Open Grave

Six

Associate Professor Gregor Johansson was taking a nap. It was a lifelong habit. When he was a student and in the early years of his professional career it was sometimes hard to get away, find a place to stretch out for a while. No more than ten or fifteen minutes was needed, even if since retirement it had become considerably longer than that.

He used his father’s method, and also his parlance. If he were to be encouraged to remember any special expression from his childhood it was just these words, “I’m going to lean back awhile,” that would come to him unbidden.

There was also a childhood odor track: the smell of barn and a hint of sour milk, “pungent” as his father put it, born in Rasbo, a not completely unpleasant aroma, but “different” as his mother, originally from Karungi in Norrbotten, would have expressed it.

And then naturally the kitchen sofa bench, inherited goods that stood under the south window in the otherwise quite modern kitchen. A completely misplaced piece of furniture, most of all because the associate professor had done nothing to improve its worn appearance. On the contrary, it was with great tenderness that he observed the worn, dirty brown original paint that could be glimpsed under the equally worn-down green outer layer that was his childhood shade.

It was the work of a village carpenter, with a few curves and flourishes on the back, a couple of carved, stylized flowers on the front of the drawer. Otherwise nothing exaggerated, instead a worthy and typical representative of the furniture used most by poor people, indispensable day and night. He had spent his first thirteen years in it.

He was lying on his back on the bench staring up at the ceiling. The usual calm would not appear. He understood what the cause of it was. They were arguing. His father in his languid Uppland way, his mother in her bare Norrbotten dialect. It was as if their respective provinces shaped their speech and gestures.

They carried on, wreaked havoc, pulsed in his circulation, his cheeks burned, made him remember and sense the sweet-and-sour in his childhood and life.

With the years the din had become louder and increasingly frequent. Perhaps natural, he thought, the older you get, the more strongly the odors and veins of memories appear, it’s an old truth.

He had no major problems with these memories, there were seldom any really gloomy recollections that floated up, but sometimes they came traipsing, like the shabbily clothed men on the road outside the family’s little cottage, those his mother insisted on offering coffee, sometimes a little food. Despite his mother’s assurances that they were harmless, just hungry, he was afraid of their mournful appearance; perhaps he had been frightened sometime when he was very small. Perhaps it was his mother’s words that it could just as well be themselves who were tramping along the roads.

It was called the “big road” but was no more than a narrow and crooked, poorly maintained gravel road that connected the station in Bärby with the highway toward the coast. There, a few kilometers north, his grandfather lived in a cottage on the farm in Ströja. These points-the cottage, his grandfather’s place, and then Frötuna, the estate where his father worked-formed a triangle whose few square kilometers basically constituted Gregor Johansson’s whole life during his early years.

Sometimes they went to see Aunt Rut and her husband Karl in Selknä, less than ten kilometers north. “Kalle” had been a road worker, and in northern Sweden met his future wife. Later he got work on the Roslag line, brought Rut with him, and moved to Selknä. Then, when his mother rode the twelve hundred kilometers to visit her sister, she met the cattleman Harry Johansson at a barn dance in Gråmunkehöga. So she too moved to the province.

The outings to Selknä, and a few times by train into Uppsala, were adventures. The station hand in Bärby, also named Kalle, was already exciting enough.

Then came the black years, as his mother called the war. For Gregor the period was a strange mixture of worry and a kind of expectation. Worry that the strange men with hard voices from the radio would come to Rasbo, but also a time when the adults seemed exhilarated. There had probably never been so much talk between the farms and houses, gossip and speculation, with constantly new rumors in circulation.

In 1943 came the deathblow. Just as the fortunes of war on the continent were turning, the luck of the family also turned. His father fell down from the hayloft, broke his hip and an arm, opened an ugly wound in his belly, with inflammation and blood poisoning as a result, an injury which after five days in the hospital in Uppsala would prove to be fatal.

Gregor was then thirteen years old. His father had decided that his son should be educated as a control assistant, he would work with livestock but unlike his father he would not need to toil as a cowhand in the animal stalls. Everything was prepared for him to start in the secondary school in Uppsala, as a lodger with a cousin of his father, a childless widower who was foreman at Nyman’s bicycle factory.

There began the long migration that led to the university. A path he actually had not chosen himself, and which in retrospect he looked back on with mixed emotions.

He had been helped along, with the combined exertions of a whole family and later with scholarships, and he realized already during the first month of secondary school, when it turned out that “things come easy to him,” that he would never need to tramp along the roads and beg for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, perhaps an odd job.

At the same time, the absence of his father, of the odors of his childhood, sat like an aching wedge in his body. In times of worry it was as if someone struck a blow and drove the wedge a little further into his chest.

He woke from his slumber and sat up. Perhaps it was the overwhelming events of the past twenty-four hours, with the Nobel Prize and Bunde’s unexpected appearance, that made the associate professor dream about strange things. In his dream his parents had appeared, but also the old people at the estate, Björks in Sandbacken, where he got to go to buy eggs, the smith who was called “Phew Pharaoh,” his grandfather who outlived his son by twenty years, and many others, in a cavalcade where the dead appeared and talked about the sorts of things they had never been allowed, or even wanted, to talk about when they were alive.

