Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

‘I’m a playwright, so I found it all very inspiring. I’m writing for a theatre in Stockholm at the moment, and if you like I could see to it that you and your wife get an invitation to the première.’

Jan-Erik looked at his watch. ‘Oh, so you’re a dramatist?’

‘Yes, I wrote the play Find and Replace All. It was produced a couple of years ago, perhaps you’ve heard of it?’

Jan-Erik frowned pensively.

‘No, I don’t think I have. I’m afraid I don’t go to the theatre very often.’

There was a moment’s silence. Jan-Erik took a gulp of water.

‘Do you write too?’

‘No, no. I have enough to do with Pappa’s works. What did you say your name was? I didn’t catch it.’

‘Kristoffer Sandeblom.’

‘I think I recognise that name.’

‘Marianne Folkesson probably mentioned me. I got your name from her. I’m the one that Gerda Persson named as her heir.’

‘Quite right, that’s where I heard it.’

Kristoffer picked up the bottle and drank some more water to give him a moment to think. Where should he begin?

‘The thing is, I didn’t know who Gerda Persson is, and as far as I know we’ve never even met. I have no idea how she even knew me.’

The frown on Jan-Erik’s face returned.

‘That’s odd.’

‘Yes, it is. Although I think she must have been the one who sent me money every month for years, at least since I was about eighteen. It wasn’t a huge amount, but still. So I don’t really know what I’m asking, but I thought you might know something about her that could explain things.’

Jan-Erik slowly shook his head.

‘I don’t have the slightest idea. You know, I haven’t had any contact with Gerda since about 1979, 1980. She worked at my parents’ house, but I’d already moved out by 1972. She stayed on another few years, but I was abroad most of the time.’

Kristoffer listened attentively. Nineteen seventy-two. Back then he’d still been living with his parents. The calm he had felt was now gone. As always when he got close to the truth.

Jan-Erik slapped his hands on his thighs as if to say that everything important had been said and it was time to call it a night. But Kristoffer still sat there wondering what exactly he should do. For the first time in his life he wanted to tell someone, reveal his secret to this man who tonight had proved himself worthy. He had finally found a link to what he’d always been searching for; it was almost as though he’d found part of his family.

Jan-Erik looked at his watch.

Kristoffer felt a pang of annoyance at his lack of interest, but he’d made up his mind. Everything was ready and could not be called back, yet he could hardly expect Jan-Erik to understand what was remarkable about the situation before he had explained it.

His heart was thumping.

‘It’s like this, I… This feels especially important for me because I…’

He fell silent; what he wanted to say was inexpressible. How could such a little word contain such great anguish?

Jan-Erik looked at him. He had an odd look on his face, and Kristoffer gathered his strength for the inevitable. He closed his eyes.

‘I’m a foundling.’

He opened his eyes. A sense of heaviness he’d never felt before spread through his body, and all at once it seemed difficult to move. Jan-Erik sat motionless, only his eyelids blinked occasionally. As if it would help him to take in the information. After a long while he finally spoke.

‘So you think this has something to do with Gerda?’

‘I don’t know.’

He inhaled deeply, trying to counteract the force of the weight that was dragging him down.

‘I know nothing about my origins, but of course it struck me when I heard she wanted me to inherit her estate. But, as I said, as far as I know I’ve never met her.’

‘So you think Gerda may have been your mother?’

‘No, she couldn’t have been – she would have been fifty-eight when I was born. But somehow she must have known that I’m a… a foundling. I lived with my adoptive parents from a very young age, so it’s not something that people know, and it’s nothing I’ve ever really talked about.’

He lowered his eyes.

‘This is actually the first time I’ve told anyone.’

Jan-Erik, who had been leaning back in his chair, abruptly shifted position.

‘What year were you born?’ His voice had taken on a new tone.

‘Seventy-one, I think. Possibly seventy-two.’

‘What do you mean, you think ?’

‘No one really knows how old I was when they found me.’

‘But you couldn’t have been born as late as seventy-six?’

‘No, I went to my foster family in 1975.’

For some reason Jan-Erik looked relieved. He got up and found his briefcase, opened it and took out a bottle of Glenlivet.

‘This calls for a drink. Would you like one?’

Kristoffer looked at the bottle. Jan-Erik set out a little tray with two glasses and poured whisky into them, took one and handed it to Kristoffer.

‘Well, it’s a strange story. I don’t really see how I can help you, though. I haven’t the slightest idea how it’s all connected.’

The fumes from the glass in Kristoffer’s hand crept into his nostrils. His whole body was ready to accept the longed-for drink – the one thing that was missing for him to feel complete. Just a little, just a single drink, now that he’d told someone for the first time.

‘There aren’t many people you could ask, either. As far as I know, Gerda didn’t have many friends. She always stayed in, even when she wasn’t working.’

Kristoffer looked at the glass. The liquid shimmered, as bright as amber. He was desperate to take a sip; he deserved to be viewed as an equal. He couldn’t tell him the truth, couldn’t reveal yet another shame to Jan-Erik. That besides being a foundling, he was also an alcoholic.

A sudden fury came to his rescue. Who did he think he was, anyway, this man before him? Sitting there with his whisky puzzling over Kristoffer’s background, when he’d soon forget all about it and go to his hotel and have a fancy dinner with his wife. This man who because of his sophisticated family tree could travel about basking in the glow of his surname. And he couldn’t even write; he was only mimicking what his father had once created. So simple, so fucking privileged.

The glass in Kristoffer’s hand was so tempting soon he wouldn’t be able to resist.

‘What time is it?’

‘10.35.’

He put down the whisky and stood up.

‘My train is leaving soon, so I’ll have to be going.’

Jan-Erik knocked back the last drops, stood up and offered his hand.

‘Best of luck, then.’

‘Same to you.’

Kristoffer couldn’t get out into the fresh air fast enough. At the same time he felt a weariness so overpowering his legs would hardly carry him. He went out the way he’d come in, across the stage and through the auditorium to the foyer. Outside the doors he stopped and filled his lungs with air, trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing. Because now he regretted it. He had placed his secret in someone else’s hands, but instead of feeling unburdened he felt exposed. He wanted to go inside and take it all back, tell him that what he’d said was a lie. He didn’t want Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt to know he was a person who had been discarded like old rubbish.

He fished out his mobile, wanting to ring Jesper and hear his voice, to experience something ordinary, something that belonged to the time before his confession. Four rings. The voicemail picked up. He didn’t leave a message.

Across the street was the park he had to walk across to get to the station. Full of shadows and hidden secrets, it felt threatening. He made it halfway across the street before his fear of the dark took over. But he had to get to the train. He wanted nothing more than to get home. He stood on the pavement and lowered his head. On the street in front of his feet there was a dark spot on the tarmac, an oval shape that he suddenly imagined looked like an eye. Without knowing why he stood on the spot and closed his eyes. In the next moment he realised to his astonishment that he had begun to sing.