Ulla-Lena Lundberg - Ice

Almost everything is ready when Mona comes rushing in. The verger has gone on to the church. If he builds a fire in the boiler this evening, then all he’ll have to do early in the morning is add wood. She looks around, displeased. “What in the world have you been up to? I was going to do all this when I came back! Go sit down, Mama! I’ll do the rest.” She greets Skog quickly and waves away his condolences, greets Berg, an ally, more heartily. And she keeps her emotions under control, under tight control as she puts the girls to bed and her mother reads them a story. Mona leads them quickly through their bedtime prayers (“God who holds all children dear”) and then goes back out to the others, who are starting to gather their things and get ready for the night. The only sensible thing is to get to bed. The ones just arrived have a long, trying journey behind them, and the day to come will be heart-rending and difficult. Another reason not to sit up and talk half the night is that they’re afraid of Mona and don’t know how to behave. Darkness and silence may be preferable.

Still, it’s wrong to say that the house lies at peace. It is not necessary to express the thoughts of the people lying in bed, shivering, afraid they will never get to sleep. It’s enough to take a look into the attic room under the northernmost gable. The energetic Skog has built a fire in the tile stove, but it’s still cold. He and Berg sit opposite one another at the wobbly table that has stood here since long before Skog’s time. Berg puts his briefcase on the table and opens it to take out his aspirin. Skog extends his hand. “May I see?”

Berg, timid, as if he were trying to hide something shameful, “What?”

“The eulogy. Surely that’s what you were going to show me.”

“No, not really.”

“You have written it, I suppose?”

“Naturally.”

“Well then, give it here. I’ll tell you what I think. I know exactly what will work with these Örlanders.”

Berg, feeling coerced, “I don’t know that I want it improved. It’s hard to explain. Imperfect as it is, it’s what I want to say.”

“What sort of nonsense is that? You want it to be good, don’t you?”

“Of course. But I also want to speak to Petter’s memory in my own words.”

“I could really help you. I know how the Örlanders think.”

“It’s hard for me to compromise about this.”

“I simply don’t understand your attitude. Can’t you take criticism?”

“Yes, I guess that’s the problem. You didn’t know Petter the way I did. I’m grieving. I have a hard time seeing the whole thing coldly and critically.”

“All the more reason to listen to an experienced colleague.”

“Perhaps. My arguments are weak. But I can’t.”

“Don’t be such a little girl. We’re colleagues. This is a professional consultation.”

“Why is it so important to you to read my poor eulogy?”

“You seem so uncertain. As if you needed help.”

“I get the feeling that you want to direct and control me.”

“You’ve buried yourself out here for too long. There are fresh ideas in the city. We no longer speak of individual effort. Now it’s all about teamwork, working together.”

“I’ve read about that. But I’ve wrestled with this eulogy. I’m the one who’s going to deliver it. It’s not a matter of teamwork.”

And so on. Skog, somewhat older, does not give up. Fredrik Berg can feel that his cheeks are red, his eyes moist. His forehead sweaty, his armpits damp, the cassock that must on no account smell bad tomorrow. He hasn’t even the strength to get up and go to bed, just sits there like a sullen child and refuses. His gaze wavers, can’t look this self-important man in the eye, this Skog, who thinks it’s only a question of time until unreasonable Berg has been beaten into submission and his eulogy criticized to death.

Because that’s what it’s about. If Skog says a single dismissive word about the eulogy, Fredrik will never be able to deliver it. He’ll be forced to flee with his tail between his legs while Skog pulls out the unctuous speech he has probably already written. Why must a person have good arguments against a conceited and contemptuous authority? There is nothing he can do but refuse.

“No. It’s a principle of mine. I let no one read my speeches and sermons in advance.”

“The vicar calls on principle?”

And so forth. Finally, Fredrik manages to get up, dizzy with exhaustion. “We’re getting nowhere. We need to go to bed. We have a great deal to do tomorrow.” The voice of reason. He starts getting ready. The oil lamp on the table leaves the rest of the room in merciful shadow, but he is as timid as a girl as he tries to avoid exposing himself as he undresses. He brushes his teeth at the washstand, anxious about spitting and making noise. In everything he does, he behaves like a toffee-nosed young lady, and, going grey with shame, he lies down finally in his bed, frozen to the marrow, afraid to move, afraid to make the slightest peep that would arouse Skog’s contempt. He would like to take his briefcase into bed with him; on the grounds that his aspirin are in it, he has instead placed it as close to the headboard as possible.

Skog, on the other hand, takes his time going to bed. Without embarrassment he empties his bladder in the chamberpot, snorts and hawks, wipes his armpits, undresses and puts on his nightclothes, throws himself into bed, rolls over, lies still and prays a semi-audible evening prayer, which to tell the truth Fredrik Berg has not uttered, changes position several more times, then lies still and quickly falls asleep, deep breathing, with a little pup-pup-pup as he breathes out. Sacerdotal snoring. Dear God.

The sleep of the righteous. A good conscience the best pillow. All that hogwash that people say, whereas Fredrik, sleepless, desperate, ill, lies awake as if paralysed. The perpetrator sleeps like a pig, the victim lies awake in guilt and shame.

Downstairs, those who don’t fall asleep hear the priests’ discussion only as a distant murmur, as if they were exploring some profound theological question about the mystery of death prior to the great burial service on the following day. Mona is sleeping in the bedroom, making the best of a few poor hours of exhaustion before waking at four o’clock to an icy room. Petter’s bed has been carried out to the dining room, where Uncle Richard is camping. The coffin in the shed has been closed and the cover nailed down. Now there is nothing left but duty.

In the doctor’s apartment in the attic of the medical clinic in the northern archipelago, Doctor Gyllen spends the night before the funeral pacing. Even without drugs, her feelings are blocked. “Incomprehensible,” she has said, like everyone else. “That dear, good man. And his wife and the little girls. How can such a thing happen?” But at the same time, an inexplicable feeling of guilt is eating at her heart despite her efforts to reject it.

She heard about the death days earlier, on the radio, like everyone else, and when her father called a short time later, she thought that was what he’d called to tell her. Together they would repeat the words. “Incomprehensible. Dear Petter Kummel who’s become such a friend.” And they did so. But Papa had another reason for calling.

“Irina. A letter came. Our Kolja is alive. We have an address.”

Complete silence. Her self-control so practised that she can no longer show emotion even in an empty room. Not even a sigh. No tears.

“Irina, are you there?” Papa says. “Did you faint?” To Mama: “I’m afraid she fainted.”