He knew that it was time to get up, that lingering on the bench was not a good idea. Once the shabbily clothed started wandering it was time to get up and do something else.

He decided to have his afternoon coffee in the tower, ordinarily an effective cure for melancholy, so he brought a package of cookies from the kitchen and started the climb up the stairs.

The seesawing flight of a green woodpecker caught his attention. He had always liked woodpeckers and had left behind a stump from a pear tree as an intended food source and perhaps nesting tree and been rewarded. Every day the woodpecker came to visit.

From the pear tree the associate professor let his eyes wander over to Bunde’s and then to Lundquist’s. Immediately he caught sight of the figure crouching behind the overgrown honeysuckle. The man, because of course it must be a man, was standing completely still. The associate professor could only glimpse parts of his back and legs, and perhaps something that might be a dark cap.

“Strange,” said the associate professor to himself, and looked quickly toward Bunde’s.

He was right, thought the associate professor, there is someone sneaking around here. Should he go downstairs and call the police? No, that would seem almost silly. What would he say? That there is a man standing in his neighbor’s yard? He would be laughed at.

The coffeemaker hissed and the associate professor left his lookout point to pour a cup and take out a cookie.

The whole maneuver did not take many seconds, and when he returned to the window the figure was gone. He quickly checked the surroundings but no stranger was seen anywhere.

He did not like that. He did not like obscurity and mysteries. There must be a reasonable explanation. Perhaps it was as he himself had said to Bunde, that this concerned hired gardening help. The honeysuckle really needed pruning, and not just that. All of Lundquist’s yard needed a proper facelift. But the honeysuckle stood undisturbed, not a single branch was weeded out.

The man simply had to pee, was the associate professor’s next thought, he had withdrawn, tried to conceal himself in the bushes at the back side of the house. A tradesman who did not have access to a toilet, perhaps the explanation was that simple. Perhaps some work was being done on the front side of the neighbor’s house? Plastering the façade or window repair were two possibilities that occurred to the associate professor.

He decided to take a walk around the block to check the whole thing. He wanted certainty. Not least he wanted to have something to say to Bunde if they were to meet again.

Suddenly he saw the comic side of all this, this activity that had developed on the otherwise so calm little street. He stopped by the gate, laughed to himself, but quickly became hesitant.

He remained standing a good while, with his hand on the gate handle and his eyes fixed on the street, while his thoughts wandered back to the cottage in Rasbo and the “big road,” in this strange interplay that had marked the whole afternoon.

No shabbily clothed people ever come here, it struck him, and the familiar irritation came over him. It was an irritation, not to say anger, at himself that he had felt so many times. Why in the world should he continue to go over the old days? Times are different now and the smells are different, so why?

I became a doctor, I became an associate professor, if not a Nobel Prize winner, nonetheless respected and appreciated by my colleagues, but still so afraid of the shabbily clothed. No, not afraid, more like ashamed that I was so afraid then. But I was a child. I was alone, with no siblings to defend me, explain to me. Mother’s words that they were not dangerous did not take, because I knew intuitively that Father didn’t like it that the shabbily clothed were entertained by the gate.

He went out onto the sidewalk and began his walk around the block. It was just starting to get dark. The associate professor quickened his pace. He walked with long strides, staring straight ahead, anxious not to appear curious.

At Tibell’s he turned left. Linda Tibell shared his interest in Japanese maples and had a magnificent Ozakazuki, whose leaves were now orange-red, at one end of the house.

Then the associate professor turned left again. Lundquist’s house was number three in line. In the other house, belonging to the Winblad family, with whom he shared the privet hedge on the back side, small lamps were shining invitingly in all the windows on the ground floor. On the steps Winblad’s Irish setter was sitting, following the associate professor with his eyes.

He seemed to sense how the neighbors were also peering behind their curtains. What would he do if no one was seen in the yard? Could he go up to the house and ring the doorbell?

He stopped outside Lundquist’s gate, pretended to retie his scarf. The morning newspaper was sticking up out of the mailbox. That convinced him that it was not Lundquist himself he had glimpsed in the bushes and that there was no point in ringing the doorbell. He continued his walk. A stranger, in other words; the question was whether he had a valid reason to be in the yard.

Suddenly the entry light above the front door came on and a figure emerged from the darkness between a pair of extensive spindle trees.

The associate professor stopped abruptly.

“Sorry, I think I frightened you.”

The same man whom the associate professor had glimpsed earlier-he recognized the knit cap-came up to the fence.

“Yes, I was a little startled, I’ll admit.”

Just then the outside light turned off.

“It must have a loose connection,” said the associate professor.

“No, the light is motion controlled, it senses a limited area,” the man explained, and took a couple of steps back. The light came on again.

