The Lansen jet fighter flies low overhead. The words are drowned out and Oskar falls silent.
“I once took part in a T.V. show. I was in the audience. There were about fifty of us. It was one of the ‘Forum’ current affairs programmes. But I got angry when they said we could laugh if anyone said something funny. I don’t want to be treated like that. Later my boy told me there’d been a close-up of me where you could see my injuries. The eye and the arm. I suppose that can happen.”
“I don’t like that my boy started to call himself a director as soon as he’d bought a washing machine and started doing people’s laundry. The old washerwomen never bloody well called themselves directors, even though they used to have to stand and wash clothes their whole lives. And what about those who clean up other people’s shit? The very word makes me angry. Now he has a large laundry business, but he still shouldn’t be calling himself a director. I’ve told him so, but he just laughs. I’m disappointed in him. For a while when he was twenty he was really good and angry and stirred things up. And now he’s the sort of person who votes blue. Bloody terrible. It feels as if he’s betrayed everything. But it’s hard not to love one’s children. About once a year I tell him what I really think. He only laughs, though.
“He’s got a big house and boats and cars. He’s worked for it, of course, but in some way it still feels as if he’d been given it for free. You can see how society has gone off the rails.
“I think things can only be changed through revolution. And it’ll come. Sooner or later. But it would have been nice to have been a part of it.”
Military manoeuvres are taking place in the archipelago. One morning, Oskar and I see a semi-submerged submarine passing the island.
“Elvira and I were always happy together. We used to lie in bed and chat afterwards. We were constantly tired, but we still managed it a couple of times a week. After we married, neither of us slept with anyone else. I don’t think either of us ever needed it. And you’re not going to risk something valuable by getting yourself into a stupid mess. So we used to lie there and talk about how things were back then. Elvira would reminisce and so would I. We were never bored. And we spoke about the way things are now and had very much the same views. Elvira was active in the trade union for many years. She would have made a good politician. And she kept on at me to make sure that we shared the household chores. But I did them anyway. It was not a problem. Only once did each of us get really furious with the other, but that was all. She was angry and upset when I had told our youngest girl that she had an ugly mug. I’d only said it as a joke, but she was very put out and told Elvira. Although she realised that I hadn’t meant it seriously, she said that girls have a tough enough time as it is. And she was right. Then Elvira infuriated me by staying away for a whole night once without any warning. She had been at a meeting which had run late and had slept on the sofa in the room behind the kitchen in the cafe. She had the key. And she saw my side then too, so we were never really angry. Not even when we had no money. Somehow we always got by.
“Elvira knew almost everything about flowers. When we were out walking she would know the names of all of the ones we saw. Even if we stopped outside a flower shop, she could identify them all and where they came from. But the great thing was that she was able to describe their scent as well. Then when I leaned forward to sniff, it was spot-on. I think that’s fantastic. To be able to describe a smell with words. But she could manage.
“It was pure chance that Elvira and I got to know each other. But I’m glad it happened.”
June 3. We spend all day on the bus driving through Germany. It’s more than seventy-five degrees. Oskar sits by the window. I’ve never seen such big fields as here. In the evening we get to Hamburg.
June 4. Today it’s even hotter. We drive around and look at various things in Hamburg before we go on. Today I sit by the window.
June 5.
June 6.
June 7. Now we’re in Vienna. It’s a beautiful city. It’s hot and we’ve been out to a big palace. We walked in the park. There was also a place there with all sorts of animals.
June 8. Today it was almost too hot to go outside. But we’ve walked around the city looking at things. We’ve sent postcards home to the children.
The notes Oskar threw away.
“When we were doing the housework, the vacuum cleaner would sometimes go on the blink. Then we would both take it apart and mend it. Or when we were making supper we would both be in the kitchen. And one of us did the dishes while the other cooked. It was never a problem.
“We voted the same because we thought the same. We changed party at the same time.
“We always had a good time at Christmas. The children got presents, but Elvira and I didn’t give each other anything. We sang songs with the kids and danced around the Christmas tree. I expect we made a terrible racket. But we had fun. And the kids learned to be happy at home. I think that’s important at a certain age. To feel welcome where you live.”
The summer of 1967. The story continues. Oskar is sitting in the cabin with the summer cane lying across his blue work trousers. He has become more tired, older. When he can’t solve a game of Patience, he just leaves the cards scattered on the table. Instead of getting up and going over to the worktop for the coffee pot and the spirit stove, he asks me to make the coffee. The newspapers lie unread. The smell of old age gets stronger.
Few words.
Long pauses.
He spends more and more time on the bench outside the house looking out over the water. Once when I come over, he is sitting there even though it is raining.
“Don’t you think we should go in?”
“I seem to have got stuck here.”
We go in. He is wet, but he does not put on any warm clothes.
“I never get a cold anyway. Never have. But we must have some coffee. Will you get it?”
The coffee cup between index finger and thumb. Long slurping mouthfuls. The lump of sugar on the tongue.
“I’ve started taking sugar in my coffee this winter. I don’t know why. Doesn’t make it taste any better.”
More and more forgetful.
Unless I’ve got this completely wrong.
But I’m not so sure.
I don’t remember anymore.
It’s not important when it happened.
It doesn’t matter what he was called.
The eyes have dulled. Their whites have become grey. The movements are more sluggish. Head bent forward more and more.
“You really wonder what’s going on. We have all these international organisations. Such as the U.N. And in spite of that we have situations like the one in Greece. Or in Spain. Or anywhere else. I read last winter that they still punish thieves by cutting off their arms and hands and feet. I look at my own stump and it’s all a mystery to me. How can this be possible? Haven’t we come any further than that? I remember there was someone who was executed in Sweden in about 1910. But then they put a stop to that and we thought it would be the same everywhere. It was a robber who’d killed someone. But I can’t remember what he was called.”
“Wasn’t his name Ander?”
“What?”
“Ander?”
“Yes. Perhaps. I don’t remember. Was it him?”
“Might have been.”
“I see. Was he related to the balloonist?”