Astrid and Veronika (11 page)

Holding the cup with both hands she looked at Veronika. ‘You don’t need to stay. I can manage,’ she said.

Veronika looked into the old woman’s eyes. ‘Of course I’ll wait. Let’s see what the doctor says.’

They drove back to the rest-home and sat in the shade on the bench. Veronika had bought the daily paper, and read it while Astrid sat quietly, her eyes closed. The doctor arrived in a dusty old Volvo station-wagon at a quarter past three. Obviously expecting them, she waved and asked them to follow her inside.

Astrid and Veronika were again taken into the small office. The doctor was young and tanned, dressed in faded jeans and a sleeveless top, as if this was just a short professional interlude in a summer vacation. But she had a kind face and managed to keep any impatience hidden.

‘I can’t give you the exact time left.’ Her accent was not local and Veronika thought that she might be a summer locum. The doctor tried unsuccessfully to make eye contact with Astrid, then turned her eyes to Veronika. ‘Your father’s heart is weak.’ She glanced at the records on the desk in front of her.

She doesn’t know the patient, Veronika thought. Perhaps this is the first time she has looked at those records. And this time, she didn’t correct the mistaken assumption.

‘As I am sure the sister has already told you, it could be a matter of hours. Or days. But not long.’ She turned her eyes to Astrid. ‘We can arrange for someone from the church to come and sit with you, if you like,’ she said. The old woman shook her head but said nothing. ‘You may come and go as you like, but during the night we have only one staff member on and it would be best if you either stay for the entire night, or leave at ten o’clock and come back first thing in the morning.’

‘I’ll stay for the night. I will stay as long as it takes,’ Astrid said, with her eyes on the window behind the doctor.

A nurse took them back to the room, then left to get a second chair. They placed both chairs by the window and sat down. Through the closed door they could hear the sounds of soft steps, doors opening and closing, the occasional muted voice. Outside, there were the birds, the odd car passing in the distance. But inside the room it was absolutely silent. Veronika wasn’t sure whether Astrid was awake: she was leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed. But at the faintest sound from the bed she would sit up, wide awake and alert. They waited. The light outside dimmed, but the white midsummer night still gave them all the light they required.

The nurse knocked softly on the door before she left at ten. She walked up to the bed and checked the patient, smoothed the immaculate blanket, nodded to the two women and left. A little later the night nurse did the same. She introduced herself, checked the patient and told them to ring if they needed her.

In the silence afterwards, Veronika dozed.

She woke with a start, unable to tell how long she might have slept. Astrid was standing at the foot of the bed, talking quietly. Veronika couldn’t hear the words, and remained where she was, still. When she woke the next time, Astrid was by the window. She was a black silhouette against the white dawn outside and she was embracing herself, as if cold. The plastic rustled as Veronika shifted on her seat.

Without turning, Astrid spoke. ‘We can leave. It is over.’

Later they drove slowly home along deserted roads. The air was as light as an overcast day, but the absolute stillness could only belong to the night. It was just after one in the morning. They travelled in a world that seemed to have no other inhabitants. It was only when Veronika turned her head to check whether the other woman was awake that she noticed Astrid was crying. Soundlessly, tears ran down her face and fell onto her hands, which sat on her lap, palms up. Veronika averted her eyes and kept them on the road for the rest of the journey.

When she finally stopped outside Astrid’s house, the sun was just over the horizon. It was Midsummer’s Eve, the longest day of the year. Veronika walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Astrid sat as before, tears still falling, and Veronika had to take her arm gently and support her as she got out of the car. She held on to the old woman as they walked to the front door.

‘Shall I come in for a little while?’ she asked as Astrid struggled to find the keys in the pockets of her trousers. There was no reply, but as Astrid walked inside she left the door open. Veronika followed, closing the door behind her.

Astrid stood by the window in the kitchen. The first rays of sunlight darted through the glass, threads of gold weaving through the air and landing on the floorboards.

‘They are not for him,’ she said. ‘My tears. They are not for him. They are for me.’