The man on the other side of the fence was in his sixties, perhaps a hundred ninety centimeters tall, and gave a forceful impression. His face was chiseled as if it had been worn down by wind or long-term hardship. He was dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a half-length green jacket of somewhat sturdier material.

“Perhaps you’re wondering what business I have here?”

“No, not at all,” the associate professor assured him. “I’m just out on a late walk.”

“It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.”

“Of course not.”

They stood quietly a moment.

“Do you live in the area?”

“Yes,” said the associate professor, pointing a little vaguely in the direction of his house.

“Are you the one who has the splendid climbing hydrangea?”

“That’s right.”

“It must be incomparable when it’s blooming.”

“Are you interested in plants?”

The man smiled and nodded.

“The spindle tree is not so bad now that it’s fall, otherwise it can be a little uninteresting. But now I won’t keep you any longer,” he said.

“No problem,” said the associate professor.

They went their separate ways. The associate professor was happy about the comment about the hydrangea, which really was enormous and covered a large part of the east wall, but at the same time he was very displeased. He had been able to determine that he’d indeed seen a stranger on Lundquist’s lot, but had not gotten any answer to what he was doing there. Frustrating to say the least. He definitely did not look like a burglar or photographer, as Bunde had suggested. And why would anyone sneak around? Ohler was no camera-shy movie star or member of the royal court who had to be photographed surreptitiously. On the contrary, he certainly welcomed all the attention.

The stranger had sounded so certain when he talked about the hydrangea and the spindle tree on Lundquist’s lot. Could he be a gardener? The associate professor decided that was the case. What other person wandered around that way talking so naturally about plants?

He had been polite too, and well-dressed in practical, durable clothing. The latter also argued for gardener.

The associate professor rounded two street corners before he was back on his street. He glanced in toward Ohler’s, where the lights were on, as in the past when the house was full of people. He tried to imagine what was going on in there, and above all what would happen in the future. Festivities, children and grandchildren gathered, colleagues on visits, media people driving up in cars for live broadcasts, dinners-in brief: life and motion.

He himself would go into his turret. The professor would point up toward the illuminated tower and say something about “my assistant, Associate Professor Johansson.” He would stand out as a mossy hobby gardener, who for lack of anything else devoted his solitary life to “begonias or whatever.” A skinny shadow figure in a silhouette play who now and then was lit up by the cold blue glow from the lights the associate professor had arranged for his rare plants, while the professor could shine of his own force, surrounded by living, warm people.

He had remained standing on the sidewalk, staring straight ahead without seeing, afflicted by heart palpitations. He waited until his pulse regained its normal rhythm and took a deep breath. His throat was burning from all the coffee that gave him sour belches during the walk.

“What do you say, Uncle Gregor!”

He turned around. Birgitta von Ohler was standing in front of him with a broad smile and outstretched arms. She persisted in calling him Uncle Gregor, which she had done since childhood. He didn’t like it, but now it was too late to correct.

“Birgitta,” he said tamely.

“Are you standing here? Come in for a cup of coffee!”

“Thanks, but I think I’m fine.”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy will be very happy.”

“I’m going to throw together a little food in my cottage,” said the associate professor. “It will be a lot-”

“Of course it’s quite amazing! After so many years. You did hear that he mentioned you?”

“How’s that?”

“On TV.”

The associate professor shook his head.

“‘My best colleague,’ he called you on the news.”

The associate professor stared incredulously at the radiant Birgitta and then let his gaze disappear into a darkness of rising anger. The street and the sidewalk disappeared, likewise the houses and Birgitta von Ohler.

“How are you feeling?”

She took a step closer, took hold of his arm. The associate professor opened his eyes.

“Excellent,” he said, but the paleness and weak voice were obvious signs to the contrary.

“Gregor! You’re not feeling well.”

The associate professor freed himself from her grasp, turned around and staggered toward his house. I can’t run, he thought, I cannot die on the street.

He shoved open the gate and took a couple of deep breaths. Home. From Bunde’s house organ music was heard, a Bach cantata, always this pompous Bach! Otherwise it was silent.

His heart had never protested. Perhaps this is God’s punishment for my unjust thoughts and my foolish anger, thought Gregor Johansson.

He was astonished at himself. Suddenly I am turning to God! Both brain and heart have become dysfunctional due to this damned Nobel Prize!

He went over to the beech tree and pressed one palm against its trunk. The coolness of the bark was transmitted through his arm and cooled down his agitation a little.

Should I speak freely? Should I too, like Schimmel in Germany, write an article and tell how it really happened, about Ferguson, about the teamwork, about how one man steals all the glory for himself, as if it were the solitary genius who creates? I could testify. Schimmel can raise up Ferguson, I can push Ohler down from his pedestal.

The thought gave him a certain consolation, but he realized that few, if any, would be influenced. He would stand out as a bitter and jealous loser, as if he was only speaking on his own behalf. The professor was right on one point: There was no justice.

All that remained was to keep his mouth shut. As soon as he had drawn that conclusion the associate professor went into his house.