Italian Shoes (19 page)

I supposed Agnes Klarström must have read this text many times, and had it explained to her. She must have noticed that among all the Latin terms, an everyday word suddenly cropped up: she had been operated on in a ‘sunbed position'. As if she had been lying on a beach or a veranda, with her arm exposed, and the operating theatre lights the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness. I had submitted her to an outrageous injustice while she was resting on a sunbed.

Could it possibly be a different Agnes Klarström? She had been young then – maybe she had married and acquired a new surname? Her entry in the telephone directory had evidently not indicated if she was Miss, or Mrs, or had any other title.

It was a scary but also a crucial night. I could no longer run away. I must speak to her, explain what was impossible to explain. And tell her that in so many ways I had also amputated myself.

I lay awake on top of the bed for a very long time before falling asleep. When I opened my eyes again, it was morning. Jansson would not be delivering any post today. I would be able to cut my way into my hole in the ice without interruption.

I had to use a crowbar in order to break through the thick ice. My dog sat on the jetty, watching my exertions. The cat had vanished into the boathouse looking for mice. I finally managed to create a big enough hole and stepped down into the burning cold. I thought about Harriet and Louise, and wondered if I would have enough courage today to ring Agnes Klarström and ask her if she was the woman I was looking for.

I didn't ring that day. Instead, in a fit of frenzied activity, I gave the house a spring clean, as there was a thick layer of dust everywhere. I managed to start my ancient washing machine and washed my bedlinen, which was so filthy that it could easily have been a homeless tramp who'd been sleeping in my bed. Then I went for a walk round the island, surveyed the icy wastes with my binoculars, and accepted that I must make up my mind what to do next.

An old woman standing on the ice, a daughter I didn't know I had in a caravan. At the age of sixty-six I was having to accept that everything I'd thought was definite and done with was starting to change.

After lunch I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote two letters. One was to Harriet and Louise, and the other to Agnes Klarström. Jansson would be surprised when I handed over two letters. To be on the safe side, I secured them with Sellotape. I wouldn't put it past him to try to read all my correspondence.

What did I write? I told Harriet and Louise that my fury had passed. I understood them, but I wasn't able to
see them at the moment. I had returned to my island to look after my abandoned animals. But I took it for granted that we should meet again soon. Our conversations and our social intercourse must continue, obviously.

It took a long time to write those few lines. By the time I thought I had written something that might suffice, the kitchen floor was covered in scrunched-up paper. What I had put wasn't actually true. My fury had not passed, my animals could have survived for a while longer – Jansson could have managed. Nor was I entirely sure that I wanted to meet them again in the near future. I needed time to think things over. Not least to decide what to say to Agnes Klarström, if I could find her.

The letter to Agnes Klarström did not take long to write. I realised that I had been carrying it around in my head for many years. I just wanted to meet her, that was all. I sent her my address and signed it: she would no doubt never be able to forget that name. I hoped I was writing to the right person.

When Jansson arrived the following day, it had turned windy. I noted in my logbook that the temperature had fallen during the night, and the squally wind was veering between west and south-west.

Jansson was on time. I gave him three hundred kronor for collecting me, and insisted that he accepted the payment.

‘I'd like you to post these two letters for me,' I said, handing them to him.

I had taped all four corners on each of them. He made
no attempt to disguise his astonishment that I was holding two letters in my hand.

‘I write when I have to. Otherwise not.'

‘That picture postcard you sent me was very pretty.'

‘A fence covered in snow? What's pretty about that?'

I was getting impatient.

‘How is the toothache?' I asked, in an attempt to cover up my irritation.

‘It comes and goes. It's worst up here on the right.'

Jansson opened his mouth wide.

‘I can't see anything wrong,' I said. ‘Talk to a dentist.'

