Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

An overwhelming fear that Louise would abandon him, leaving him all alone.

Axel lay wide awake. Since not even one of the twenty-four hours made any specific demands, they were all interchangeable. He often lay sleepless at night. Waking hours that were compensated for during the day when he was still lying there. But tonight there was something else hovering over his wakefulness. Jan-Erik’s visit and everything he’d said had dragged him away from where he wanted to be and left him with memories he didn’t want to confront. Now they were streaming in from every direction, like old acquaintances happy that he’d finally got in touch. Eager to contribute what they could, as if they’d never been banished. Shadows crowded around the bed, all talking at once to fill in the gaps. Piece after piece was dragged out to complete the picture. Even the emotions he’d once felt, which he’d always wanted to forget. Because like spilled water one could never take back what one had once said and done.

The desire to be perfect. To know that not a single shadow could stain. To be able to lean on his life’s work, and deep inside know that it was untouchable.

He was back in the little room where they gathered, where the bookseller was informing them of the order of events at Västerås Theatre.

‘… and we thought that Axel should close the show. Then there’ll be a book signing in the foyer, where tables and book displays will be set up, and when the whole thing is over we’ll serve some hot food, canapés and sweets, and then the evening can continue as long as you like.’

Axel thumbed through his book and noticed that his hands were sweaty. This was the fourth Book Day event he had participated in this autumn, and as usual they wanted him to close it. Implicit in this was that he was the big name of the evening, a fact not always appreciated by the other authors.

‘I hope there’s a little something for the throat as well, and not just hot food.’

Scattered laughter followed Torgny Wennberg’s comment. He was the one who had the honour of opening the evening.

‘I don’t think anyone will be disappointed.’

They were sitting in a room behind the stage. Book Day was a popular event out in the country, and the tickets were sold out. The authors had an opportunity to read aloud and discuss their books and perhaps sell a few copies. In the early seventies the book trade had fluctuated as book prices rose, sales dropped and bookshops closed. Now optimism had begun to grow, but publishers were still being cautious with their lists. Even though Axel was comparatively safe, he had sensed an undertone of concern from his publisher that it had been a long time since he had delivered a new manuscript. In the end it was his publisher who had convinced him to show up at some Book Day celebrations during the autumn, even though he had nothing new to offer. Axel had been reluctant. The book he was struggling with was far from ready, and he feared more and more that he might never finish it. For days he sat ensconced in his office without squeezing out a single word, and with each day he grew more frustrated. Worried that something had been lost. Before, creativity had been taken for granted, as if all he had to do was open up to the universe and take notes – a collaboration with a divine source that flowed through his pen. His duty and calling was to write down what came to him. He had a feeling of being chosen. The process was very delicate and required that he shield himself from earthly distractions.

Now he wondered if the gift had deserted him. Or maybe it was Alice’s bitterness that lay like a cloud over the house and blocked the flow. After Jan-Erik had moved to the States she had become even more difficult to be around. It was as though the air itself was contaminated by her presence, which halted all creativity. It had contributed to his decision to say yes to travelling this autumn. The opportunity to breathe a little fresh air.

Despite his loss of creative power the promoters wanted him to close the evening. He felt neither joy nor pride. He hid behind old achievements, and it gave him as little satisfaction as the memory of a sandwich when he was hungry. Writing was what he lived for, and without it he was nothing. To lap up admiration from a stage only made him uncomfortable, as if the audience were secretly peeking at him through a keyhole.

‘You’re on in ten minutes.’

The evening’s organiser left the room and only the authors remained. He had known Torgny for some time, while the other two were strangers, one a first-time novelist and the other a crime writer. The latter had apparently sold a good number of books, although it was incomprehensible to Axel that people read such drivel.

Torgny reached out his hand and grabbed the book that Axel had on his lap, eyeing it as if it might divulge a secret.

‘Oh, that’s right, you haven’t published a new novel this year. This one’s two years old, isn’t it?’

He turned the book over.

‘So you’re going to read from this one, I suppose, since you won’t say anything about your writing, as usual.’

He laughed but his taunt was clear to everyone in the room.

‘Yes, I thought I’d read a few selected passages.’

‘How’s your new one going, then? Or maybe you can’t tell me about it because then you’d have to shoot me.’

He cast a glance at the two listeners in the room who were obviously amused by this exchange, and by Torgny’s disrespectful tone towards the famously shy author. Axel was aware of his reputation but had no intention of apologising for taking his creativity seriously. There were plenty of buffoons like Torgny, never missing a chance to draw attention to themselves. He came to visit sometimes, always without an invitation and always with a bottle in his pocket. Sometimes the visits would amuse Axel as a welcome break in the daily grind, but often he found them simply tiresome. They came from a similar background; both had made the escape from poor working-class homes. He suspected that Torgny’s visits were prompted more by curiosity and a desire to stay up to date. With the starting blocks in the same place it was possible to pick a winner, and the race was always on. Axel knew very well that Torgny’s indulgent friendship was feigned, since Axel was several lengths ahead in the race. His name had even been mentioned in connection with the Nobel Prize. The fact that he had not yet been elected to the Swedish Academy was remarkable and much discussed, and not merely an omission that was magnified by his own offended look.

‘It’s going well, very well in fact. I just don’t want to let go of it before it’s done, so I’ll hold onto it a bit longer and polish it up. Nobody wants to publish a book that’s worse than the last.’

Torgny’s latest novel had received bad reviews in the main papers. Axel had been somewhat amused by the sarcastic pieces.

Torgny looked at the clock.

‘I think it’s about time to go out.’

Axel remained seated in his chair. ‘Quite right. You’re supposed to lead off, aren’t you?’

Torgny smiled, winked and raised his hand. He pointed his finger like a pistol barrel and aimed it at Axel. At least he had a sense of humour.

The performance, if that was the right word for the evening’s event, was neither worse nor better than expected. Torgny’s opening act contained many funny lines, and one burst of laughter from the audience followed another. He told them frankly about the agonies of writing and his sources of inspiration, ending with a reading. Axel’s discomfort grew. The book in his hand seemed more irrelevant with each minute that passed, as if someone else had written it and he’d been sent to defend it. Now it was his turn to take the stage. He listened to the lyrical introduction and tried to step into the role of celebrated author.