On either side of the path stood dense rows of trees, growing low to the ground and crooked, clearly stunted by the harsh autumn storms. He knew that there were no neighbouring houses.
As he walked down the long slope, his eyes filled with tears. It was so long ago that he was last here. The treetops whispered around him, and the gravel crunched beneath his feet. He was alone, and that was precisely what he wanted. This was a sacred moment.
As he rounded the bend and saw the house, snow began to fall. The flakes gently drifted down from the sky, settling softly on top of his head. He stopped to study the area spread out below: the dilapidated main building, the gardener’s residence, and further away the red-painted cottage that had its own special history.
What a contrast it all was to the last time he was here. Back then it was summertime, and they had stayed for two weeks, just as the visiting artist and his lover had done, although that was almost two hundred years earlier.
Erik had enjoyed every second they were here, sleeping in the same room where the artist had slept, simply being under the same roof, eating breakfast in the kitchen where he had once sat; not even the old cast-iron stove had changed since then. The walls could have told stories that Erik could only imagine.
Right now he had a panoramic view of the home called Muramaris. The name meant ‘hearth by the sea’. The rectangular, sand-coloured main house had two storeys and had been built of limestone. Its architectural style was a unique blend of Italian Renaissance, with a loggia facing the sea, and a traditional Gotland estate. Large windows with white mullions graced each side, opening on to the woods, the water, and the austere Baroque garden at the back with its sculptures, fountains, flagstone paths and decorative flower beds.
The man who’d had such an influence on Erik’s life had often visited this place, spending sunny summer weeks here, swimming, taking walks along the beach, painting, and spending time with the controversial artist couple who had built their dream house on this plateau at the beginning of the twentieth century. Even though so many years had passed since then, the artist’s presence was still strong.
With some difficulty Erik opened the green wooden gate; it moved reluctantly, creaking loudly. He wandered around to the back. The house had stood empty for years, ever since the new owner had taken over, and the neglect was evident. The stucco was peeling off, the wall surrounding the property had crumbled in several places, some of the sculptures in the garden were now missing, and the once-so-proud building was sorely in need of renovation.
He walked slowly along the flagstone path. Unlike the house, the garden had retained some of its former grandeur, with carefully pruned hedgerows. Near the pond in the middle of the garden he sat down on a bench. It was damp and cold, but that didn’t bother him any more than the snow, which was coming down harder now. His eyes were fixed on a particular window belonging to the guest room on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. It was there that one of the most myth-shrouded paintings in Swedish art history had been created. At least that was the rumour, and there was no reason to doubt the claim. The artist had worked on the large oil painting during the same year that he had designed the garden here at Muramaris, in the midst of a raging world war. The year was 1918.
That was when Nils Dardel painted ‘The Dying Dandy’. Erik whispered the words as he sat there on the bench.
The dying dandy. Just like himself.
A fter a successful opening reception the whole gang from the gallery celebrated with a fancy dinner at the Donners Brunn restaurant in central Visby. Mattis Kalvalis sat in the middle and seemed to enjoy all the attention. Everyone at the table was in high spirits, and Egon Wallin thought the evening was a happy ending to his old life. They sat at the best table in the magnificent cellar dining room, basking in the glow of the candles, the superbly prepared food beautifully arranged on their plates.
He raised his glass for yet another toast, and they all cheered for the new star in the firmament of art. Just as the shouts died out, two new guests appeared: Sixten Dahl, in the company of a younger man whom Egon had never seen before.
They greeted everyone politely as they went past, and Sixten once again praised the exhibition, giving the artist a long look. What the hell is he up to now? thought Egon. As luck would have it, they sat down at a table on the other side of the room so that Egon was sitting with his back to them.
Later, when he got up to go to the gents’, he discovered Mattis Kalvalis and Sixten Dahl together in the restaurant’s smoking room. They were alone, deeply immersed in what looked like a serious conversation. Anger surged up inside Egon at once. He opened the glass door.
‘What are you doing?’ he snapped in Swedish to Sixten.
‘What’s wrong with you, Egon?’ said his competitor, feigning surprise. ‘We’re having a smoke, and this is the smoking room.’
‘Don’t try any tricks. Mattis and I have a contract.’
‘Is that so? I heard that it wasn’t signed yet,’ said Sixten, stubbing out his cigarette and nonchalantly heading out of the door.
Naturally Mattis didn’t understand a word of what was said. Yet he seemed visibly ill at ease.
Egon decided to let the matter drop. He merely turned to the artist and said, ‘We have a deal, don’t we?’
‘Of course we do.’
It was past eleven by the time Egon and his wife finally returned home. Monika wanted to go to bed at once. He explained that he was going to sit up for a while, to unwind and reflect on his day. He poured himself a glass of cognac and sat down in the living room.
Now it was just a matter of waiting. He thought about the incident at Donners Brunn, but decided it had been nothing. Of course Sixten would keep trying. But the contract with Mattis was going to be signed the next day. They had agreed to meet at the gallery. Besides, the opening had been a success. He was confident that Kalvalis would remain loyal.
He took a big gulp of the cognac. The minutes crept by. He tried to stay calm and restrain his eagerness. If Monika followed her usual routine, she would spend ten minutes in the bathroom, then crawl into bed and read a few pages of a book before turning off the light and falling asleep. That meant that he had to wait about twenty minutes before he could leave the house and walk over to the hotel. There wouldn’t be anyone on duty at the front desk this late at night, so there was no risk of being recognized.
His whole body was looking forward to the rendezvous.
H is wife’s night-time regimen took longer than he had estimated, and Egon Wallin was feeling extremely annoyed by the time he finally set off. It was almost as if she had known that he had plans and so had read her book for longer than usual. Maybe even several chapters.
He had tiptoed past the bedroom several times, as quietly as he could, noting that her light was still on as his body itched with eagerness, almost like eczema. Finally she turned off the light. Just to make sure that she was actually asleep, he waited another fifteen minutes. Then he cautiously opened the door and listened to her regular breathing before he dared leave.
When he came out on to the street, he breathed a sigh of relief. Anticipation burned on his lips and tongue. Briskly he set off. The lights were out in most of the windows that he passed, even though it was Saturday and not yet midnight. He had no desire to run into a neighbour — around here everybody knew everyone else. They had bought the terraced house when it was new and their children were young. Their marriage had been relatively happy, and their lives had taken the expected path. Egon had never been unfaithful, even though he did a great deal of travelling for his job and met all sorts of people.