Veronika walked up to Astrid and took her in her arms. She held her and they stood quietly for a moment.

‘Let me help you to bed,’ Veronika said.

‘Upstairs. I think I will sleep upstairs tonight,’ Astrid said. Slowly they navigated the stairs up to the second floor. They crossed the spacious landing, where the morning light played with the dust that their steps stirred, and walked up to the master bedroom. Astrid opened the door and they entered. Still leaning on Veronika’s arm, the old woman walked up to the double bed, where the bedspread was folded back from the pillows. She sat down, took off her shoes, then paused for a moment. The white blind covered the window, but the rising light of the new day filtered through, together with the sounds of awakening birds. Astrid pulled up her feet and lay down. She turned towards the wall and curled up foetus-like.

Veronika looked at the old woman’s back, the oversized socks, threadbare over her heels. Her narrow back underneath the crumpled shirt. She bent down and pulled off her own shoes then lay down. She adjusted her body to fit behind Astrid’s and as the night became day, they lay spooned against each other, wide awake.

‘There is a man in Stockholm,’ Veronika said quietly. ‘His name is Johan. I would like to tell you about him.’

I have known Johan for such a long time I sometimes forget that there was a time when I didn’t.

He rang me in London to ask me to come home for Christmas. His voice sounded so close, he could have been ringing from the next room. I looked at the windows, where the rain ran like black tears. James’s gift to me had been a new mobile phone, one with a camera. His note had said he wanted me to see him when he rang. And when he called from Auckland I had listened to his voice talking about the sea, about surfing and about blossoms on the lemon tree in his mother’s garden, while his smiling face looked back at me from the small screen. Christmas on the beach, barbecues, surfing, sunshine and strawberries. But the words had reached me across a gulf, vague and distant. I had pressed the phone close to my ear, but it was as if the rain falling between us blurred the sound and the images.

I flew from Heathrow three days before Christmas. Johan had offered to meet me at Arlanda airport but I had declined. I wasn’t sure if he would be there regardless, and felt relieved when he wasn’t. Stockholm was as dark and wet as London, but colder, grey slush covering the streets. I took the bus to the city, then the underground. It was late afternoon and the world was compact darkness, Christmas decorations and streetlights providing surreal relief. The train was packed and smelled sadly of wet wool and perspiration. I got off at Karlaplan and pulled my suitcase behind me through the snow, childishly cherishing every miserable slushy step as icy water seeped into my shoes. I crossed the street and continued up to the glass-panelled front door of the apartment building. I pressed the code on the pad and put my shoulder against the door in a reflex movement to push it open. When I realised it wouldn’t give, that the code must have been changed, I felt a jolt of anger — and disappointment.

The chandelier on the other side of the glass spread warm yellow light, but I was outside, my feet wet and numb. Large snowflakes fell sparsely over my head, melting instantly as they landed on my hair and shoulders. I pressed the intercom and Johan answered immediately, as if he had been anticipating the call. I took the lift up to the fourth floor. He stood in the doorway, illuminated from behind, and I could smell cooking. He seemed taller, as if he had grown in my absence. His embrace was light, just a brush of cheek against cheek before he bent down and picked up my suitcase. It surprised me that I noticed he had changed his aftershave.

I followed him inside, registering small additions and changes: a framed print on the wall by the kitchen door, a stool just inside the door, a potted ivy on the kitchen windowsill. The apartment looked the same, yet fundamentally different. I had been away almost a year, but it could have been much longer. I felt as if I had lived there in another life. We had spent a lot of time on the renovation, painstakingly doing everything ourselves, in between studies and work. It was a small apartment — just one large room, kitchen, bathroom and hallway. I had loved the kitchen. There was a large gas stove and we had bought second-hand cupboards — some antique, all free-standing. Nothing was built in.

