‘But that’s not necessary. Really.’ Göran smiled back. ‘I just wanted to come by and say hello.’
‘Nonsense, of course we have to offer you something. Maj-Britt’s father is waiting in the living room, so you can go on in and I’ll be there in a moment with coffee. Maj-Britt, please help me in the kitchen.’
Her mother left and for a moment they looked at each other. Squeezed each other’s hands hard and nodded. We’ll get through this. Maj-Britt pointed towards the living room and Göran took a deep breath. Then he silently mouthed the three words that filled her with new courage. She smiled and pointed first to herself and then to him and nodded. Because she really did.
Her mother was standing with her back to her, pouring boiling water into the coffee filter. They had taken out the fine china and the elegant porcelain coffee-pot with the blue flowers on it. She suddenly had a guilty conscience. She should have warned them that they were having company instead of subjecting them to this. She saw that her mother’s hand was shaking. She seemed suddenly in such a hurry.
‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.’
Her mother said nothing, only let a little more water run over the side of the saucepan and mix with the black sludge in the coffee filter. Maj-Britt wanted to go into the living room. She didn’t want to leave him alone in there with her father. They had decided that they would do this together. As they would everything else from now on.
She looked around.
‘What can I do?’
‘So he sings in the choir?’
‘Yes. First tenor.’
Not a sound was heard from the living room. Not even the slightest murmur.
‘Should I take this in?’
Maj-Britt pointed at the little tray with the sugar bowl and jug. The same pattern as the coffee-pot. They had really made an effort.
‘Fill it with cream first.’
Maj-Britt took cream out of the refrigerator; by the time she had filled the jug, the coffee had finally run through the filter. Her mother stood with the coffee-pot in one hand and with the other she straightened her hair.
‘Shall we go in then?’
Maj-Britt nodded.
Her father was sitting at the table in the living room, wearing his best black suit. The sharp ironed pleats on the white tablecloth stuck up from the tabletop but were held down by the blue-flowered china cups and the plate with eight types of little cakes. Göran stood up when they entered the room.
‘What a feast. I didn’t intend for you to go to all this trouble.’
Her mother smiled.
‘Nonsense, it was no trouble at all. I just put together some things we had in the house. A little coffee?’
Maj-Britt sat quite still. There was something unreal about the whole situation. Göran and Mother and Father in the same room. Two worlds, so utterly different from each other but suddenly in the same field of vision. All the people she loved most gathered in the same place at the same time. And Göran here in her home, where God constantly watched over everything that went on. They were here together. All together. And everything was permitted. They even offered him coffee from the fine china. Wearing their Sunday best.
They all sat with their coffee and the cakes they had chosen on their side plates. Fleeting smiles were exchanged across the table but nothing was said, nothing important, nothing beyond the polite chit-chat about excellent pastry and well-made coffee. Göran did the best he could, and she felt the seconds ticking away, the situation becoming more and more intolerable. The feeling of standing before an abyss. Enjoying the last seconds in safety before the leap into the unknown.
‘So you met each other in the choir?’
It was her father asking. He stirred his coffee with his spoon and let it drip before he placed it on the saucer.
‘Yes.’
Maj-Britt wanted to say something else but nothing came out.
‘We saw you at the Christmas concert last year, when you sang the solo. You have a beautiful voice, really fine. Was it “O Holy Night” you sang?’
‘Yes it was, and then I sang “Advent” as well, but it’s probably “O Holy Night” that’s best known, I would think.’
Then silence returned. Her father started stirring once again, and the sound seemed somehow comforting. Only the ticking of the wall clock and the rhythmic sound of the spoon in his cup. Nothing to be worried about. Everything was as it should be. They were sitting here together and perhaps they ought to talk a little more but nobody asked any questions and no opportunity for conversation was offered. Göran sought out her eyes. She gave him a swift glance and then looked down at the floor.
She didn’t dare.
Göran set down his cup.
‘There is one thing that Majsan and I would like to tell you.’
The spoon in the cup stopped. Maj-Britt held her breath. She was still standing on the edge but suddenly it gave way even though she had not taken the step voluntarily.
‘Yes?’
Her father let his gaze flit between them, from Göran to Maj-Britt and back again. A curious smile played on his face, as if he had just received an unexpected present. And Maj-Britt understood at once. What they were going to say was so unthinkable that it hadn’t even crossed her father’s mind.
‘I’m thinking of applying to Björkliden Music College and will be moving away from here and I’ve asked Maj-Britt to come with me and she has said yes.’
She had never before experienced in reality what happened next, though she had seen it on TV a few times. The way the picture suddenly froze and everything stopped. She couldn’t even tell whether the ticking from the wall clock could still be heard. Then everything started to move again, but a little more slowly now. As if the paralysis still lingered and had to be softened up before everything could be restored. Her father’s smile was not exactly erased, rather it happened through a gradual change in the expression on his face. His features dissolved and when they finally coalesced again Maj-Britt could read utter despair in his face.
‘But…’
‘And of course we will get married since we intend to live together.’
She could hear the desperation in Göran’s voice. She looked at her mother. She was sitting with her head bowed and her hands clasped in her lap. Her right thumb was rubbing her left hand, swiftly moving back and forth.
Then Maj-Britt met her father’s eyes, and what she saw she would spend the rest of her life trying to forget. She saw sorrow, but something else that was much more familiar. Contempt. Her lies had been revealed and she had betrayed her parents. The ones who had done everything for her, done everything to help her. Now she had turned her back on them and the Congregation by choosing a man outside their circle, and she hadn’t even asked for their approval. She had simply come here and forced them into their fine clothes and delivered her message.
She couldn’t identify the colour of her father’s face.
‘I’d like to speak with Maj-Britt in private.’
Göran didn’t budge from his chair.
‘No. I’m staying here. From now on you will have to regard us as a couple, and what concerns Majsan also concerns me.’
Yes, the clock was indeed ticking. She could hear it now. She was resting in the regular rhythm, tick, tock, tick, tock.
‘I think I still have the right to talk to my own daughter in private!’
‘She is my future wife. From now on we do everything together.’
‘All right, stay if you want. You may as well hear it. It was decided long ago whom Maj-Britt would marry, and you’re not the one, I can assure you of that. His name is Gunnar Gustavsson. A young man in the Congregation, and both Maj-Britt’s mother and I have great confidence in him. I don’t know what sort of belief you have, but since I have never seen you at any of our meetings I strongly doubt that you are of the same faith as Maj-Britt, and therefore marriage is out of the question.’