The Best Intentions (6 page)

Over everything lies a sticky layer of proud poverty Perplexed abandonment. Hopelessness and tears.

While Alma produces something to eat, Henrik goes into his boyhood room: The narrow sagging bed. The broken wicker chair with cushions, the rickety desk with its old wounds from the ravages of his penknife, the unmatched chairs. The wardrobe with its cracked mirror, the bookcase of tattered books, the washstand with its illmatched jug and basin, the worn towels. The dirty window, its pelmet slipped from the curtain pole. The pictures of biblical scenes from his childhood (Jesus with the children, the return of the prodigal son). Above the bed is the photograph of his father. A young, handsome face; thin, wispy hair, brushed back off a high forehead; large blue eyes; a small self-conscious smile — pride, vulnerability, integrity, and suffering; the features of an actor.

In one corner by the window, somewhat cramped, is the altar with its altar runner and silver candlesticks, Thorvaldsen's Jesus, and an open prayer book. In front of the altar, a prie-dieu embroidered in green and gold. The altar frontal is purple with a cross in dull red. A dazzling bunch of freshly picked cowslips stands at Jesus' feet.

Henrik sinks down on one of the odd chairs, hides his face in his hands, and breathes deeply, as if suffering from an attack of asphyxiation.

He finds it hard to swallow, although he ought to be hungry, for he has eaten nothing but a few sandwiches he had taken with him for the long journey. His mother sits opposite him at the table, the paraffin lamp lit, dusk fallen outside the square windows.

Alma:
Everything's got so terribly expensive recently. Of course,
you
don't have to think about things like that, but I hardly know how I'm going to manage. Just think, paraffin's gone up by three öre, and five pounds of potatoes cost thirty-two öre. I can hardly afford beef nowadays but have to get ordinary pork, or perhaps another kind of meat for soup. And coal — you've no idea what a winter we've had — coal and wood have doubled in price. It meant wrapping up indoors, though I have to put the heat on for my piano pupils, and that costs an awful lot. What's the matter, Henrik? You look so miserable. Has something awful happened? You know you can tell your old mother anything.

Henrik:
I failed my church history exam.

He makes a helpless gesture and stares at his mother's ear. She carefully puts down her teacup and places her fat little hand on the table, the heavy wedding ring glistening dully.

Alma:
When did this happen?

Henrik:
A few weeks ago.

Alma:
And what will the consequences be?

Henrik:
I'll retake it at the end of November. Professor Sundelius won't let me try any earlier.

Alma:
So your finals will be delayed.

Henrik:
By six months.

Alma:
How are we going to manage, Henrik? The loan is almost all gone, and everything's grown so expensive. Your fees and books and your keep. I can't think what we can do. I've never been able to handle money.

Henrik:
Neither have I.

Alma:
And we promised to pay back the loan as soon as you were ordained.

Henrik:
I know, Mama.

Alma:
I try to get more pupils, but piano lessons are the first thing people give up when things get so expensive. One can understand that.

Henrik:
Yes, one can understand that.

Alma:
I could start cleaning again, but my asthma's got so bad, and my heart's acting up, too.

Henrik:
Mama, dear, you're not to start cleaning.

Alma gets up with a sigh, filled with tenderness. She embraces her son and showers him with kisses, prattling away at the same time: “My little boy, my darling, my heart! You're all I have. I live for you and you alone. We'll help each other. We'll never abandon each other, isn't that right, my darling boy, isn't that right?”

Gently but firmly, Henrik frees himself and puts his mother onto a chair. Holding her arms, he looks into her bright, tear-filled eyes.

Henrik:
I can give up my studies, Mama. I'll give them up and look for work and move back here again. Then first of all we'll pay back the loan to the aunts in Elfvik. Then perhaps I could start studying again, when I've saved enough to manage on my own and not be a burden to anyone.

Alma laughs, a large hearty laugh of white teeth, and strokes her son's face with her soft, fat hand.

Alma:
My poor dear boy, you really are even sillier than me. Surely you don't think we should stop
now,
just when we're nearly there? Surely you don't think I'm going to let you be some telegraph office clerk or a tutor? You . . . who's going to be a priest.
My
priest!