Jansson tried to close his mouth. There was a creaking sound. His jaw locked, and he stood there with his mouth half open. I could see that it was painful. He tried to speak, but it was impossible to understand what he said. I pressed gently with my thumbs on either side of his face, feeling for his jawbone, and massaged until he could close his mouth again.

‘That hurt.'

‘Try to avoid yawning or opening your mouth too wide for a few days.'

‘Is this an indication of some serious illness?'

‘Not at all. You don't need to worry.'

Jansson drove off with my letters. The wind bit into my face as I walked back to the house.

That afternoon I opened the door to the ant room. Still more of the tablecloth seemed to have been swallowed up by the constantly growing anthill. But generally speaking, the room and the bed where Harriet had slept were still as they were when we'd left them.

Days passed and nothing happened. I walked over the ice until I came to the open sea. I measured the thickness of the ice in three different places. I didn't need to consult my earlier logbooks in order to establish that the ice had never been as thick as this before, for as long as I'd lived on the island.

I peeped under the tarpaulin and tried to judge if I'd ever be able to put to sea again in my boat. Had it been beached for too long? Would I have the strength and energy to carry out the necessary repairs and spruce it up again? I replaced the tarpaulin without having answered my question.

One evening the telephone rang. A rare thing. More often than not it would be some telephone company or other urging me to change my supplier, or to install broadband. When they discovered where I lived and that I was an old-age pensioner, they usually lost interest. Besides, I haven't the slightest idea what broadband is.

A female voice I didn't recognise said: ‘Agnes Klarström here. I've received your letter.'

I held my breath. Didn't say a word.

‘Hello? Hello?'

I said nothing. After further attempts to lure me out of my cave, she hung up.

So I'd found her. The letter had reached the address it was sent to. She lived near Flen.

There was an old map of Sweden in one of the kitchen drawers. I think it used to belong to my grandfather.
He sometimes used to go on about how he would like to visit Falkenberg before he died. I've no idea why he wanted to go there; but he had never been to Stockholm, nor had he ever ventured outside the borders of Sweden. He took his dream of visiting Falkenberg with him to his grave.

I spread the map out over the table and located Flen. The scale wasn't big enough for me to pin down SÃ¥ngledsbyn. It would take me two hours at most to drive there. I had made up my mind: I was going to pay her a visit.

Two days later I walked across the ice to my car. I hadn't left a note on my door this time or told Jansson. The dog and the cat had been supplied with sufficient food. The sky was blue, it was dead calm, plus two degrees. I drove north, turned off inland and reached Flen shortly after two in the afternoon. I found a book shop, bought a large-scale map and tracked down Sångledsbyn. It was only a couple of miles away from Harpsund, which is the location of the summer residence of Swedish prime ministers. Once upon a time, a man had lived there who made a fortune out of cork. He had left his home to the state. There was an oak tree in the grounds around which many a visiting foreign statesman, their retinue and their hosts had gathered – not many of the younger generation would ever have heard of them.

I knew all that about Harpsund because my father had once worked there as a waiter when the then prime minister, Tage Erlander, had been entertaining foreign
guests. He never tired of talking about the men – they were all men, no women – sitting around the table conducting important discussions about world politics. This had been during the Cold War; he had made a special effort to move without making a noise, and could recall details of the menu, and the wines. Unfortunately there had also been an incident that came close to causing a scandal. He used to describe it as if he had been party to something top secret, and was chary about revealing any details to me and my mother. One of the guests had become extremely drunk. He had delivered an incomprehensible ‘thank you' speech at the wrong time, which had caused a bit of a problem for the waiters: but they had saved the day and delayed the serving of the dessert, which had been about to begin. Shortly afterwards the drunken man had been found dead to the world on the lawn at the front of the house.

‘Fagerholm got himself drunk in most unfortunate circumstances,' my father used to say in serious tones.

My mother and I never discovered who this Fagerholm was. It was only much later on, when my father had died, that I realised he must have been one of the Finnish trade union leaders of the day.

However, living close to Harpsund now was a woman whose arm I had cut off.

