Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

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In a nondescript apartment block in Stockholm, most of the residents are elderly. Usually a death is a sad but straightforward event. But sometimes a resident will die and there are no friends or family to contact. This is when Marianne Folkesson arrives, employed by the state to close up a life with dignity and respect. Gerda Persson has lain dead in her apartment for three days before Marianne is called. When she arrives, she finds the apartment tidy and ordered. Gerda's life seems to have been quite ordinary. Until Marianne opens the freezer and finds it full of books, neatly stacked and wrapped in clingfilm, a thick layer of ice covering them.They are all by Axel Ragnerfeldt, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, with handwritten dedications to Gerda from the author. What story do these books have to tell, about Gerda, and more importantly about Ragnerfeldt, a man whose fame is without precedent in the nation's cultural life, but seldom gives interviews? "Shadow" is an utterly compelling novel about the lengths and depths people can be driven in order to achieve fame and acclaim, and the effect that this has on those closest to them. It is a story of dark family secrets, and the power of writing, involving murder, betrayal and the holocaust, which will keep readers gripped until its final thrilling revelations.

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If only they would show up some day.

If he just held his breath until that car had passed, then they would show up soon. If he peeled the tangerine in one piece, then they would show up soon. If a man and a woman got on the bus at the next stop, then they would show up soon. As he approached each corner he would hope, and in every crowd he would search for his own facial features. He would stand for hours in front of the mirror. He memorised every detail of his face. Sometimes just for an instant he thought he saw someone else, one of the two unknown people who lived inside his body.

His relationship to his adoptive parents had been quite distant. They had done everything to win his trust, but he had never been interested. In secret he had even despised their ingratiating behaviour, the way they would back off instead of restricting his freedom to act. Sometimes he had even seen fear in their eyes, when he flatly refused to obey their wishes, although sometimes he did it out of sheer obstinacy. They were and would remain intruders in a space intended for others, and when he turned eighteen he left home and broke off all contact.

In January 2005 he had read their names in the paper in a list of missing persons after the tsunami in Khao Lak. He hadn’t felt anything in particular.

He got up and turned on the desk lamp. The note was still lying on the sofa and his whole being was conscious of its existence. His mobile lay next to the keyboard, and he was just about to pick it up when the intercom buzzed. The unexpected sound made him jump; nobody should be coming unannounced. He decided to ignore it; he didn’t want any visitors, not right now when everything was upside down. The next moment his mobile rang. It was Jesper. Not now, he thought. The ringtone stopped abruptly and then there was a beep for a voicemail message.

‘Yeah, it’s me. I’m standing in the street outside your front door, because I thought I’d ask if you could do me a favour and take some pictures of me. I’ve got a camera with me. I think I’ve solved the problem with the book promotion. Call me as soon as you hear this. Bye.’

Kristoffer deleted the message and pressed recall. Then he stopped and put down the mobile. Not a very nice thing to do, but these were special circumstances. Jesper would understand. Sometime in the future he’d explain. Besides, Jesper had sounded happier this time. No longer so gloomy.

Somebody had died. Maybe it was all too late. He sat back down on the sofa. Got up again, went out to the kitchen, drank some water out of the tap, turned and went back into the living room. He wanted a drink. Just a little one to get up the courage to dial the number. He brushed aside the thought, drove it off, but could feel how it stayed close by in case he changed his mind. He clenched his fist and smacked himself on the forehead, trying to pound in the courage he was lacking, and went back to the kitchen. He had to do it, he had to decide to do it right now, before he had a chance to change his mind. Resolutely he went back to the living room, picked up his mobile and went over to the sofa. Sat down and began to dial, put the phone to his ear, got up again. Seconds passed. Maybe the last seconds of his life as it had always been. Then an unfamiliar voice.

‘Marianne Folkesson.’

‘Yes, hello, this is Kristoffer Sandeblom. I got your message on my answer machine but I’ve had my phone off for a few days. That’s why I didn’t ring earlier, because I’ve just played your message.’

A little pause followed his speech. The nervousness had made him ramble. He sank back on the sofa.

‘How nice of you to call. Yes, I’m the estate administrator for the county council, and I’ve been looking for you because Gerda Persson has unfortunately passed away.’

He could feel the rhythm of his heart. In his fingers holding the phone, in his thighs resting on the sofa. A regular pulse in his head.

Gerda Persson.

A woman, a mother. Not Elina but Gerda Persson. The name he had always been searching for.

‘As I said in my message, she named you as sole beneficiary in her will.’

He couldn’t speak. All his questions had stuck. For decades they had been practised for this very occasion, but now that it was here, no words would come out.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, I’m here.’

‘The funeral is on the twelfth at 2.30. I’ve begun the preparations since I haven’t been able to get hold of any relatives, but of course I’d welcome your input, if you want to take care of it some other way.’

Gerda Persson. The name was taking up all the space.

Gerda.

Persson.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes, I’m here, that should be fine.’

‘Then there are a number of decisions that have to be taken with regard to her flat. Perhaps you’d like to go over there and see whether there’s anything you’d like to have before we clear it out?’

There was a long silence. Naturally he didn’t say a word, and the woman on the other end seemed to have a hard time going on without a response. When she finally spoke, her tone was different. Less formal and more candid.

‘I’m sorry to harp on about all the details, it really wasn’t my intention to be insensitive. I’m sorry for your loss. I presume you were close?’

He got up and went over to the window. Looked out over Katarina cemetery. Was he really ready for this, did he really want to know? Of course he wanted to know, this was what he’d always been waiting for. But what if the waiting had actually become more important than getting the answers? Everything had seemed so good the past few years. What would happen if all his assumptions were changed?

‘It’s like this, I-’

He stopped abruptly. For thirty-one years he had kept his mouth shut, and he now found it impossible to allow a stranger to be the first person he told.

‘It’s like this, we didn’t know each other.’

Now it was the woman on the other end who was silent, and he welcomed the pause.

Here in Stockholm. Had she been so close?

‘Okay… But you have been in touch?’

‘I don’t know.’

She said nothing, as if waiting for more. He realised that it would be fitting to say something, but he had nothing to add.

‘It’s a little odd,’ she said, ‘so I understand your surprise. But you must be the one she intended in the will. You do live in Katarina Västra Kyrkogata, care of Lundgren?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s the information I have.’

‘But how could she know my address?’

‘I don’t know. You’re the only one with that name, and as long as you’re listed somewhere you wouldn’t be that hard to find.’

And in a flash he understood. The money each month. The small sum that had appeared since he turned eighteen, wherever he was, and which he at first thought was from his foster parents. But they had denied it after he’d left, when he once confronted them. The money that had not shown up this month.

Suddenly the word came down on him, the most shameful of all. Like a sharp glass shard it cut through all the evasive layers.

Foundling! You’re a foundling!

Whatever was found had been lost by someone. But you didn’t fasten little notes with instructions onto something that you lost by accident. It was deliberate.

He could feel something let go, and tears suddenly blurred his vision. He who never cried. With his hand over the mouthpiece he tried to collect himself; more tears fell and he sank deeper into the sofa. With all the self-control he could muster he tried to continue the conversation.

‘So you have no idea where she could have got my name?’

‘No, unfortunately. I can understand if it seems strange. I’ve gone through the personal records and I didn’t find you in her family. She was unmarried, had no children, and the only family I found was a childless sister, but she died back in the late fifties.’

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