True, the smell of human beings frightens her, but she has been alone for a long time now, and this unafraid dog will do her very well. For three days she returns to him as darkness falls. Dares to come right up to him. Sniffs, allows herself to be sniffed. They court one another. Then she returns to the edge of the forest. Stops and looks at him. Waits for him to follow her.
And the dog pulls at his chain. During the day, he stops eating.
When the she-wolf returns on the fourth evening, he is no longer there. She stands at the edge of the forest for a little while. Then she trots off into the forest once again. And continues her journey.
The snow has completely gone. The ground is steaming, quivering with longing for life. Everywhere things are crawling, chirruping, crackling and playing. Leaves burst open on the aching trees. Summer is coming from below like a green, unstoppable wave.
She moves twenty kilometers northward along the river Torne. Crosses the bridge made by humans in Muonio.
Shortly afterward a man kneels before her for the second time in her life. She is lying in the birch woods with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Her legs don’t exist. The trees above her a vague blur.
The man on his knees is a researcher in wolf behavior from the Nature Conservancy Council.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, stroking her flanks, her long yellow legs.
“Yes, she’s very pretty,” the vet agrees.
She gives her a vitamin injection, checks her teeth, flexes her limbs carefully.
“Three, maybe four years old,” she guesses. “Excellent condition, no scabies, nothing.”
“A real princess,” says the researcher, screwing the radio transmitter together around her neck, “a special piece of jewelry for a royal lady.”
The helicopter’s engine is still going. The ground is so soft the pilot daren’t turn it off, because the helicopter might sink down and be unable to lift off.
The vet gives the she-wolf another injection and then it’s time to leave her.
The researcher stands up. Still touching her. The thick, healthy coat. Wool next to the skin. Coarse, long hairs on the outer layer. The heavy paws.
When they have lifted off they can see her getting to her feet. A little bit wobbly.
“Tough lady,” the vet comments.
The researcher sends a thought to the powers that be. A prayer for protection.
TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 12
It’s all in the morning papers. And they’re talking about it on the news on the radio. The missing priest has been found in a lake with chains around his body. Shot twice. Once in the chest. Once in the head. An execution, according to a police source, describing the fact that the body was found as more luck than skill.
Lisa is sitting at the kitchen table. She’s folded up the newspaper and turned off the radio. She’s trying to sit completely still. As soon as she moves, it’s as if there’s a wave inside her, a wave that surges through her body, getting her up on her feet, making her walk round and round in her empty house. Into the living room with the gaping bookshelves and the empty windowsills. Into the kitchen. The dishes have been washed. The cupboards wiped out. All the drawers full of rubbish have been emptied. No papers or unpaid bills lying around. Into the bedroom. Last night she slept without any bed linen, just pulled her quilted coat over her, fell asleep, much to her surprise. The cover is folded up at the foot of the bed, the pillows placed on top of it. Her clothes are gone.
By sitting completely still she can curb her longing. Her longing to scream and cry. Or her longing for pain. To place her hand on the burning hotplate. It will soon be time to go. She’s had a shower and put on clean underwear. Her bra is chafing under her arms; it doesn’t usually do that.
It’s not so easy to fool the dogs. They come up to her, wagging their tails. The sound of their claws on the floor, clickety-clickety-click. They don’t take any notice of her stiff body, rejecting them. They push their noses against her stomach and between her legs, wriggle their heads under her hands and demand to be patted. She pats them. It takes an enormous effort. To shut everything off to the extent that she can manage to stroke them, feel their soft fur, the warmth of the living blood flowing beneath it.
“In your baskets,” she says in a voice which is not her own.
And they go to their baskets. Then they come straight back and start walking around her again.
When it’s half past seven, she gets up. Rinses out her coffee mug and places it on the draining board. It looks strangely abandoned.
Out in the yard the dogs start playing up. Normally they just jump straight into the car, knowing it means a long day in the forest. But now they’re messing about. Karelin scampers off and pees on the currant bushes. The German sits down and stares at her as she stands there ordering them into the car through the open tailgate. Majken is the first to give in. Scuttles across the yard, crouching, tail pressed down between her legs. Karelin and the German jump in after her.
Sicky-Morris is never very keen on travelling by car. But now he’s worse than ever. Lisa has to chase after him, shouting and swearing until he stops. She has to drag him to the car.
“Get in, for Christ’s sake!” she shouts, slapping him on the backside.
And then he jumps in. He understands. They all do. Looking at her through the window. She sits down on the bumper, worn out already. The last thing she’s doing is fighting with them, that wasn’t the way she wanted it to be.
She drives to the churchyard. Leaves the dogs in the car. Walks down to Mildred’s grave. As usual there are lots of flowers, small cards, even photographs that have warped and thickened with the dampness.
They’re keeping it nice for her, all the women.
She should have had something with her to place on the grave, of course. But what could she have brought?
She tries to think of something to say. A thought to think. She stares at Mildred’s name on the wet, gray stone. Mildred, Mildred, Mildred. Drives the name into her body like a knife.
My Mildred, she thinks. I held you in my arms.
Erik Nilsson is watching Lisa from a distance. She stands there passive and rigid, as if she’s looking right through the stone. The other women always get down on their knees and poke about in the earth, busying themselves and tidying, talking to other visitors.
He’s on his way to the grave, but he stops for a moment. He usually comes here on weekday mornings. To have his time there in peace. He’s got nothing against the Magdalena crowd, but they’ve taken over Mildred’s grave. There’s no room for him among the grieving. They clutter the place with flowers and candles. Place little pebbles on top of the headstone. His contributions are lost among all the bits and pieces. No doubt it’s okay for the others, this sense of collective grieving. It’s a consolation to them that so many miss her. But for him. It’s a childish thought, he knows. He wants people to point at him and say: “He was her husband, you have to feel sorry for him most of all.”
Mildred passes behind him.
Shall I go down there? he asks.
But she doesn’t reply. She’s staring at Lisa.
He walks over to Lisa. Clears his throat in plenty of time so as not to startle her, she seems so absorbed in her thoughts.
“Hi,” he says tentatively.
They haven’t met since the funeral.
She nods and tries to force a smile.
He’s just about to say “so you’ve got a breakfast meeting here as well,” or something equally meaningless to oil the wheels between them. But he changes his mind. Instead he says seriously: