sound of the bottle cap coming off made him feel better.
Four beers and fifty-seven minutes later he stepped off the train at Central Station. It was two o’clock and the day was young. He felt melancholy. He wished he could go home and be greeted by someone who understood him, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t immediately be interrogated by someone who always demanded the impossible. She couldn’t even answer her mobile. She was punishing him, even though he was trying to do his best. Why couldn’t she see him as the person he was? And Ellen, little Ellen, the years that had gone by so fast. He remembered her as a baby, toddling across the floor; those days were gone for ever. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he hurried towards the waiting taxis.
Do your duty, be a good person.
Gerda had died utterly alone, and he hadn’t even been able to find a single photo of her for the funeral. So many years she had spent with him, dear Gerda, the solid anchor of his childhood. What could be more important right now than honouring her with one last effort?
He climbed into the back seat of a taxi and asked to go to Nacka.
When the taxi stopped outside the gate he no longer felt quite as confident. He paid the driver and got out, checking to see whether, unlikely though it was, there might be something in the post-box. All he found was a flyer from a charitable organisation. It was twenty minutes to three.
He looked at his childhood home. Empty windows. Four point two million kronor taxable valuation but with no soul and no purpose.
On the path through the garden he scrolled to Louise’s number but ended the call before it went through.