Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

‘… who with his unique narrative voice and his shimmering prose has given us so many magical reading experiences. With the clarity of his vision into the depths of the human soul he leads us in a search for atonement in a hard and inhumane world. In the contrast between light and darkness his characters assume razor-sharp contours, and their fates continue to enthrall us. Tonight it is with great pleasure that I have the honour of introducing Axel Ragnerfeldt.’

He didn’t recognise the man described. Only at his desk in the moment of inspiration was he this person. Not here and now, trembling in the wings, ready to show himself to the masses. Unsteadily he walked out on stage. The book in his hands was shaking, and he wondered if it was noticeable. A sea of expectant faces. Well-educated, intellectual, well-read.

Engineers.

At any moment he could be unmasked. He quickly turned to the first page and began to read. He read and read until his time was up and he was free to go. The audience’s thunderous applause. Like a wave it crashed over him, on and on. The master of ceremonies standing next to him seemed pleased at the evening’s success. Some in the audience stood up, pulling others with them, and there he was, Axel Andersson – now Ragnerfeldt – esteemed, celebrated, idolised by a standing ovation.

And it gave him nothing.

Nothing.

It was time for book signing; Axel and Torgny walked out to the foyer. There was no doubt which table was Axel’s; the queue was already quite long. A few fans were standing at the other authors’ tables, several more at the crime writer’s, but it was obvious that Torgny had no intention of showing his envy. After a pat on Axel’s back he went to his own table.

‘Just say the word if you need any help.’

Axel sat down and began signing books. Several of his older titles were on the table, and some of them ran out before the end of the queue. What fantastic books you write, said the strangers standing before him. Time after time: how good you are. It made him feel worse each time the words were repeated. What did they know about what was good? he wanted to ask. What is it that’s so good about my novels, can you tell me that? Anyone able to describe it would have the right to say the words, he thought, as he wrote his name in yet another book that would be read by yet another ignoramus. Someone who had no idea of the effort that lay behind the book. Who would rush through the pages without devoting the same care and time to each sentence as he had done.

The others had already filled their plates by the time he was finished and stepped into the room where the food was laid out. About thirty people were there, those involved in arranging the evening and specially invited guests. Everyone was already in high spirits.

He noticed her immediately. A perfect work of art among a pile of rejected sketches.

‘Come and sit with us, Axel, we’ve saved you a seat.’

It was Torgny calling to him, a bit louder than necessary. He had always been keen on pointing out how well they knew each other, forcing his way in and taking advantage of the spotlight. The woman was sitting next to him, and the chair he was pointing to was facing her. Axel went over to the buffet and took a glass of red wine. His curiosity was aroused in a way that felt unfamiliar.

‘Axel, bring a bottle with you, we need a refill.’

The request was so loud that all conversation stopped, but when nothing more of interest occurred the chatter resumed. Axel took a bottle of red and went over to the place Torgny had saved for him. He tried to act less interested than he was. But a true aesthete could not ignore her beauty. She was staring at him intently, and his eyes swept past hers not daring to stop. Torgny grabbed the wine and filled their glasses.

‘Axel, this is Halina. She’s here with me but she didn’t want to come backstage to say hello before we started. She’s a bit shy that way.’

Torgny grinned.

‘I just didn’t want to bother you.’ She reached her hand across the table. ‘Halina.’

Axel took her hand. It was cool and dry and he felt that it might break if he squeezed too hard.

‘Axel.’

She gave him a little smile then lit a cigarette. He couldn’t help it, her touch had affected him. Shy as a schoolboy he sat down on the chair and tried to direct his attention elsewhere. His reaction surprised him; at forty-eight he thought that sort of response had been lost. So many years had passed since he’d last felt it.

Torgny babbled on. For once his torrent of words was welcome. Axel exchanged a few words with a man from the city’s bookshop, the whole time uncomfortably aware of her presence. Glasses were filled and emptied and the noise increased, chairs scraping on the marble floor as people moved around and changed places. Torgny stood up to get more food and fell into a conversation by the buffet table. She was the one who spoke.

‘We’ve met before. Do you remember?’

Axel was taken aback.

‘Really? I can’t believe I’d forget.’

The wine had given him courage. Her eyes were dark brown, her face framed by curly dark-brown hair. She was wearing an embroidered green jumper, and he had noticed straightaway that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her make-up was subtle, if she was wearing any at all, and on her left wrist she wore some thin silver bangles that clinked when she moved.

‘It was only a brief meeting, not particularly special, so it’s no wonder you don’t remember. At a writers’ demonstration in ’69.’

He certainly hadn’t forgotten the event, but he didn’t remember their meeting. In protest against the low payment they received for books borrowed from the libraries, the writers had gathered at the main branches of libraries in Stockholm, Göteborg, Malmö and Umeå. Together with sympathetic librarians they had emptied the shelves and driven off the books in buses, and hadn’t returned them until a week later. He had felt invigorated, taken back to his working-class roots.

‘So you’re a writer too?’

She smiled and fingered her glass.

‘I do the best I can, but I haven’t had anything published yet. I’m struggling. What I’m working on feels like it could turn into something, but right now I’m stuck.’

Her voice was as pleasant as her appearance. Despite her foreign name he could hear no accent. Her fingers slid along the stem of the wine glass, and he couldn’t stop following the movement with his eyes. He wanted to reach out his hand and touch her again, see whether her skin was as soft as it looked. It was so long since he had felt the nearness of a woman. Sometimes he would ejaculate in his sleep. Like a teenage boy. The body’s desperate self-regulation when nothing else was available.

‘Since you’re the “master of good and evil”, I have to ask you something.’

‘Those are your words, remember.’

‘But that’s what people say about you.’

‘Oh, that’s something altogether different. But go ahead and ask, and I’ll do what I can.’

Suddenly she was eager. She stubbed out her cigarette and took a pen out of her handbag, looked for something to write on and pulled over an unused paper napkin. She drew two parallel lines across it and then drew small wavy lines between them.

‘This is a river full of crocodiles. No one can get across without a boat.’

She drew a square on one side of the river.

‘Per lives here. He loves Eva who lives on the other side of the river and Eva loves him. One day Per comes down with a serious illness and he rings Eva and asks her to come and help him. He explains how sick he is and asks her to hurry. But Eva has no boat, so she runs over to Erik, who lives on her side of the river and has a boat. She explains the situation and asks him to lend her the boat so she can row across and help Per.’