Asko Sahlberg - The Brothers

Jansson, who stands behind Mauri carrying a lantern, clears his throat and says in a quavery voice, ‘What if we just let this go? After all, nothing’s actually happened.’

Mauri does not bother even to glance at him. ‘You saw what he was about to do.’

Jansson’s fleshy face wobbles. ‘I saw, all right.’

‘And if necessary, you can mention it to the right people. I’m sure those people would keep it to themselves long enough for nobody round here to come to grief.’

Jansson’s eyes start darting about anxiously. ‘Yes, I…’

‘Good. You can go back into the house. But leave the lantern.’

So not only is Mauri in charge of the affairs of one house, he has also been blessed with the right to lord it over the masters of neighbouring houses. I immediately feel sorry for Jansson: a repulsively fat man who whines breathlessly even when standing still and whose sad clown’s face reflects the humiliating defeat of the whole of mankind. Age has begun bearing down on him. I barely recognize the man whom I once liked and who smilingly eyed me by the enclosure fence and said, ‘All right, then. If you’re mad enough, maybe you should be allowed to earn the hack.’ Now, as he waddles to the door, his head lowered, it seems he is struck by the same memories, for he turns to look at me and says, ‘I was thinking. About the horse…’

‘You may go indoors!’ Mauri cuts in. His voice lashes out, a snake attacking from a bush. ‘I’ll take care of the rest with Henrik.’

‘Right.’ Jansson yields and goes out, leaving the lantern by the door.

We take aim at each other, I merely with my eyes. I could risk it and try to throw myself at him. He stands legs apart, narrow shoulders raised in anticipation, restlessly swaying his wide, womanish hips. A vein bulges in the middle of his forehead like a worm and his bottom lip glistens with spit. He is a travesty of a man, a eunuch that has crawled out from the dunghill of manhood, pitiful and therefore dangerous. He is a good shot, I know, but he will soon tire of holding up the weapon.

‘I’ve had a word with the Bailiff,’ he says.

I take a step towards him. ‘We gathered.’

‘But I spoke of other things, too. We talked about the war.’

I take another step. ‘I suppose you made out you were a great hero.’

‘Not quite. But I told him about what I saw in the war. I told him about a man who nearly shot his own brother. He would have shot if I hadn’t happened on the scene.’

I stand still. I am suddenly there. I am considering shooting, but I do not want to do it. I know I will not shoot. I want only to be far away from the thundering cannon. I lean against the tree trunk, I close my eyes. I decide to wait until Erik vanishes. I stand there and I do not open my eyes. Erik will go on his way and I will inevitably return to St Petersburg, to the misery and degradation that have become my inheritance, although I never asked for or wanted that, but it was nevertheless better than staying on, only to be a spectre in the habitat of my past honour. I will not open my eyes, I will not. A shot rings out and splinters fly into my face. My eyes snap open, I leap into motion. I would not have shot. For a moment I wanted to, but I dropped the thought instantly. I never shot.

My mouth is dry, but I say lightly, ‘You talk a lot.’

‘I do indeed. And the Bailiff and I agreed that he’ll remember what I told him should anything happen to me.’

I let out a laugh. ‘You’ve thought it all out.’

‘You think of things when you’ve got the time. When you’re cowering in a miserable pigsty, waiting for your worthy masters to deign to give orders.’ He pushes his face forwards, his head trembles and he squeezes out the words from between his teeth. ‘For there are people who treat their own kin like the lowest serfs.’

‘So you consider the house a pigsty? And you still wanted it? You would have preferred to starve to death, I suppose?’

‘Man does not live by bread alone. A man can be made hungry by not being considered equal to other men.’

‘That’s as may be. But you could look at it another way: there aren’t many who’d take in a Tom Thumb like you. Especially one who doesn’t even know any funny tricks.’

His hands began to shake. Why does he not shoot? Am I imagining it or do I really sense his smell? He probably does not secrete normal sweat in the manner of other human beings. He exudes the odour of a muddy marsh. Like a frog. That is just what he is: a toad lying in wait for insects and larvae. I feel like laughing. I do not laugh but instead step calmly past him and continue outside without further ado. He lets out a screech behind me, almost human-sounding. I do not expect to get a bullet in my back. I pull the barn door shut behind me.

I stand in the darkness. It has fallen like a blanket. Jansson is defying Mauri’s orders; his face looms sallow at the corner of the building. He lumbers towards me and splutters, ‘I just wanted to say, about the horse…’

I put my hand on his shoulder; he recoils. ‘It’s time to let it go.’

‘But I never…’

‘Of course you didn’t. Things just happen sometimes.’

He sighs. A man can be fat and at the same time small and bent. I suppose that is how we all end up, eventually. I am the one who always leaves and who will never need to reach a destination. I will sleep one more night here, then I will pick up my knapsack and vanish. In the annals that will never get written, let it stand: this man has shed his past.

I walk along the road. The moon is about to come apart from the cloud. It shines in the sky like fat at the bottom of pan. The gleam is not enough to cast shadows, the field of darkness extends evenly. Sounds are forced to creep along the blanket of snow. Behind the ditch, spruces shake off snow of their own accord, without needing wind. I wander exhausted and empty, peaceful. But suddenly I am alert. Someone is coming towards me.

We stop at a cautious distance from each other. I cannot see Anna’s face but I sense her reluctance. I would like to reassure her, to confirm that after tomorrow, she will never see me again. At the same time, something in me wants to reach out for her. The warmth of her skin remains in my fingertips, I still taste her tangled hair. After some hesitation she says, in a voice thick with deep and indelible suspicion, ‘Did you see…’

I wait for a moment. ‘I did. Your father seemed fine. But he doesn’t choose his company too well.’

‘You mean…’

‘Yes. Mauri’s there.’

‘I’m not afraid of him.’

‘You’re the last person who needs to fear him.’

She strides past me, the mild steam of her breath flaring up to my face. All I would have to do is stretch out my hand, but it stays by my side, stuck fast. I listen to her moving away and kick myself into motion. I am walking here but I see myself on another road. I see myself among ragged paupers in a filthy backstreet of St Petersburg. My feet are in front of me, I begin staggering, I feel faint. Dizzy. Someone speaks, but my cheeks do not move. Someone tries to rise within me. I am being eaten from within. What ails me? My gums are burning, my teeth are loosening. I feel blood seeping from my armpits. What ails me, so suddenly?

I will collect the eggs at dawn. Some butter would be good because it tastes nice with eggs. Everything will freeze in the frost, anyway. I am not that bothered about lard or bread. But I expect we will eat well before we set off and will not eat again until we reach Vaasa. On second thoughts, I will put on the fur hat Arvid brought me from Stockholm. A few of the eggs might remain unfrozen inside it.

Henrik has appeared in the doorway. I do not know how long he has been standing there, silently swaying, seemingly not breathing, aiming his mute eyes at some vague spot. His hands are fists, the muscles of his face are taut. He must have come in only a moment ago, but his forehead is slick with sweat. He looks unwell: long-term sick, convalescent. He looks like a man you would see in a dream, rising up from among gravestones in a churchyard.