His mother laughs again and gets up, filled with sudden energy. She goes across to the monstrous sideboard taking up all the space between the windows, gets out a bottle of port wine and two glasses, and pours it out. Henrik also starts laughing — this is all so familiar and charged with a remarkable sense of security — both of them in distress, then suddenly a laugh, irresistible, Mama laughing — so it's not that bad. They toast each other and drink. She leans forward and sighs.

Alma:
I've heard that really talented frauds never bother with small change. They go straight for the big money. In that way they're regarded as more trustworthy and can finagle even more money for themselves.

Henrik:
I don't really understand.

Alma:
Don't you understand? We've been far too meek! The aunts will have to hand over a decent sum of money now. We'll pay them a visit. At once. Tomorrow.

The mythical aunts live in a handsome wooden villa overlooking the Ljusnan River, twenty kilometers south of Bollnäs. They are Henrik's grandfather's sisters and are very old. Grandfather is their baby brother, the tail end of the family. The names of the aunts, from eldest to youngest, are Ebba, Beda, and Blenda.

Briefly, this is their situation: Grandfather's father was a man who owned forests and land and possessed a good business sense. When the exploitation of Norrland began in all seriousness, the enterprising Leonhard created a fortune for himself, and when he died, he left a considerable inheritance. Grandfather Bergman thought that none
of it should be touched, and that it ought to become part of and increase the working capital of the family farm. No one had dared oppose him except Blenda, who claimed a share of the inheritance for herself and her sisters. Their brother objected, but Blenda took the dispute to the county court in Gävle. Before this scandal had become public, Fredrik Bergman gave in, and with his heart trembling with hatred, he realized he would have to pay out the shares of the inheritance to his unmarried sisters. From then on, he refused to speak to them again, and the hatred on both sides became a well-established fact. Neither births, nor marriages, nor deaths could bridge their mutual bitterness.

Blenda, the youngest sister, who had shown so much enterprise, took over the management of the fortune. Through good sense and business acumen, she increased its value even more. She had a handsome wooden villa built, with a view over the most beautiful part of Lake Ljusnan. The house was filled with the most comfortable furniture of the day and decorated with the most tasteless wallpapers, tapestries, and pictures of the century.

The villa has a garden, almost a park, which runs down in terraces toward the river. The sisters work in it every spring, summer, and autumn, in white linen dresses, overalls, wide-brimmed hats, gloves, and clogs. All the love, tenderness, and inventiveness they possess are scarcely wasted on one another, but instead bestowed on the garden. The garden returns their devoted attentions with lush greenery, laden fruit trees, and dazzling flower beds.

Ebba is the eldest and a trifle out of it, which she has always been. She is also deaf and doesn't say much. She has a faithful friend, a very old labrador with rheumatism. Ebba's face is like a withered rose petal. She was probably a beautiful girl.

Despite her age, Beda's hair is still dark, her eyes also dark, and tragic. She reads novels, plays Chopin with more passion than instinct, is quarrelsome, and complains loudly about almost everything. Now and again, she departs, but she always comes back. Her departures are sensational and her returns ordinary. In contrast to her sisters, it is said that she has experienced passion.

Finally, Blenda is small, quick, and controlled. She has a renowned capacity for getting her own way. Her hair is iron gray, her forehead low and broad, her nose large with a reddish tinge, her mouth sarcastically curved, appropriate for lightning attacks and ironic invective.

Once a year they go to the capital, mixing in circles, going to concerts and theaters, ordering expensive and stylish items from the
leading fashion houses in town. Occasionally, they go for a cure at a resort in southern Germany or Austria.

That's the situation with the aunts of Elfvik.

The sisters' bedrooms, though horribly cluttered, are furnished according to each woman's personal taste. Ebba inhabits bright florals, Beda purple and art nouveau, while Blenda lives in blue, pale blue, dark blue, dull blue. At this particular moment, agitation reigns. They are dressing for dinner, advising, helping one another, squabbling. Their rooms are interconnected with doors that are often locked, but at the moment they are all wide open.

