Карин Тидбек - Jagannath

Sara was sitting under the bed covers with her back to the wall, eyes closed, Robert Smith wailing in her earphones. She opened her eyes when Cilla shut the door.

“Johann was here.” Cilla wrinkled her nose. “He smells like goat.”

“Okay,” said Sara. Her eyes were a little glazed.

“Are you all right?”

Sara rubbed her eyes. “It’s the thing.”

Cilla sat next to her on the bed, taking Sara’s hand. She was cold, her breathing shallow; Cilla could feel the pulse hammering in her wrist. Sara was always a little on edge, but sometimes it got worse. She had said that it felt like something horrible was about to happen, but she couldn’t say exactly what, just a terrible sense of doom. It had started about six months ago, about the same time that she got her first period.

“Want me to get Mum?” Cilla said as always.

“No. It’s not that bad.” said Sara, as usual. She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes.

Sara had lost it once in front of Mum. Mum didn’t take it well. She had told Sara to snap out of it, that there was nothing wrong with her, that she was just having hysterics. After that, Sara kept it to herself. In this, if in nothing else, Cilla was allowed to be her confidante. In a way, Mum was right: compared to paranoid schizophrenia, a little anxiety wasn’t particularly crazy. Not that it helped Sara any.

“You can pinch me if it makes you feel better.” Cilla held out her free arm. She always did what she could to distract Sara.

“Brat.”

“Ass.”

Sara smiled a little. She looked down at Cilla’s hand in hers, suddenly wrenching it around so that it landed on her sister’s leg.

“Why are you hitting yourself? Stop hitting yourself!” she shouted in mock horror.

There was a knock on the door. Mum opened it without waiting for an answer. She was dressed in rubber boots and a bright yellow raincoat over her cardigan. “I’m going to the house now, if you want to come.”

“Come on, brat,” said Sara, letting go of Cilla’s hand.

The driveway up to the house was barely visible under the weeds. Two middle-aged men in windbreakers and rubber boots were waiting in the front yard. Mum pointed at them.

“That’s Otto and Martin!” Mum waved at them through the window.

“I thought there were six cousins living up here,” said Sara.

“There are,” said Mum. “But the others aren’t well. It’s just Otto and Martin today.”

They stepped out into cold, wet air. Cilla was suddenly glad of her thick jeans and knitted sweater. Sara, who had refused to wear any of the (stupid and embarrassing) sweaters Mum offered, was shivering in her black tights and thin long-sleeved shirt.

The cousins greeted each other with awkward hugs. Otto and Martin were in their fifties, both with the drawn-out Jonsson look: tall and sinewy with watery blue eyes, a long jaw and wide cheekbones. Martin was a little shorter and younger, with fine black hair that stood out from his head like a dark dandelion. Otto, balding and with a faraway look, only nodded and wouldn’t shake hands.

This close, the old house looked ready to fall apart. The red paint was flaking in thick layers, the steps up to the front door warped. Some of the windowpanes were covered with bits of white plastic and duct tape.

Mum waved towards the house. “Johann’s not with you?”

Martin shrugged, taking a set of keys from his pocket. “He didn’t want to be here for this. All right. We’ll start with going through the rooms one by one, seeing what we can salvage. Otto has pen and paper to make a list.”

“You haven’t been in here until now?” said Mum.

“We’ve been cleaning a little. Johann only used a couple of the rooms, but it was bad. The smell should be bearable now.”

Otto opened the door. Johann’s unwashed stench wafted out in a sour wave. “You get used to it.” He ducked his head under the lintel and went inside.

Johann had used two rooms and the kitchen on the ground floor. Neither Cilla nor Sara could bring themselves to enter them, the stench of filth and rot so strong it made them gag. By the light coming in through the door, Cilla could see piles of what looked like rags, stacks of newspapers, and random furniture.

“There was a layer of milk cartons and cereal boxes this high on the floors in there,” said Martin, pointing to his knee. “The ones at the bottom were from the seventies.”

“I don’t think he ate much else,” Otto filled in. “He refuses to eat anything but corn flakes and milk at my house. He says all other food is poisoned.”

Otto, Martin, and Mum looked at each other.

Mum shrugged. “That’s how it is.”

Otto sucked air in between pursed lips, the quiet .jo that acknowledged and ended the subject.

The smell wasn’t as bad in the rest of the house; Johann seemed to have barricaded himself in his two rooms. The sitting room was untouched. Daylight filtered in through filthy window panes, illuminating furniture that looked hand-made and ancient: cabinets painted with flower designs, a wooden sofa with a worn seat, a rocking-chair with the initials O.J. and the date 1898.

“It looks just like when we were kids,” said Mum.

“Doesn’t it?” said Otto.

Cilla returned to the entryway, peering up the stairs to the next floor. “What about upstairs? Can we go upstairs?”

“Certainly,” said Martin. “Let me go first and turn on the lights.” He took a torch from his pocket, lighting his way as he walked up the stairs. Sara and Cilla followed him.

The top of the stairs ended in a narrow corridor, where doors opened to the master bedroom and two smaller rooms with two beds in each.

“How many people lived here?” Cilla peered into the master bedroom.

“Depends on when you mean,” Martin replied. “Your grandmother had four siblings altogether. And I think there was at least a cousin or two of theirs living here during harvest, too.”

“But there are only four single beds,” said Sara from the doorway of another room.

Martin shrugged. “People shared beds.”

“But you didn’t live here all the time, right?”

“No, no. My mother moved out when she got married. I grew up in town. Everyone except Johann moved out.”

“There are more stairs over here,” said Sara from further away.

“That’s the attic,” said Martin. “You can start making lists of things up there.” He handed Cilla his torch, a pen and a sheaf of paper. “Mind your step.”

The attic ran the length of the house, divided into compartments. Each compartment was stacked with stuff: boxes, furniture, old skis, kick-sleds, a bicycle. The little windows and the weak light bulb provided enough light that they didn’t need the torch. Cilla started in one end of the attic, Sara in the other, less sorting and more rooting around. After a while, Mum came upstairs.

“There’s a huge chest here,” said Sara after a while, pushing a stack of boxes to the side.

Cilla left her list and came over to look. It was a massive blue chest with a rounded lid, faded and painted with flowers.

“Let me see,” said Mum from behind them.

Mum came forward, knelt in front of the chest, and opened it, the lid lifting with a groan. It was filled almost to the brim with neatly folded white linen, sprinkled with mothballs. In a corner sat some bundles wrapped in tissue paper.

Mum shone her torch into the chest. “This looks like a hope chest.” She carefully lifted the tissue paper and uncovered red wool. She handed the torch to Cilla, using both hands to lift the fabric up. It was a full-length skirt, the cloth untouched by vermin.

“Pretty,” said Sara. She took the skirt, holding it up to her waist.