Юхан Теорин - The Voices Beyond

‘Did she float?’

‘She leaks a bit, but if she stays there for a few days the timbers will swell.’

‘Good,’ Gerlof said, then he went back to thinking about John, and what he could have done differently.

One thing was clear: they should have stayed away from the Kloss family.

After a few minutes they had reached the cottage. Anders stopped by the gate, and Gerlof slowly got out.

‘Thank you, Anders. You take care of yourself... Get away somewhere, have a holiday.’

‘Maybe,’ Anders said.

‘Or find a wife.’

Anders smiled wearily. ‘Not much chance of that around here,’ he said. ‘But life goes on.’

Gerlof didn’t reply; he merely raised a hand and opened the gate. When Anders had gone, he stepped into his garden.

He unlocked the door of the cottage and went straight in, without taking off his shoes. He went and stood in the main room.

Everything was quiet now. The cottage was cool and peaceful. The old wall clock next to the television had stopped, but Gerlof didn’t bother winding it up.

There was a black-and-white photograph next to the clock. It was fifty years old, and showed Gerlof and John on the South Quay in Stockholm, with the church spires of the Old Town in the background. They were both young and strong, smartly dressed in suits and black hats. Smiling into the sunshine.

Gerlof turned away. He looked out of the window at the weathervane, an old man sharpening his scythe. It had shifted during the morning and was now pointing towards the shore. The weather forecast on the radio had also predicted a westerly wind with a speed of three to four metres per second for today. A gentle but steady breeze, blowing offshore. Anything that ended up in the water off Stenvik would quickly drift out to sea.

Interesting.

Here he stood in his cottage, the last of his contemporaries still alive, at the end of the twentieth century. If the world didn’t implode at the turn of the millennium, he would be celebrating his eighty-fifth birthday in exactly ten months. He was born on 12 June, the same day as Anne Frank. When she died in Bergen-Belsen, Gerlof was the captain of a cargo ship negotiating the minefields of the Baltic Sea.

He had now lived for fifty-five years since her death. He had survived the whole of the twentieth century — he had outlived the children killed in the camps, the refugees who had died of hunger, the prisoners who had been executed, the soldiers who had fallen in battle. He had lived longer than millions of people who had been younger than him, so he ought to be satisfied. But the body was greedy; it always wanted one more day.

But not in a hospital bed. Gerlof had made up his mind; he had no intention of ending his days with tubes and wires attached to his body.

He took out his notebook and wrote down a final message. A few words to his daughters, and a couple of requests: ‘Play lots of music,’ he wrote. ‘Hymns are fine, but I’d like some Evert Taube and Dan Andersson, too.’

Then he paused, pen in hand. Should he add anything more? Some pearls of wisdom, polished over the years?

No, that was enough. He put down the pen, left the notebook open and got to his feet. Left the cottage, still wearing his funeral suit.

Leaning heavily on his stick, he made his way out on to the village road, which was empty now. But there were people around somewhere; he could hear a dog barking, then a car door slammed. It was time to go home, get back to work. The summer might not be over, not quite, but the holidays definitely were.

The coast road was also deserted when he crossed it, although he could see one or two figures swimming over by the jetty.

He walked past the mailboxes and down to the shore without anyone seeing him. A series of small ripples made the water look darker; the wind was definitely blowing offshore.

A few gulls were standing on the rocks by the water’s edge. One of them caught sight of Gerlof and stretched his neck. He began to scream warning cries to the sky, his beak wide open, and the others joined in.

The gig lay beside them with half the keel in the water, just as Anders had said.

Swallow.

She was beautiful, almost like new. Ready to sail away.

Slowly, Gerlof made his way down to her. He placed his stick in the prow, unhooked the line securing Swallow to the anchor pin and grabbed hold of the gunwale so that he could push her out.

But Swallow didn’t move. Gerlof pushed as hard as he could, but it was hopeless. The gig was too heavy, and he was too weak.

The deeper water was irritatingly close, only half a metre from the prow. He made one last attempt, bending down behind the gig and leaning on the stern with every scrap of his strength.

It was impossible. His journey ended here; he couldn’t do it.

‘Do you need some help down there?’

Gerlof turned his head. Two people were standing up on the ridge: a middle-aged man and a teenage boy, both in shorts and sunglasses. The man was smiling. Gerlof had no idea who they were, but he straightened up.

‘Please.’

They came down on to the shore, striding across the rocks.

‘Nice boat,’ the man said. ‘A bit like a smaller version of the ships the Vikings used, wouldn’t you say?’

Gerlof gave a brief nod.

‘She’s pretty old, isn’t she?’

‘She’s seventy-five years old,’ Gerlof said. ‘We’ve been renovating her, my friend John and I.’

It felt good to mention John’s name, in spite of the fact that it was quickly carried away on the wind.

‘Really?’ the man said. ‘I think it’s great that the old boats are still used here on the island. Are you planning a little trip in her?’

‘Yes. One last trip,’ Gerlof said, then added, ‘For this summer.’

‘In that case, we’ll give you a hand... OK, Michael?’

The boy looked bored. No doubt he couldn’t wait to get back to the mainland.

The man and the boy — father and son, Gerlof guessed — didn’t seem to be suffering from any aches and pains. They stepped forward, grabbed hold of the gig and tensed their leg muscles.

‘On three,’ the man said. ‘One, two... three!’

Swallow slipped straight into the water, almost as if she were on wheels. For a moment, Gerlof thought she might sail away out into the Sound without her captain, but the man held on to the gunwale so that a part of the keel was still in contact with the ground.

‘There you go... All set,’ he said. He looked at Gerlof, then at the boat. ‘But how are you going to get her back ashore?’

‘It’ll sort itself out.’

The man nodded and set off back towards the ridge.

‘Thank you very much,’ Gerlof said. ‘Do you live in the village?’

‘No, we just stopped off in the car... We’re driving around the island looking for a boathouse to buy. Is that one for sale?’

He jerked his head towards Gerlof’s boathouse. ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerlof said. ‘So where are you from?’

‘Stockholm. We live in Bromma, but we’re spending a couple of weeks touring Öland.’

‘I see.’

They weren’t just from the mainland, they were from Stockholm. There were a lot of things Gerlof could have said to them, but he restrained himself.

‘Welcome to Öland, in that case,’ he said instead. ‘I hope you like it here.’

‘We love it.’

He watched as father and son disappeared in the direction of the coast road.

They were alone on the shore once more, Gerlof and his boat.

He must be careful not to make any mistakes now; with the help of his stick, he managed to step up on to one of the rocks next to Swallow ; laboriously, he climbed aboard. First the right leg, then the left.