Blenda:
Can you see them?

Beda:
What are they doing?

Ebba:
Bless my soul! They're down at the bathing hut.

Blenda:
What! Are they going swimming in that cold water?

Ebba:
Bless my soul! They are indeed!

Blenda:
How foolish. Alma, that fat cow. How foolish.

Beda:
Move over, so I can see.

Blenda:
They're going into the bathing hut.

Ebba:
They're going to go into the water.

Beda:
At this time of year! The water can't be more than ten degrees.

Blenda:
Can I wear my pale blue?

Beda:
Isn't that too elegant? Alma might feel socially degraded. She's probably only got something black.

Blenda:
Then I'll take the pale gray.

Beda:
My dear, that's even more elegant.

Ebba
(
trumpets
): Bless my soul! The Ljusan's rising.

Blenda:
What did you say?

Ebba:
Alma, that mountain of flesh, has gone into the water.

Beda:
Don't stand there staring. Put your corsets on, and I'll help you lace them.

Ebba:
What did you say? Dear Henrik's naked now!

Beda:
No! I must see that.

Blenda:
Don't push. God, he's good-looking, that boy!

Ebba:
Goodness, how thin he is.

Beda:
But lovely shoulders. And handsomely built.

Blenda:
I wonder why they've come, I really do.

Beda:
That's not difficult to guess.

Ebba:
He's swimming very strongly.

Blenda:
Shall I really take the pale gray?

Beda:
Yes, I think it's all right. It'll look really good with your red nose.

Ebba:
Now they're going back to the bathing hut. Heavens above, what would we have done if they'd drowned?

Blenda:
Paid for the funeral, I suppose.

Beda:
Ebba, come on now, so that I can get you dressed.

Ebba:
No, no. I must see them as they come out.

Beda:
Are they coming out now?

Ebba:
What? They're coming in, and they're holding hands!

Blenda:
I've a good idea why they've come.

Beda:
So what, you old miser.

Blenda:
They'll not get a cent out of us, I'm telling you. Not a cent. They've had their loan, and they don't have to pay it back until Henrik's ordained.

Ebba:
How good-looking he is, dear Henrik! But going naked like that, both of them. How extraordinary.

Beda
(
to Ebba
): I've got your pink out. (
Shudders
.) The pink!

Ebba:
No, I don't want that. I want the floral one. The one with roses and lace.

Beda:
Oh, goodness. That makes you look even more hideous.

Ebba:
Now that was really nasty of you. I heard.

Blenda:
She's dolling herself up as if she were going to perform at the Royal Theater.

Beda:
What's wrong with that, may I ask?

Blenda:
There's nothing really wrong with the dress.

Beda:
I want to look really nice for the boy. He may need to see a little style and beauty, perhaps.

Blenda (
laughing maliciously
): Ha ha!

Ebba:
Who's taken my perfume? (
Squeals
.) My perfume!

Beda:
An old biddy like you shouldn't use perfume. It's obscene!

Ebba:
Now you're being nasty again. Where's my ear trumpet?

Beda:
Supposing this is about money again. Do we have to be so impossible?

Blenda:
Certainly, Beda dearest. Times are hard, and people have to learn to live according to their means.

Beda:
They don't appear to be living off the fat of the land.

Blenda:
Alma's never been able to manage money. Do you remember when we sent her fifty kronor when Henrik's father passed away? Do you know what Alma bought? A pair of very elegant shoes to go with her mourning clothes. She told me herself! Is that a way to be economical? I'm only asking.

Ebba:
They're on their way back from the bathing hut now. Heavens, what a lovely way he looks at his mother. What a nice boy he is.

The living room and dining room meet at an angle to the big window facing the sunset. Everything here is light: airy summer curtains, white handmade furniture à la Carl Larsson, yellow wallpaper, large basket chairs, a piano, a lime-green sideboard, brightly colored rag rugs on the wide, well-scrubbed floorboards. Modern art of a kind on the walls — women as flowers and flowers as women, comely young girls in white, vaguely gazing into a delightful future.