Ulla-Lena Lundberg - Ice

“Do you have anyone there with you?”

“Yes. The homecare sister. The verger and his wife, all of them terribly helpful. The organist is a great support. We’re not alone. In fact I don’t know how I’m going to put up with all the people who will come rushing to the house these next few days.”

She sounds more irritated than prostrated with grief. Pretending to understand, he goes on. “Maybe it’s well that there is much to do and think about. It forces a person to keep going. You have the girls—a big responsibility. You can always count on me, under all circumstances. You know that Petter was not only my colleague but also my best friend. And now, presumably, I will have responsibility for the Örlands until … Well, they’ll let us know. I’ve already spoken to the organist. I know that Petter valued him highly. It will be easy to work with him.” He rambles on.

Now and then she says “Yes.” And like a wind-up mouse that scurries around on the floor, he prattles on. “It’s too soon to talk about the funeral, but of course I want to be there.” He draws a breath to continue, but she breaks in.

“No, it’s not too soon. We need to decide as soon as possible so that I can tell everyone who calls and we won’t have to get in touch a second time. Here on the Örlands, funerals usually take place quickly. And I think that’s right. What would you say to next Sunday, the thirteenth?” He can see her looking at the wall calendar in the study, pen in hand, ready to mark the day. With a cross? With a neatly written “Petter’s funeral”?

“Of course,” he says. “We’ll make the arrangements.”

“Good,” she says. “Then it’s decided. Those who can’t come will simply have to miss it.”

Is he hearing her right? A tone of triumph? But she continues. “I wonder if you would like to deliver the eulogy and conduct the burial service? I know that both Skog and Uncle Isidor will want to do it, but you’re his good friend and colleague. You’ve had a lot in common out here these last few years. It feels right to ask you.”

“Of course, it would be an honour. And unworthy. Of such a man. How in the world can I do justice in a single speech to his personality, the effect he had on everyone he met? The joy he brought to the congregation. And now the sorrow. It will be hard. But of course.”

“Thank you,” Mona says. “Then we’ve answered the essential questions, and you can feel free to report what we’ve decided to anyone who asks. And one more thing. I must call his parents, but I hate the thought. His mother. No, I’d really rather not.”

“Of course I can make the call,” says Fredrik Berg, amazed at the organist’s psychological insight. He permits himself a crooked smile. “Priests are supposed to be experts at delivering bad news, although I haven’t done so well this time.”

“Not at all,” says Mona Kummel. “I appreciate the fact that I can speak to you plainly.”

“Good,” says the priest in Mellom. “When I’ve spoken to his parents, I’ll notify the deanery and the cathedral chapter. And remember, you can contact me for any reason. I’ll try to do all I can.” “Good,” says Mona, too. “Thanks for calling. Give my best to Margit.” She rings off. The operator stands with her mouth open, as does the Mellom priest. It’s true, as he often says, that grief has many faces. As a spiritual guide, you must confront your own inadequacy more often than another human being. He pulls himself together, ignores Margit who asks how it went, just says dismissively, “I have to call his parents now. Time’s passing, and it would be awful if they heard about it from someone who thought they already know.”

Talking to Petter Kummel’s mother, he does at last encounter something expected and predictable. Silence. Horror. Denial. “No, it can’t be true. It must be someone else. A terrible misunderstanding. Petter is an excellent swimmer. Thoroughly familiar with waterways and ice conditions around the Örlands. It’s unthinkable. No, my dear Mr Berg, please get your facts straight before you try to frighten us to death.”

“I sincerely wish I was mistaken! But unfortunately it’s true. I’ve spoken to the organist, who was present when they carried his lifeless body to the parsonage. They worked all night trying to revive him, but it was impossible, he’d been in the water too long. Had perhaps frozen to death before he went to the bottom. I have spoken with Mona. She asked me to call. She was there and knows that he’s dead. She’s keeping herself under such tight control that I’m afraid her heart may break.”

“I don’t understand.”

“None of us do. It seems incomprehensible. It is so painful to have to break the news to you, his dear parents.”

“I had three sons. Now two are already dead. What’s the meaning of it all? How am I to bear such grief?” Now her voice breaks, and she gives the phone to her husband.

Petter’s father, whom he remembers as peculiar, something of a dreamer, very unlike his son, sounds astonishingly calm. “How is it possible? Petter, who is so much wiser than I! But he is dead, you say, and I must live.”

“Yes,” says the Mellom priest. “I know that you have a brother, Dean Isidor, who can talk to you much better than I can. I’ll call him and ask him to get in touch.”

“Yes, Isidor,” says Leonard Kummel. “He has had much affliction on account of my children. First Göran. Now Petter.”

Just as well to get it said at once. “I hope he can come to the funeral. But Mona has asked me to conduct the service, as Petter’s friend and closest colleague.”

A short pause. Fredrik begins to suspect that Mona has perhaps carried out a coup. Best not to let on, and in any case the elastic Leonard Kummel moves quickly on. “Yes, yes, I see. That sounds appropriate. You must forgive me … It’s so hard to think clearly. My daughter, my son, they must be told. I’m crushed.”

“I understand. There must be many you’ll need to contact. I too have other calls to make. But don’t hesitate for a second to call me if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all. I’m so terribly sorry for your affliction.”

As they’re speaking, the morning’s news goes out across Finland, and now all hell breaks loose. The operator on the Örlands sets her own priorities and puts through calls to the parsonage first. Others can wait, including even the Co-op. They’re put through in the intervals and are interrupted when necessary. Calls wait in an endless queue, everyone needs to talk to everyone, exclaim, express their horror, pour out their feelings. Calls to the organist have the second highest priority, right after the parsonage, because official calls go through him, from the rural deanery, from the cathedral chapter. On Åland and the mainland, the coordination is not as good. There are unexpected and inexplicable traffic jams, some lines are completely blocked, on others there are unreasonable delays. Some people call a second time to find out what became of their first call, which doesn’t make things better. “We’re putting them through in the order they were placed, so please be patient,” say operators all along the coast.

For every minute that passes, Petter Kummel has been dead one minute longer. Mona doesn’t want to be distracted, she wants to concentrate, she wants to be alone, but the telephone rings. The only voice that could make her happy is his, but to her surprise, her mother’s cheers her a bit when she calls. Mama, who never makes a big fuss. Mama, whom she can copy at a time like this—close up, button your soul, give nothing away!

“I thought I’d heard a ghost when I heard the news on the radio. Tell me it’s all a mistake.”

“No. Petter drowned last night.”