John Lindqvist - Harbour

'Carry me'.

It was quarter-past three and Anders knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. The storm had abated somewhat and the sensible thing would be to try and sort out the mess in the living room, if possible board up the window somehow.

But he just didn't have the strength. He felt exhausted and wideawake at the same time, his brain working feverishly. The only thing he could do was to sit at the kitchen table twisting his fingers around each other as he looked at the message from his daughter.

Carry me.

Where was he to carry her from? Where was he to collect her? Where was he to carry her to? How?

'Maja? Maja darling, if you can hear me…say something else. Explain. I don't understand what I have to do.'

There was no reply. The anxiety was wearing him away, he was about to dissolve into ghostly form. If she was a ghost. If she hadn't actually been here and…

But in that case why did she go away again?

He got up and walked around, unable to settle. He spotted some empty half-litre bottles of Imsdal, the water they had taken with them on outings sometimes. He still couldn't do anything, he was getting nowhere. He might as well put his plan into action.

From the larder he took the six one-litre cartons of Spanish wine he had brought with him to Domarö. He filled the four Imsdal bottles about one-third full. Then he topped up one of them with tap water and drank some of the mixture. It didn't taste good. More like flavoured tap water than diluted wine.

Right at the back of the larder he found two small packs of grape juice. He squeezed some into one of the bottles, on top of the wine. Then he added water. It didn't taste watery now, just like really weak wine. Four and half per cent alcohol maybe, about the same as beer.

He put the top back on and pulled up the cap so that he could suck at the liquid, then sucked down a good mouthful.

His plan to escape the constant urge to drink himself into a stupor was very simple: he would drink constantly, but he would drink less. Maintain a reasonable level of drunkenness from morning till night. He hoped that with this plan both the lacerating, tearing desire and the sharp edges of the world would be softened and made manageable.

He prepared the remaining four bottles in the same way. When he had finished he still had five cartons and a pack of grape juice left. He would use these to fill up the four bottles when they were empty.

Carry me.

He closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene. Maja coming into the kitchen, picking up the pencil, writing those letters and then… then…arranging some beads on the tile before leaving. She was still wearing the red snowsuit and it was soaking wet, she was dripping as she walked and her eye sockets were empty. Greedy fish had… Stop it!

He opened his eyes and shook his head, took a drink from the bottle. The picture was still there. The small body, her round face, the soaking wet snowsuit…

He examined the floor to see if there was any trace of water. Nothing.

It's me who wrote it. It's me who put the heads on the tile.

That could be what had happened. In which case he was actually going mad. But it was just a memory lapse, surely? It was during that missing period that he…

No.

He had thought he'd had a memory lapse when he saw the beads, since he couldn't remember putting them there. Now, of course, there was another explanation.

Carry me.

He banged the table with his fists.

'Show yourself! Say something else! Don't do this!'

He couldn't believe he was quite this crazy. The only explanation was that somebody was playing a really sick joke on him, or…that it was exactly what it appeared to be. That Maja existed in the world, somehow, and was trying to communicate with him.

He placed his palms on the table. Breathed in and out a couple of times, calmly and deliberately.

Yes. All right, so be it. I'm making the decision. I choose to believe it.

He carried on nodding, had another drink of wine and lit a cigarette. He felt better now. Now that he had accepted the situation. He took a deep drag, held it in his lungs, leaned back in his chair and slowly let the smoke out. The storm had died down, so that the smoke reached the ceiling without dispersing.

I believe. You exist.

The circle of light cast by the lamp expanded and turned into a warm feeling that grew in his chest until it radiated a pure, clean happiness.

You exist!

He threw the cigarette in the bin, got up and spun round and round in the middle of the kitchen floor, his arms spread wide. He attempted a few clumsy dance steps, jumped up and down and whirled around until he felt dizzy, started coughing and had to sit down. The happiness was still there. It was crackling and gushing, it wanted to find a way out somehow.

Without thinking he pulled the telephone towards him and keyed in Cecilia's number. He could still remember it, because she had taken over her parents' apartment in Uppsala when they moved into a house. She had the same number as when they were teenagers, spending hours on the phone to each other and longing for their next meeting. If she was still living there.

The phone rang three times. Anders pressed the receiver firmly to his ear, looked at the clock and grimaced. It was just after four. It occurred to him belatedly that this might not be the best time to call. He took a swig from the bottle as the fifth tone rang out.

'Hello?'

It was Cecilia, and she sounded exactly as you might expect-as if she'd just woken up. Anders swallowed the wine in his mouth and said, 'Hi, it's me. Anders.'

There was silence for a few seconds, then Cecilia said, 'You're not to ring here when you're drunk. I've told you that.'

'I'm not drunk.'

'What are you, then?'

Anders thought it over. The answer was simple.

'Happy. I'm happy. And I thought I ought to…to ring and tell you. Why.'

Cecilia sighed, and Anders remembered. He had called her like this several times. After they had separated he had called her sometimes to say…what had he said? He'd been drunk and he couldn't remember. But he had never called and been happy. Well, he didn't think so anyway.

'I see,' said Cecilia. 'So why are you happy?'

It didn't sound as if she was genuinely interested, but he supposed he could understand that, so he took a deep breath and said, 'Maja has contacted me.'

He heard the rustle of bedclothes at the other end as Cecilia sat up. 'What are you talking about?'

Anders told her what had happened. He left out the detail about Elin and all the wine, just said he had fallen asleep and then woken up during the night, found the message on the kitchen table. As he was talking he ran his fingers over the letters on the table, over the beads.

When he had finished there was a long silence. Anders cleared his throat and said, 'What do you think?'

From the sounds at the other end he gathered that Cecilia was lying down again.

'Anders. I've met someone else.'

'Right. Yes.'

'So…there's not much I can do for you. Not anymore.'

'But…this isn't about that.'

'Then what is it about?'

'It's about…about…Cecilia, this really is what's happened. Honestly. It's true, what I told you.'

'What do you want me to do?'

What had been so simple suddenly became difficult. Anders looked around the table as if he were searching for a clue. His gaze landed once again on the seven spindly letters.

'I don't know. I just wanted…to tell you.'

'Anders. The time we had together…even though it ended the way it did…if you need help. If you really, really need help. Then I'll help you. But not otherwise. I can't. Do you understand?'