Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

He looked out of the window again and continued drumming his fingers.

Lasagne, vegetarian pizza, pancakes. He did a thorough job of reading the entire menu. Chicken salad, tortellini with meatballs. He spied some sandwiches wrapped in plastic near the cashier and went to inspect them. Below them stood the drinks, and he scrutinised all the juices and at last decided on a beer.

Purely medicinal, he argued to himself when he got back to his seat. Even the sound of the bottle cap coming off made him feel better.

Four beers and fifty-seven minutes later he stepped off the train at Central Station. It was two o’clock and the day was young. He felt melancholy. He wished he could go home and be greeted by someone who understood him, secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t immediately be interrogated by someone who always demanded the impossible. She couldn’t even answer her mobile. She was punishing him, even though he was trying to do his best. Why couldn’t she see him as the person he was? And Ellen, little Ellen, the years that had gone by so fast. He remembered her as a baby, toddling across the floor; those days were gone for ever. He felt tears well up in his eyes as he hurried towards the waiting taxis.

Do your duty, be a good person.

Gerda had died utterly alone, and he hadn’t even been able to find a single photo of her for the funeral. So many years she had spent with him, dear Gerda, the solid anchor of his childhood. What could be more important right now than honouring her with one last effort?

He climbed into the back seat of a taxi and asked to go to Nacka.

When the taxi stopped outside the gate he no longer felt quite as confident. He paid the driver and got out, checking to see whether, unlikely though it was, there might be something in the post-box. All he found was a flyer from a charitable organisation. It was twenty minutes to three.

He looked at his childhood home. Empty windows. Four point two million kronor taxable valuation but with no soul and no purpose.

On the path through the garden he scrolled to Louise’s number but ended the call before it went through.

Enough was enough.

Now it was her turn to ring him.

There was nothing to drink in the downstairs kitchen. There had never been a drinks cabinet in the house. He went upstairs to what had been Annika’s room but was later converted to Alice’s kitchen. All he found was an unopened box of rice and a packet of old cocoa.

Axel’s office looked the same as the last time he had been there. The cupboard door was open, and the raw cold had spread into the room. He stopped in the doorway and looked at the lamp hook in the ceiling. How had it been possible for his father to continue working in here afterwards?

The box in which he’d found Annika’s death certificate was still on the desk, and he quickly looked through the rest of the contents. No picture of Gerda.

Maybe he should go home. Now he regretted coming back here. His restlessness had returned.

He carried the box back to the cupboard and almost stumbled over the black rubbish bag. He stood there drumming his fingers against his thigh. The jumble of piles on the floor and shelves, all the boxes and cartons, the whole thing gave him the creeps. A whole life collected in a few square metres, filled with success and uncertainties. What he had already found was betrayal enough.

A picture of Gerda. Where was that bloody photo? Why had the old devil been so disorganised?

He pulled out a cardboard box and went over to the desk, sat down and opened the lid. Boring paper, boring paper, boring paper, newspaper review, boring paper, letter from his publisher, boring paper, magazine article, invitation to the Finland-Sweden Literary Society, boring paper, boring paper, boring paper.

He lifted out the whole mess and let all the papers slowly flutter back down. Not a photograph to be seen. He went into the cupboard and chose a different box. Boring paper, boring paper, review.

Photographs.

Somewhat encouraged he took them out but was soon disappointed. Axel receiving a prize from some unidentified person at some unknown location.

Gerda was obviously not a popular subject for photos.

He returned to the box. Under another boring paper lay about fifty unopened letters. Different colours and shapes, some thicker than others, but all with the same handwriting. He turned one over to read the return address. Simply a tiny H. They were all the same. For a brief moment he hesitated before his curiosity took over. He was the one who would have to sort through all this eventually, so why not start now? He carefully slit open the envelope. It contained only a small note. He pulled it out to read it.

The shackles – they burst – they fall off me. The darkness is dispelled. I let love triumph!

Your H

Flabbergasted, he put the note back in the envelope and leaned back. The stamp was postmarked 17 March 1975, but he was the first to read the cryptic lines. He lifted the lid of the box and emptied out the letters onto the desk. One of the envelopes had been opened. He picked it up and unfolded the paper.

Thank you for your message. I promise to be there. Finally, my love!

Your Halina

He read the lines three times with increasing astonishment. His father was the one person on earth in whom he truly believed – although naturally it wasn’t all positive. But here was something he never in his wildest dreams would have suspected: his father had had a lover. Although he knew his father must have made his mother pregnant at least twice, the thought of Axel Ragnerfeldt as a sexual being was absurd. And unfaithful? Could it really be possible? That he would dare risk appearances – the very basis for the meaning of life?

And with the power of a sudden detonation he was then struck by a terrible thought.

Imagine if Axel’s lover, sometime around 1972, had borne his child.

A xel, Axel, forgive me, forgive me. Let me pour out a thousand pardons over a thousand pages before I try to convince you that I deserve your forgiveness. With complete confidence I appeal to your magnanimity and beg you to give up the aversion you feel for me. I can’t change the place from which I came, only the place to which I am on my way. There I will be able to carry your benevolence like a smooth stone in my hand, a consolation when memory plagues me. How could it happen? you must have wondered. I beg you to read my words without judging. To admit a mistake, after all, is only to admit that one is wiser today than yesterday. All I want to accomplish is a farewell that allows us to part as friends, as you so sensibly said back then, when I was in no condition to listen.

A thousand and another thousand times I beg you to forget what happened outside the publisher’s, because the person you saw was me and yet it wasn’t. Since my teens I’ve suffered from a number of problems, the doctors say that the explanation lies in my experiences in the camp during my childhood. As long as I take my medication I’m the Halina you met in Västerås, the Halina to whom you gave such a beautiful memory. Our experience enriched me. It’s so easy to believe that everything is whole when the heart is joyful. Unfortunately it made me careless about taking my medication. And I ended up taking it out on you, to my great dismay. It hurts so much to be rejected, when a feeling of worthlessness already fills every part of me.

Axel, none of it was your fault. I would like so much to say farewell with these lines and tell you that everything is fine. You’re a wonderful man and writer, and I wish you all good fortune with all my heart.