SÃ¥ngledsbyn consisted of a few farms spread along the shore of an oval-shaped lake. The fields and meadows were covered in snow. I had taken my binoculars with me and climbed to the top of a hillock in order to get a better overview. People occasionally crossed over the
farmyards, between outhouses and barns, or house and garage. None of those I saw could have been Agnes Klarström.

I gave a start. A dog was sniffing at my feet. A man in a long overcoat and wellington boots was standing on the road below. He shouted for the dog, and raised a hand in greeting. I hid my binoculars in a pocket and went down to the road. We spoke briefly about the view, and the long, dry winter.

‘Is there somebody in this village by the name of Agnes Klarström?' I asked.

The man pointed at the house furthest away.

‘She lives there with her bloody kids,' he replied. ‘I didn't used to have a dog until that lot came here. Now everybody has a dog.'

He shook his head in annoyance, and continued on his way. I didn't like what I'd heard. I didn't want to get involved with something that would bring even more disorder into my life. I decided to go home and went back to the car. But something made me stay on even so. I walked through the village until I came to a cart track where the snowplough had been busy. If I went along it, I could approach the rear of the last house through a clump of trees.

It was late afternoon, and dusk would soon close in. I made my way along the track and stopped when I came to a spot where I could see the house through the trees. I shook the snow off some branches and created a good view. The house was obviously well looked after. A car was parked outside, with the cable from an engine heater trailing through the snow to an electric socket in the wall.

Suddenly a young girl appeared. She was looking straight at me and my binoculars. She produced something that had been hidden behind her back. It appeared to be a sword. She started running straight at me with the sword raised above her head.

I dropped my binoculars and fled. I stumbled over a tree root or a large stone and fell down. Before I could get to my feet, the girl with the sword had caught up with me.

She was glaring at me with hatred in her eyes.

‘Perverts like you,' she said, ‘they're everywhere. Peeping Toms skulking in the bushes with their binoculars.'

A woman came running after her. She stopped by the girl and snatched away the sword with her left and only hand – and I realised it must be Agnes Klarström. Perhaps, hidden away at the back of my subconscious mind, there was an image of the young girl from twelve years ago who had lain in the sunbed position in front of my well-scrubbed hands in their rubber gloves.

She was wearing a blue jacket, zipped up to her neck. The empty right sleeve was fastened to her shoulder with a safety pin. The girl by her side was eyeing me with contempt.

I wished Jansson could have come to rescue me. For the second time recently the ice under my feet had given way, and I was drifting without being able to clamber ashore.

I STOOD UP
, brushed off the snow and explained who I was. The girl started kicking out at me, but Agnes snapped at her and she slunk away.

‘I don't need a guard dog,' said Agnes. ‘Sima sees absolutely everything that's going on, everybody who approaches the house. She has the eyes of a hawk.'

‘I thought she was going to kill me.'

Agnes eyed me up and down, but didn't respond.

We went into the house and sat down in her office. Somewhere in the background rock music was blaring out at top volume. Agnes seemed not to hear. When she took off her jacket, she did it just as quickly as if she'd had two arms and two hands.

I sat down on a visitor chair. Her desk was empty. Apart from a pen: nothing else.

‘How do you think I reacted when I received your letter?' Agnes asked.

‘I don't know. I suppose you must have been surprised. Perhaps furious?'

‘I was relieved. At last, I thought! But then I wondered: Why just now? Why not yesterday, or ten years ago?'

She leaned back in her chair. She had long, brown hair,
a simple hairslide, bright blue eyes. She gave the impression of being strong, decisive.

She had placed the samurai sword on a shelf next to the window. She noticed me looking at it.

‘I was once given it by a man who was in love with me. When we fell out of love, for some strange reason he took the scabbard with him, but left this incredibly sharp sword with me. Maybe he hoped I would use it to split open my stomach in desperation after he'd left me?'