Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

No. Not if you ignore the fact that you’ve broken your daughter’s heart again, she wanted to say.

‘What clinic?’

He turned to her in surprise.

‘Don’t you know? The clinic we set up last year.’

‘No, I don’t know. How could I know if you never told me?’

Her voice was hard and prickly. She hated the bitterness that had crept into her, so slowly and silently that she didn’t discover it until it had already taken root.

‘Then I apologise. I thought I’d told you, or perhaps I thought you wouldn’t be interested.’

She looked out the window across the tops of the trees towards the church tower. It was true what he said, she wasn’t particularly interested. She knew that financially they depended on his work and it was useful; that the foundations and orphanages he established in Axel’s name saved lives out there in remote places. But to be interested in his work was like legitimising her own tormentor. To always be rejected. Something else was always more important and took precedence over what she and Ellen had to offer. Maybe she was selfish. Otherwise she might have been able to set Ellen’s and her welfare aside for a greater cause. But she was not that better person.

‘I asked your mother if she wanted to go to the play with us.’

‘That was nice of you.’

‘No, not really. It wasn’t for her sake, it was for Ellen’s. But she couldn’t come. She had to stay at home and take care of her leg cramps, her bad hip and the tinnitus in her ears.’

Jan-Erik drained the last of the whisky in his glass and poured another one.

‘It’s not easy for her. She did turn eighty this year. We’ll have to hope that all three of us can go next time.’

She looked out of the window again. Wishing instead that she were on the other side of one of the windows across the street.

‘Yes, that would be nice. A real Ragnerfeldt onslaught. Ellen would certainly appreciate not being the child who draws the smallest crowd for once.’

She loathed every syllable that came out of her mouth. Hated having turned into someone whose last chance for satisfaction was to think she had the right to utter those words. Often they were trivialities that actually meant nothing; she used them merely to vent her frustration. Complaining about the way he left his shoes in the hall, the way the crockery was arranged in the dishwasher, the way the cushions on the sofa weren’t in the right place. What she hated most was that Jan-Erik refused to be provoked. Like one of those invincible figures in Ellen’s computer games he would rise unscathed after each mortal blow, always ready for more. His equanimity drove her crazy. She wasn’t even important enough to cause a row.

He set down his empty whisky tumbler on the glass table top.

‘I’m going to bed now. I have to see Mamma tomorrow. Gerda Persson has died.’

‘Oh, really? And who is Gerda Persson?’

For a moment he looked surprised.

‘Our old housekeeper.’

Gerda Persson. She had never heard the name before.

‘Somebody called from the council wanting to discuss the funeral. I presume we must be the closest acquaintances she has. Or had. She was part of our household for my entire childhood and stayed there until 1979, maybe 1980. So it’s not too much to ask that we help out with what we can. Mamma knew her better, so I’ll have to discuss it with her.’

He walked out and soon she heard the bathroom door close and lock. As if he were making sure that she wouldn’t suddenly storm in and assault him.

She was living with a stranger. Gerda Persson had lived in his house for his entire childhood. And he had never before mentioned her name. Yet another sign of his success at keeping her out of his life. Present and past. And she had no idea what he thought about the future.

Her life was divided into two compartments: one was full of longing to recapture her own dreams; the other of bitterness over the way everything had turned out, including Jan-Erik’s complete indifference. It was between these millstones that everything was being ground into a fine dust that was slowly settling over her life. Of course there was a way out. Many people had chosen it before her. Divorce figures were so high that grocers were giving out queue tickets for packing boxes. But there was a chasm one had to cross between I would really like to and Now I will. Ellen was part of that chasm. How could she allow herself to make a decision that would also affect her daughter so much? The other aspect was financial. Everything of value in her life belonged to the Ragnerfeldt Corporation, and its owner was still Axel Ragnerfeldt: the flat, the car, the shop. In a divorce she would be left destitute. But only as long as Axel was alive. She thought about it sometimes, and more and more often lately, the fact that her situation would be different the day the inheritance was divided up. She had begun to sense what was actually lurking beneath the bitterness; sometimes it would stick out a rough hand and grab hold of her. A tremendous sorrow over their unforgivable failure.

If no decisive change occurred, divorce would be the only way out, as soon as Axel died.

The alternative was to stay and for ever eradicate the word ‘excellent’ from her consciousness.

He had learned to breathe so it sounded as if he was asleep. As he lay in his pyjamas on his side of the double bed he listened to Louise’s bare feet padding across the oak parquet floor, then her hanging up her dressing gown, sitting down on the edge of the bed and removing her necklace, rings and earrings. He heard the clatter when the jewellery landed one by one in the little crystal bowl on the night-stand. He heard her pull out the drawer, unscrew the lid of the moisturiser and finally the sound of her rubbing it carefully on her hands. Night after night – the same routine. If the word ‘boredom’ could be visualised, this was a precise example.

He hadn’t slept much the night before, yet he couldn’t get to sleep. His heart was pounding unpleasantly, and he wished that he could sneak out of bed unnoticed and have another whisky. And besides, even though Louise thought him incapable of it, he felt guilty at having missed Ellen’s play. Again. It hadn’t been on purpose. He had planned to take an earlier train. But then the woman had asked him to stay another few hours, told him that she could get off work, and he hadn’t been able to resist. As usual, his judgement had slipped down between his legs, and for a couple of hours he had watched with delight the effect of his talents, felt the satisfaction of his own ability when he made her whimper in ecstasy. The instant it was all over, he had been filled with self-disgust. A distaste so strong it was as if she’d suddenly sprouted tentacles.

But he missed the train.

He heard Louise’s breathing deepen and presumed she was asleep. But maybe she could fake it as well as he could. They really ought to get separate bedrooms; then at least they could read in peace in the evenings. But to achieve that they would have to lay their problems on the table; open confrontations were something he hated. They could easily overflow and suddenly involve something altogether different from what one had intended in the beginning. It was much too risky.

The guilt he felt was hard to describe. He wouldn’t be able to stand his home at all if he couldn’t travel so often. And yet he had the same sense of relief each time he came back. On the verge of tears and with a heavy conscience, he wanted more than anything to be on good terms again. Like a boxer’s punchbag that silently takes blow after blow, he was willing to endure her sarcasm. So often he vowed to himself that everything was going to be different; he was going to be a better person, drink in moderation, keep his cock in his trousers. But despite all his good intentions, restlessness soon caught up with him, and the itchy sensation in his body was impossible to quell. Then he would go out and it would start all over again. It was his only means of relief.