Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

‘I think I do,’ Gerlof said. ‘One last thing... Do you have a list of the films you’ve shown at the manor house?’

‘Not here, but there’s one in the office.’

‘Could I have a look at it?’

‘Of course,’ Bertil said. ‘I’ll drop by in the morning.’

‘Thank you, Bertil — thank you very much.’

Gerlof said goodnight and ended the call. Then he went back to his notebook to write down a name he had never heard before: PETER MAYER.

Then he turned off the light and went back to sleep.

Jonas had finished sanding for the day and had treated himself to a dip in the pool afterwards. As usual, he was alone. Nothing that had happened over the past few days had changed that. Casper had gone off on his moped; he hadn’t really seemed to care when Jonas finally told him that his old rubber dinghy had sunk. Dad was at the restaurant, and Mats and Urban were working down at the Ölandic.

There were, of course, boys of approximately his own age in the village. Kristoffer was a year younger, and perhaps a little childish, but he was still a pretty cool companion. After his swim, Jonas cycled over to the Davidssons’ cottage.

‘Jonas!’

As he walked in through the gate, he saw Kristoffer’s grandfather Gerlof in his usual spot in the garden. He waved his little notebook at Jonas.

Gerlof seemed bright and cheery this Wednesday, as if he was bursting with news. Jonas went over to him, and Gerlof started talking right away.

‘Kristoffer’s inside, you can go and see him in a minute, but I just want to show you something first. I wrote something down after we’d had our chat yesterday. It’s about the ship, and the man you saw on board. Would you like to see?’

Jonas didn’t really want to think any more about the ghost ship, but he didn’t have much choice.

‘Good. Here it comes.’

Gerlof held out his notebook and pointed to three words written in pencil, in shaky handwriting. Jonas leaned forward and read, ‘ The Lion King ’. He read it twice, then looked up at Gerlof.

‘It’s a film,’ Gerlof said. ‘I’ve only seen it on video with my grandchildren, but it’s been on in the cinema, too... Do you remember it?’

Jonas nodded; he had seen it several times. ‘It’s about animals in Africa,’ he said. ‘A father lion is killed by his brother and thrown off a mountainside. And there’s loads of music.’

‘Exactly,’ Gerlof said, looking pleased. ‘It was when you said the word “Africa”... During the night, I got the idea that the man who was after you might have been working in a cinema when you and your brother went to see The Lion King . I checked with an acquaintance who’s involved in showing films on the island, and it was on at the manor house in Marnäs five years ago, in the summer of ’94. Were you here then?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Because Marnäs manor house is a big red building, made of wood. Just like the one you described to me.’

Jonas remembered now. He had been seven years old that summer; Mats had been twelve. Dad had taken them up to Marnäs, but he hadn’t stayed for the film, he had just dropped them off and picked them up afterwards. So they had gone to the cinema on their own, for the first time ever. They had gone into the building and up to the ticket office, and...

It was all coming back to him now.

‘Yes, that’s where he was. The man from the ship, he was sitting in a little kiosk, and he sold us our tickets.’

‘Good,’ Gerlof said again. ‘And I managed to find a name... There was only one young man who worked in the cinema that summer, so I think we can identify him.’

He paused and leaned forward. ‘But if I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone else?’

Jonas didn’t look too sure, but he agreed.

‘His name is Peter, Peter Mayer. But he’s known as Pecka. Do you recognize that name?’

Jonas shook his head. ‘The man on the ship didn’t tell me his name.’

‘No, of course not. But I looked in the phone book this morning, and there’s a Peter Mayer who lives up in Marnäs.’

Jonas stiffened. There was a sudden chill in the evening air. ‘So he lives here... on the island?’

‘Yes, if that’s him. But there’s nothing to worry about, Jonas. He doesn’t know who you are.’

Nevertheless, Jonas’s heart was pounding. Marnäs wasn’t far away; you could cycle there in half an hour. Casper went there on his moped virtually every day. And the man with the axe lived there.

‘We just need to find out more about him,’ Gerlof went on. ‘You said he mentioned an old man, an American?’

‘Aron,’ Jonas said.

‘Aron,’ Gerlof repeated thoughtfully.

Jonas wanted to tell Gerlof about the figure he had seen by the cairn the previous day, the figure that reminded him of the man on the ghost ship — but now he was no longer sure whether he might have imagined it.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Gerlof looked down at his notebook.

‘Right, Jonas. I’ll try to find the American, too. If he exists.’

Tilda’s phone was still engaged. Gerlof had things to tell her, but he hung up. He knew that it wasn’t against the law for a private individual to look into things, but he thought it was time to let her know what he had found out about Peter Mayer. And the mysterious Swedish-American.

Gerlof thought about the period of mass emigration from Sweden to the United States, the great exodus from Sweden that had lasted from the 1840s into the 1920s and beyond.

These days, as the summer residences in Stenvik kept on getting bigger and bigger, and all the shiny, expensive cars zoomed along the coast road, it was easy to forget how poor this area had been a hundred years ago. Poverty had reigned throughout the whole of Sweden — a remote country in the north without any great wealth. Hunger and lack of work had driven a fifth of the population overseas, mainly to America.

Öland and America were linked by all those journeys — first of all, the journey to the new country, then the journey home. Most of those who returned were poverty-stricken; the odd one had made it and was rich.

Gerlof didn’t know of any emigrants who were still alive, so he picked up the phone again and called someone who might just have the answer. Bill Carlson in Långvik was the only elderly American he knew; Bill was an interested descendant of genuine emigrants from the island.

A young Swedish relative answered, but he quickly called Bill in from the veranda.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hello Bill, it’s Gerlof Davidsson.’

There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone, then an enthusiastic ‘Gerlof! Hello-o! How are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘How’s your little boat?’

‘Well, we’re working on her...’ He cleared his throat and went on. ‘Bill, I need your help with something. I’m looking for an American.’

‘An American?’

‘Yes. I think he’s on Öland at the moment, but I don’t know where.’

‘Good luck with that. There are more of us than you might think in the summer. I was in the grocery store here in Långvik yesterday, and I met a whole bunch of kids from Washington who—’

‘This is an old man,’ Gerlof broke in. ‘A Swedish-American who might be called Aron. He comes from northern Öland, I think — at least, he seems to be familiar with the coast around here. And I think he’s interested in ships.’

‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Anything else?’

‘No... but he seems a bit of a dubious character.’

Bill laughed quietly. ‘You mean he’s a criminal?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know him.’

‘There were all kinds of emigrants,’ Bill said. ‘Have you heard of Oskar Lundin from Degerhamn?’