‘It isn’t snowing in here.’
He turned his head and looked at her.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but at some point I have to get up and go outside. And then the snow will be there.’
He could see she had an objection ready on her lips but she chose to refrain from arguing further.
‘I’ll be back at half past nine. We’ll get you up then,’ she said, and left the room.
He sat up in bed, pulled out the drawer in the bedside table, took out his glasses but replaced them immediately, pushed his covers aside, and swung his legs over the edge.
I survived, he thought suddenly and was filled by a singular feeling of gratitude. He was uncertain to whom he should direct this gratitude, to God or science? Perhaps a combination of the two? God had always held a place in his conceptual world, ever since his first experiences in childhood of something mysterious that connected him to his parents, his little world with the big world, and the incomprehensible universe outside his window, which had given way to the secure knowledge of mature age of a higher order that simply was there. No mystery, no jubilant salvation, no punishing Lord, just a feeling of connectedness, resembling the one he had felt in his younger years with his teammates on the bandy field, in the locker room, and later in life with his colleagues on the job.
It was the relationship with those who stood closest to him that was like God for Berglund. It was a closeness that arose out of the goodness and willingness to cooperate with others. It was the goodness of God. He could not explain it any other way and he did not trouble himself to seek a deeper answer. It was enough as it was, enough for him to become a human being.
He rose carefully, testing his legs to see if they would hold him and if the vertigo would return. He set his sights on the window.
Let it snow, he thought, at peace with winter. Let it come down until the earth is blanketed like the landscapes of my childhood, with snow piled a couple of metres high and the streetlights reflecting in the glittering crystals. He suddenly recalled a wintery taxi ride in the late 1940s. The driver, a good friend of his father, had taken them on a ride through town. Was it a Packard? Large, black, with a scent of leather and tobacco. Berglund was five years old. His first car ride. He was convinced that God had a hand in the matter.
He smiled to himself. Over half a century ago. The same city, the same snow, the same Berglund – amazed he was still alive, that he was still allowed along on the ride through his city.
The door to the room was pushed open with that whispering sound that he had registered even before reaching full consciousness right after his operation.
Convinced that it was the nurse returning, he did not turn around, being slightly shamefaced, as if caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
‘Hello, my friend,’ he heard a familiar voice say from the door.
She had never called him ‘my friend’. He was known as Berglund, nothing more. It was only Ottosson who on rare occasions called him by his first name. No one had referred to him as ‘my friend’ for a very long time.
With the thoughts that had dominated his morning, he was as raw as an open wound. It was only his extensive police experience that made it possible for him to control himself.
He turned around. In some strange way it was like seeing her for the first time. He remembered the first time she turned up at the division. He recalled what he had thought that time: How young she is, what is a girl like her going to be able to do around here? Riis said something stupid as usual, while Ottosson laid it on thick like always. He had bought a cake to celebrate the ‘new recruit’ as if she, like a professional football player, had been recruited to team ‘Homicide’.
‘Well, hello,’ he said, clearing his throat.
Ann Lindell remained standing by the door, observing him for several seconds before walking over and gently giving him a hug. He knew she was as emotional as he was, and that she was also doing everything she could to conceal it.
He pulled away from her, shuffled over to the bed, and sat down.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Moving right along,’ he said, but felt the vertigo return at that moment.
He wanted to lie down and close his eyes, but forced himself to look at Lindell.
‘Otto said you could have visitors.’
He nodded. She looked at him in silence as if to check if the intrusion was affecting him.
‘And how do things look?’
‘A foot has washed ashore outside Öregrund,’ she replied. ‘Apart from that, everything is fine.’
She had misunderstood his question.
‘A foot?’
‘Yes, just the foot.’
‘A foot can float?’
‘It was in a boot.’
He chuckled.
‘You’re just the same,’ he said. ‘Are you going to-’
‘No, not Öregrund,’ she said quickly.
He sensed why not, and left the subject.
‘But tell me,’ she said, ‘how does it feel? You should know that we have been… worried.’
‘I feel fine,’ he said, smiling. ‘A bit boring to lie in bed flat as a pancake.’
‘Are you tired?’
He nodded. ‘Tired and a bit dizzy, but that will go away, they say.’
‘Will you have… I mean…’
‘Any permanent damage?’ he helped her along. ‘No, not really. It may be difficult at first, according to the doctor, but I don’t know. They don’t tell you everything. But I’m counting on getting back to normal.’
Berglund was not being quite honest. Ever since he woke up from his operation he had toyed with the idea of taking early retirement. No one would blame him. He had served on the Uppsala police force for forty years.
Again, he was overcome with an unexpected wave of sentimentality. He had to make an effort to appear, if not carefree, then at least somewhat relaxed and content with his situation. The feeling of ingratitude, as he now arose from his sickbed after an illness that had caused many others the loss of well-being or even life, was also irritatingly strong. His childhood faith – be humble and thankful for the time you have received – was not strong enough to battle the thought that life had treated him unfairly. What had he done to deserve this? Berglund knew it was a ridiculous thought, but the passive waiting in his sickbed had transformed him into a teary and disobliging old man.
The insight struck him with full force; he was afraid. Afraid to grow old, afraid to die. Afraid not to be counted among the active and living, those who meant something.
The sight of Ann Lindell only strengthened this feeling. She was still young. She even smelt of life. A faint but unmistakable scent of snow, fresh air, and soap had been brought into the room.
‘We received a call,’ Lindell said, ‘that I think may interest you, if you aren’t too tired, that is.’
He gestured for her to continue.
‘An old acquaintance to you called. Rune Svensk. He had been called by his son, who is in India on some kind of business. He had observed something.’
Berglund grinned. ‘If you travel to India you can bet you’re going to make some observations.’
Lindell looked surprised but also relieved. It was as if his comment confirmed that he was the old Berglund, who for the moment was dressed in some loose-fitting hospital-issue trousers and shirt, but was definitely back and, in a way, on duty.
‘Whatever,’ she said with feigned irritation. ‘The son saw a man who had disappeared from Uppsala. A former county commissioner whom everyone believes is dead. He went missing many years ago.’
‘Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson. 1993.’
‘You remember?’
‘Of course. I worked on the disappearance for several months. There were those who spoke of murder.’
‘What did you think?’
‘Suicide,’ Berglund replied without hesitation. ‘There was nothing to support homicide. Absolutely nothing.’
‘Was he depressed?’
‘No, not that we could find. He was… how can I put this?’