Midwinter Sacrifice

66

Candles are burning in the dining room and on the wall behind Hasse and Tove hangs a large oil painting by an artist called Jockum Nordström, who according to Biggan is supposed to have become some sort of big noise in New York. The painting is of a coloured man dressed in boy’s clothes against a blue background, and Malin thinks the painting looks naïve and mature at the same time; the man is alone but still anchored in a sort of context on the blue background, and in the sky drift guitars and billiard-cues.

The pheasant tastes good, but the wine is even better, a red from a region of Spain that Malin doesn’t know, and she has to exert all her willpower not to slug it down, it’s so good.

‘More pheasant, Malin?’ Hasse gestures towards the pot.

‘Have some more,’ Markus says. ‘It’ll make Dad happy.’

The conversation during the evening has covered everything from Malin’s work to weight-training, the reorganisation of the hospital and local politics and the ‘reaaally dull’ programme at the city’s concert house.

Hasse and Biggan. Equally politely and genuinely interested in everything, and no matter how Malin has tried, she hasn’t been able to find a single false note. They seem to like us being here, we aren’t intruding. Malin takes a sip of the wine. And they know how to get me to relax.

‘Great about Tenerife,’ Hasse says, and Malin looks at Tove across the table. Tove looks down.

‘Are the tickets all booked?’ Hasse asks. ‘We need an account number before you go so we can pay in some money. Remind me, will you?’

‘I . . .’ Tove begins.

Malin clears her throat.

Biggan and Hasse look at her anxiously and Markus turns towards Tove.

‘My dad changed his mind,’ Malin says. ‘I’m afraid they’ve got other guests that week.’

‘Their own grandchild!’ Biggan exclaims.

‘Why haven’t you said anything?’ Markus says to Tove.

Malin shakes her head. ‘They’re a bit odd, my parents.’

Tove breathes out, and Malin realises that the lie has made her feel relief, at the same time as she feels ashamed at not having the bravery, the honesty to come out with the simple truth: that it was Markus who wasn’t welcome.

Why am I lying? Malin thinks.

So as not to disappoint anyone?

Because I’m ashamed at my own parents’ social incompetence?

Because the truth hurts?

‘How strange,’ Hasse says. ‘Who could possibly be more welcome than their own granddaughter and her friend?’

‘It was an old business acquaintance.’

‘Well, never mind,’ Biggan says. ‘Now the two of you can come with us to Åre instead. As we suggested in the first place. I don’t mean to criticise Tenerife, but winter is for skiing!’

Malin and Tove are walking home along the well-lit villa-lined streets.

A cognac after the meal makes Malin’s mouth run away with her. Biggan had one, but Hasse didn’t, had to work the next morning. ‘A small martini and a glass of wine. No more than that if I’m going to be wielding a scalpel!’

‘You should have explained how things were to Markus beforehand.’

‘Maybe, but I—’

‘And now you’ve made me lie. You know what I think about that. And Åre, have they asked you to go to Åre? You could have mentioned that. Who am I really, you—’

‘Mum. Can’t you just be quiet?’

‘Why? I’ve got things I want to say.’

‘But you’re saying such stupid things.’

‘Why haven’t you mentioned Åre?’

‘Oh Mum, you know why. When was I supposed to tell you? You’re hardly ever at home. You’re always working.’

No, Malin feels like shouting at Tove. No, you’re wrong, but she stops and thinks. Is it really as bad as that?

They walk on in silence, past Tinnis and the Hotel Ekoxen.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Mum?’ Tove asks as they pass the City Mission’s charity shop.

‘They were nice,’ Malin says. ‘Not at all what I imagined.’

‘You imagine so much about people all the time, Mum.’