Open Grave

Four

Right before twelve the associate professor’s doorbell rang, an event if not sensational, then still very unusual. Most recently it concerned a security alarm salesman.

The associate professor was in the kitchen making his usual lunch: a couple of fried eggs, a few slices of pickle, and an open-faced cheese sandwich. The menu had looked like this ever since retirement.

The first ring was followed by another, more drawn out and sharper in tone.

The associate professor was in a quandary: should he finish frying the eggs or move the pan to the side to go and answer the door? In his confusion he did neither. He remained standing with the spatula in his hand, while the eggs were transformed into inedible, dry flakes in the pan.

He thought later, as he disposed of the scraps, that it was like an illustration of municipal politics in Uppsala: While those in charge in other municipalities held discussions, made decisions and then implemented them, Uppsala’s politicians remained standing with spatula in hand, year after year.

When the frying pan started to smoke he came to his senses, turned off the burner, took off his apron, and hurried out to the hall.

The associate professor peeked out through the peephole: Torben Bunde. He looked impatient, staring intensely at the door. The associate professor felt as if he was the one being looked at, not the other way around. His neighbor raised his hand and another ring resounded through the house. Now that he knew who the visitor was, he experienced it as even more insistent.

He knows I’m home, the associate professor thought, it’s just as well to take the bull by the horns. He unhooked the security chain and opened the door.

“Is this how it’s going to be now?”

Torben Bunde, Ph.D. was dressed in something that the associate professor thought was called a smoking jacket, at least back in the day when smoking was done in a fashionable manner.

His face bright red, he pointed with a diffuse motion in the direction of his own house and stamped one foot on the stone paving.

“What do you mean?”

Bunde waved his arm.

“A man,” he panted, “a man sneaking around with an ax in his hand.”

“On your lot?”

It was a strange feeling, talking to Bunde like this. Not because the associate professor had problems setting aside formalities with people, but it felt wrong somehow.

“I didn’t see that well, if it was on mine or yours, or”-Bunde clearly experienced this unexpected neighborly contact and extended conversation as equally strange, because he hesitated suddenly-“or if it was on Lundström’s, or whatever his name is, the new person.”

Alexander Lundquist had moved in five years ago and was therefore observed with a certain skepticism. No one knew exactly what he did for a living, but there was talk about some kind of publishing activity. Bunde, whose property bordered the newcomer’s, had cautiously let the surroundings know that it probably concerned pornography.

“I see,” said the associate professor, uncertain how he should tackle the situation.

“Is this how it’s going to be now,” Bunde repeated, “with a lot of running around in the bushes, photographers and other riffraff, those kinds of paparazzi?”

“Photographers don’t usually carry axes. Perhaps it was someone working on Lundquist’s yard?”

“That! His yard mostly looks like a communal garbage dump.”

Everything that had to do with municipal operations, including recycling stations, Bunde called “communal.”

“All the more reason to hire someone,” the associate professor replied.

He was finding an unexpected enjoyment in the conversation.

“I definitely think he mentioned something about that.”

“Have the two of you talked?”

“Just in passing,” said the associate professor.

“Yes?”

“Perhaps it was Lundquist himself you saw?”

“Very unlikely,” Bunde said with a sneer. “He’s never appeared in the yard before.”

The associate professor had to agree.

“This man, you didn’t go up and ask what he was doing?”

Bunde shook his head.

“I don’t believe there will be ‘running around’ as you say. Have you gone over to congratulate?”

“No, I want to wait,” said Bunde doggedly.

“Perhaps we should take up a collection for a little flower arrangement? I mean, those of us here on the street.”

Bunde stared at the associate professor.

“I think I smell something burning,” he said.

“I’ll never be a cook,” the associate professor said, smiling.

Bunde turned on his heels and almost ran toward the gate, which he had left open. It was such an unusual sight for the associate professor that he did not catch the neighbor’s parting words.

“Close the gate behind you!” he shouted.

He observed the neighbor striding away. Bunde’s hair was sticking out like a scraggly white broom from the back of his head. The sight reminded the associate professor of the only children’s book he owned. In it a magician was depicted who at the end of the tale was put to flight by angry people. He wanted to recall that the magician had conjured away something valuable to a poor man in the village. Could it be a cow?

It must have been a cow. Otherwise he probably would not have gotten the book as a Christmas present. His father had been called the “Indian” at home in Rasbo.

The associate professor walked along the stone-paved walk, and to push away the memories flaring up from childhood and youth he let his eyes sweep over the yard, observed that the Öland stone ought to be reset, noted that the moss in the lawn had conquered even more ground, especially in the shadow of the privet hedge, and that the autumn crocus had never been so abundant and beautiful.

While he slowly shut the gate he thought again about the conversation with Ohler. Had the professor been sincere in his intentions when he came over? Perhaps he truly wanted to share the honor? Could it be the case that he had let his many years of disappointment cloud his judgment, that he had not understood that the professor had gradually changed character?

In yesterday evening’s news broadcasts, which the associate professor followed on a couple of channels, the professor had repeated his preaching that the honor was not his alone. He had even mentioned Ferguson, which before, during his active period, would have been completely inconceivable.

It was during the last years before retirement that the associate professor’s bitterness had grown; it was when forty years of work suddenly was perceived as worthless. To now come up with flattering remarks changed nothing.

He went up the stairs to the tower. The last bit, very steep, was becoming increasingly troublesome.

A pale October sun bathed the plants in a conciliatory glow. He let his hand run across the two-meter-long leaves of the multistemmed dracaena in a careful caress. Against all the green in the tower it shone bloodred. He dampened a rag and wiped off all the old dust so that the contrast stood out even stronger.

In the corner of his eye he thought he perceived a movement between the apple trees on Lundquist’s lot. A branch swayed. The Katja tree’s fruits shone like little lanterns.

The associate professor removed his glasses and wiped off the lenses with the rag, put the glasses on again and scanned the neighbor’s lot. But now everything was quiet.

Must have been a blackbird, he thought. Lundquist never bothered to harvest fruit and berries, so the birds would feast far into autumn. At Christmas the waxwings came and pecked their way into Ribstons.

After pottering with the plants for a while it occurred to him that he hadn’t had lunch. The Nobel Prize had certainly made a mess of life on the street, and he set aside the rag and started the descent to the kitchen.

“This stairway will be the death of me,” he mumbled.