And later in the spring, when Stefan’s wife took the youngest child and went to stay with her mother in Katrineholm and didn’t come back for a long time, Bertil hadn’t really thought anything of it.
Now, of course, it bothered him.
But Stefan should have said something, he thought in his defense.
Rebecka parked the car outside her grandmother’s house in Kurravaara. Nalle jumped out and scampered around the outside of the house, curious.
Like a happy dog, thought Rebecka as she watched him disappear around the corner.
The next second her conscience pricked. You shouldn’t compare him to a dog.
September sun on the gray building. The wind blowing gently through the tall autumn grass, faded and lacking in nutrients. Low water, a motorboat far away. From another direction, the sound of someone chopping wood. A soft breeze against her face, like a gentle hand.
She looked at the house again. The windows were in a terrible state. They needed taking out, scraping down, new putty, fresh paint. The same dark green color as before, nothing else. She thought about the mineral wool packed in the entrance to the cellar to stop the cold air that would come pouring up otherwise, forming rime frost on the walls that would turn to patches of gray damp. It needed pulling out. The place needed sealing properly, insulation, install the right kind of ventilation. Make a decent cellar for storage. Somebody ought to save the hollow-eyed house before it was too late.
“Come on, let’s go in,” she shouted to Nalle who had run down to Larsson’s red-timbered storehouse and was tugging at the door.
Nalle lumbered over the potato patch. The bottom of his shoes was soon thick with mud.
“You,” he said, pointing at Rebecka when he had reached the veranda.
“Rebecka,” answered Rebecka. “My name’s Rebecka.”
He nodded in reply. He’d ask her again soon. He’d already asked her several times, but still hadn’t said her name.
They went up the steps into her grandmother’s kitchen. A bit damp and chilly. Felt colder than outside. Nalle went first. In the kitchen he opened every wardrobe and closet, every cupboard and drawer, completely without embarrassment.
Good, thought Rebecka. He can open them and all the ghosts can fly away.
She smiled at his big lumbering figure, at the crafty, crooked smile he directed at her from time to time. It felt good to have him there.
A knight can look like that too, she thought.
A sense of security came over her-everything was just the same. It put its arm around her. Pulled her down onto the sofa beside Nalle, who’d found a banana box full of comics. He sorted out the ones he liked. They had to be in color, and he chose mostly Donald Duck. He put Agent 69, The Phantom, and Buster back in the box. She looked around. The blue painted chairs around the old gate-legged table, shiny with use. The refrigerator humming away. The tiles above the black Näfveqvarn stove, decorated with pictures of different spices. Next to the woodstove stood the electrical one, with knobs of brown and orange plastic. Grandmother’s hand everywhere. The rack above the stove was crammed with dried flowers, pans and stainless steel ladles. Uncle Affe’s wife Inga-Lill still hung bunches of flowers there to dry. Cat’s foot, tansy, cotton grass, buttercups and yarrow. There were also some bought pink everlasting flowers, they’d never have been there in Grandmother’s day. Grandmother’s woven rag rugs on the floor, even on the sofa to protect it. Embroidered cloths on every surface, even covering the treadle sewing machine in the corner. The embroidered tray holder, where the tray Grandfather had made out of matchsticks the last time he was ill still hung.
She’d woven or crocheted the cushion covers.
Could I live here? wondered Rebecka.
She looked down on to the meadow. Nobody was cutting or burning it nowadays, that was obvious. Big tussocks, the grass growing up through a rotting layer of the previous year’s grass. Thousands of holes made by field mice and voles, no doubt. From up here she had a better view of the roof of the barn. The question was whether it could still be saved. All at once she felt downhearted. A house dies when it’s abandoned. Slowly but surely. It crumbles away, it stops breathing. It cracks, subsides, goes moldy.
Where do you start? thought Rebecka. The windows alone are more than a full-time job. I can’t put a new roof on. It won’t be safe to walk on the veranda before long.
Then the house shook. The door slammed downstairs. The little chime of bells just inside the door with the text “Jopa virkki puu visainen kielin kantelon kajasi tuota soittoa suloista” shook and emitted a few delicate notes.
Sivving’s voice rang through the house. Made its way up the stairs and pushed through the door.
“Hello!”
A few seconds later he appeared in the doorway. Grandmother’s neighbor. A big man. His hair white and soft as pussy willow on his head. A yellowish white military vest underneath a blue imitation beaver jacket. A big grin when he caught sight of Rebecka. She got up.
“Rebecka,” was all he said.
In two paces he was beside her. Put his arms around her.
They didn’t usually hug each other, hardly even when she was a little girl. But she stopped herself from stiffening. Closed her eyes for the two seconds the embrace lasted. Drifted out on a sea of tranquillity. If you didn’t count handshakes, nobody had touched her since… since Erik Rydén welcomed her to the firm’s party on Lidö. And before that, six months ago when they took blood tests at the clinic.
Then the hug was over. But Sivving Fjällborg held on to her, his right hand around her left upper arm.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Fine,” she smiled back.
His face grew more serious. He held her for a second longer before he let go. Then the smile was back.
“And you’ve got a friend with you.”
“I have, this is Nalle.”
Nalle was absorbed in a Donald Duck comic. Difficult to know whether he could actually read, or whether he was just looking at the pictures.
“Well, I think you should both come with me and have some coffee, because I’ve got something really special to show you at home. What do you think, Nalle? Juice and a cake? Or do you drink coffee?”
Nalle and Rebecka followed close behind Sivving like two calves.
Sivving, thought Rebecka, and smiled. It’ll be all right. I can do one window at a time.
Sivving’s house was on the other side of the road. Rebecka explained that she’d come up to Kiruna because of work, and stayed on for a short holiday. Sivving didn’t ask any awkward questions. Why she wasn’t staying in Kurravaara, for example. Rebecka noticed his left arm was hanging limply by his side, and that his left foot was dragging slightly, not a lot, but still. She didn’t ask either.
Sivving lived down in the boiler room in the cellar. It meant there was less cleaning to do, and it was cosier. He only used the rest of the house when his children and grandchildren came to visit. But it was a very pleasant boiler room. The china and household equipment he needed from day to day were on a string shelf, stained brown. There was a bed and a little Formica table, a chair, a chest of drawers and an electric hob.
In her basket next to the bed lay Sivving’s pointer bitch, Bella. And beside her lay four puppies. Bella got up quickly, wagging her tail, and came to say hello to Rebecka and Nalle. She hadn’t time to allow herself to be patted, just gave them a quick sniff, then butted her master a couple of times and gave him a lick.
“Good girl,” said Sivving. “So, Nalle, what do you think? Aren’t they nice?”
Nalle seemed as if he hardly heard what was said. He was staring at the puppies the whole time, with an ecstatic expression on his face.