Johan Theorin - The Quarry

‘Excellent. Look forward to seeing you.’

Vendela turned away, feeling as if she’d failed. Not that there had been anything wrong or embarrassing about the conversation, but she had hoped to be made more welcome. At times like these she longed more than ever to be out on the alvar — just to head out there. To the elf stone, in spite of everything that had happened there.

But she forced herself to stay, and walked over to the last house by the quarry. The little cottage at the northern end. The Saab was parked outside, and Vendela stopped, wondering if she really ought to knock on the door. In the end she did.

The door was opened immediately by the man who had been driving the car, the man who had flattened Max. He looked more friendly now.

‘Hi there,’ said Vendela.

‘Hi,’ said the man.

She held out her hand and introduced herself, and found out that the man was called Per Mörner. She laughed nervously. ‘I just want to explain something about that business in the car park, my husband got a bit—’

‘Forget it,’ said Per Mörner. ‘We were all a bit worked up.’

He stopped speaking, so Vendela went on: ‘I’m just going round saying hello to people.’ She laughed again. ‘I mean, somebody has to make a start.’

Per just nodded.

‘And I had an idea,’ said Vendela. ‘I thought we could have a bit of a get-together.’

‘Right... when were you thinking of?’

‘Wednesday,’ said Vendela. ‘Would that be OK for you and your wife?’

‘That’s fine, but I don’t have a wife. Just two children.’

‘Oh, I see... Are you around on Wednesday?’

Per nodded. ‘I have to go to the mainland now, just for the day. My son Jesper will be staying here. Do you want us to bring something?’

Vendela shook her head. ‘No, we’ll provide the food, but feel free to bring something to drink.’

Per Mörner nodded, but didn’t seem to be looking forward to the party.

Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten the quarrel with Max, whatever he might say. Or maybe he just had other things on his mind.

When Vendela got home, Aloysius had settled in his basket again. She stroked his back quickly and went into the living room to carry on writing in her notebook.

Max was out at the back of the house, dressed in a country-style tweed suit. A photographer had come over from Kalmar that morning and was staying for a couple of days to take pictures of Max for the cookery book — which had now acquired the title Good Food to the Max — and Vendela had helped groom her husband.

Before she had time to start writing, the outside door suddenly flew open and the young photographer dashed into the hallway. He seemed excited and went over to his camera bag in the kitchen, with only a passing glance at Vendela.

‘Need my wide-angle lens.’

‘What for?’

‘Max has killed a snake!’

She watched him disappear from the kitchen and remained sitting in her armchair for a few seconds before she got up. Behind her Aloysius sat up in his basket and whined at her, but she didn’t have time to attend to him now.

She went outside into the cold.

The sun was shining over the flattened-down earth in the garden. Max was standing by the old stone wall with a spade in his hand, studying something that was lying on it.

Vendela moved slowly towards him. It was a snake with black diamond-shaped markings — an adder. She couldn’t see the head, because the slender body had twisted itself into a large, shapeless knot, and seemed to be trying to tie itself even tighter.

‘It was lying here in the sun when I came over to stand by the wall with the spade,’ said Max as she reached him. ‘It tried to crawl under a stone when it saw me, but I got it.’

‘Max,’ said Vendela quietly, ‘you do know that adders are protected?’

‘Are they?’ He smiled at her. ‘No, I didn’t know that. Neither did the snake, eh?’

Vendela just shook her head. ‘It’s still alive,’ she said. ‘It’s moving.’

‘Muscle memory,’ said Max. ‘I smashed its head with the spade. It’s just that the body hasn’t caught on yet.’

She didn’t answer, but she was thinking about her father, who had warned her about killing adders when she was little. They weren’t protected in those days, but they were magical creatures.

Particularly the black ones — killing a black adder meant a violent death for the person who committed the deed.

At least the one Max had killed was grey.

‘We must bury it,’ she said.

‘No chance,’ said Max. ‘I’ll chuck it away, and the gulls can take care of the body.’

He went towards the quarry with the spade held out in front of him.

‘Just one picture!’

The photographer had his camera at the ready now. He started clicking away with Max posing happily, smiling broadly as he displayed his prize on the spade.

‘Fantastic!’ shouted the photographer.

Max went round to the front of the house with the adder. When he reached the edge of the quarry he gave the spade a flick, and the snake’s body flew through the air like the punctured inner tube of a bicycle tyre.

‘There!’

The snake had landed at the bottom of the quarry, but Vendela could see that it was still struggling and writhing in the limestone dust. It made her think of her father, who had always come home from the quarry with white dust all over his clothes and his cap.

The photographer walked to the edge of the quarry and took a few final pictures of the snake’s body.

Vendela looked at him. ‘Are those going in the cookery book?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘if they turn out well.’

‘I don’t think so. Snakes aren’t food.’

Vendela decided never to go down into the quarry. Never, right through the spring. The alvar was her world.

Gerlof received two visits every day. They were both from the home-care service, and although a temporary helper sometimes turned up, it was usually Agnes who brought him a meal at half past eleven, and her colleague Madeleine who came at around eight in the evening to assess his chances of surviving the night. At least, that’s what Gerlof assumed she was there for.

He quite enjoyed their visits, even though both women were stressed and sometimes called him by the wrong name. But it must be difficult for them to remember all the old men they called on out in the villages during the course of a day. The visits were usually short. Now and again they had time to stay and chat for a while, but on other occasions they were so rushed they hardly had time to say hello. They just put the food down in the kitchen and disappeared.

A third visitor who came less regularly was Dr Carina Wahlberg. She swept into the garden with her long black coat over her white doctor’s coat. If Gerlof was indoors, her knock was firm and demanding.

Sometimes she came on Thursdays, sometimes on Tuesdays, sometimes even on Sundays. Gerlof never got to grips with Dr Wahlberg’s schedule, but he was always pleased to see her. She checked that he had enough medication, took his blood pressure, and from time to time she did a urine test.

‘So what’s it like being over eighty, Gerlof?’

‘What’s it like? It doesn’t involve a lot of movement, I just sit here. I should have gone to church today... but I couldn’t get there.’

‘But how does it feel, in purely physical terms?’

‘You can try it for yourself.’ Gerlof raised a hand to his head. ‘Stick some cotton wool in your ears, pull on a pair of badly soled shoes and a pair of thick rubber gloves... and smear your glasses with Vaseline. That’s what it’s like to be eighty-three.’

‘Well, now I know,’ said the doctor. ‘By the way, do you remember Wilhelm Pettersson? When I said I was coming to see you today, he sent his best wishes.’