Now, as I stood in the doorway, watching Johan frying Baltic herring, my favourite dish, I knew this space no longer belonged to me. He had a small pile of cleaned fish on a plate, chopped dill on another, then one with beaten eggs and one with coarse rye flour. He methodically placed two of the small flat fish side by side, cut open and skin-side down, sprinkled some of the dill over them, then salt and pepper, before putting one on top of the other, pressing them together and dipping them in the beaten egg, then turning them in the rye flour. His hands moved deliberately, as if he had rehearsed the process to make sure he would get it right. Next, he pushed the fish onto the spatula and slid them into the hot butter in the pan.

He seemed absorbed in the work, but suddenly he looked up at me, smiling and shrugging his shoulders, as if embarrassed. I smiled back, and walked into the main room. The potatoes boiling on the stove had steamed over the window. He had set the long table for two, the plates straight on the table, no placemats. A basket with white hyacinths planted in white moss sat on the side by the Christmas candlestick, with all four candles lit. A fire was going in the old tiled stove in the corner. I felt my throat ache as I walked around the room barefoot, my feet slowly warming. Some of Johan’s music was playing. I hadn’t noticed it from the kitchen, but now I recognised it instantly. He had been very happy when he wrote it, just accepted to the Music Academy. It had been All Saints Day, and we had taken a long walk to Haga and back, past the Northern Cemetery, where thousands of candles flickered in the misty early evening. He had held his arm across my shoulders and told me he had never been so happy. And when we came home he played the tape. The music was like that day: intensely joyous and profoundly serene.

I went to the bathroom and let the tap run while I stood leaning against the hand-basin. Two towels hung on identical hooks: one used, one just unfolded, the creases still sharp. I splashed cold water on my face and rubbed the clean towel against my cheeks.

We sat down to eat, in our usual seats: Johan against the wall, I with my back to the room. I suddenly realised I hadn’t seen the cat.

‘Where is Loa?’ I asked. Johan busied himself serving the fish and took a moment to reply. ‘You haven’t had her put down, have you?’

He looked up, his grey eyes on my face. ‘Of course not.’ He put the fish on the table and picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes before saying anything further. ‘It’s just that we were both so miserable. She would wander around the apartment every single evening, searching, before resigning herself to the fact that you weren’t here. And I found myself doing the same. Wandering restlessly, half expecting to find you in bed when I returned. And when I finally managed to put the thought out of my mind for a moment, Loa would reappear, staring at me with a sad, accusing look. If I lay sleepless, I would wake her. If I slept, she would wake me with her restless roaming. We kept reminding each other of our misery constantly.’ He poured wine. ‘So, I took her to stay with Mother on the island. Two older females, both disillusioned — they seem comfortable together.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘If you stay, we’ll get her back.’ Instead of answering, I lifted my glass. He lifted his and stretched out his other hand to touch my arm.

‘Anyway, you will all meet at Christmas. Mother has invited us for a traditional vegetarian Christmas dinner. No ham, but lots of fine wine. We’ll have to spend the night, of course. It will be cramped, nine of us in her small house. But we’ll be together again. Maria and Tobias have come down from Umeå, and Mother has invited her old friend Birgitta and her son Fredrik. And I have asked Simon and Petra. Simon and I have tried to keep the band going, but these last few months we haven’t had much time.’ He was leaning back against the wall, looking straight at me. ‘Unless you have other plans, of course,’ he said, and it came across almost apologetic. As if he regretted having let himself get carried away and talk too much.

‘No. No, I have no other plans. It sounds lovely. Thank you.’ I took a sip of wine, listening to the music.

We finished the meal and cleared the table, doing the dishes as we always used to: Johan washing, me drying. Then he made coffee and we returned to the table. We sat in silence in the flickering candlelight, snow falling outside the dark window. Johan bent forward and took both my hands across the table.

‘I am so very happy, Veronika. Just at this moment, it is absolute. It doesn’t matter about tomorrow; I am here right now. With you. And I am happy.’

 

Later, when I came out of the bathroom he had opened the window. Snowflakes wafted in and melted into drops of water on the floor. I pulled back the bed covers and got inside. The room was dark, illuminated only by streetlight and the dying flames in the stove. Johan went to the bathroom and I lay still, my eyes on the snow.