Shadow

14

I t is by describing love that we rob fear of its power.

Kristoffer stood in front of one of the gravestones in Katarina cemetery and read the inscription. He’d had to get out of the flat. He was restless and needed to get hold of something to keep his fear at bay. He knew what his body was longing for.

The odd thing about alcohol was that it could be used for so many purposes: to forget, to intensify a mood, to relax. To celebrate, go to sleep, be content, warm up, cool off, escape, find inspiration.

To summon courage.

Of all the drugs he had used, alcohol was the one he found most deceptive. Insinuated into and accepted in every environment, always available, enthusiastically promoted by the state and establishment. He was well aware of the discomfort he caused each time he said ‘No, thank you.’ The status these words conferred. People didn’t want to have sober witnesses when they let go of their inhibitions; a guilty conscience sitting next to them, looking on.

He had read something once that stuck in his mind. He recalled the lines pretty much word for word, since he thought he’d found an explanation and maybe an excuse for his own earlier behaviour: Since the human being as a species is extremely vulnerable, he must always be ready to defend himself. The human brain has increased in size during evolution. Consciousness is a refined defence system – a constant state of alertness that watches the surroundings to discover possible threats. Our strong sense of fear explains much about human nature and civilisation.

Sometimes he thought this fear might be the explanation why alcohol was so tempting. To be able to shut down the warning system for a while and relax. To numb one’s brilliant consciousness. In all cultures intoxicants are used; only the types are different. If one discovered an isolated tribe in a remote jungle, there were bound to be certain leaves or roots that could be chewed or smoked to achieve the desired intoxication. In the Western world alcohol had been chosen as the legitimate drug.

Sometimes he thought that evolution had made a mistake in developing such an advanced brain. Why else would so many people feel the need to numb it? Yet we see ourselves as being the crown of creation with a superior intellect and the ability to show empathy and moralise. Perhaps humanity was at a critical stage: intelligence had made it possible to eradicate the planet, while deep inside everyone was governed by powerful fears and primitive desires; an immense ongoing conflict hidden inside everyone.

Right now he was missing the solace of alcohol. For a long period it had been his best friend and ally, the one thing that had been allowed to take precedence over everything else. It had helped him to rob the fear of its power.

But on the gravestone before him it said ‘love’.

That sort of love, he was not familiar with.

He often took walks in the cemetery, even though he had no real reason to go there. He found it peaceful, and not even his fear of the dark kept him away. There was nothing to fear in a place where death already resided. There was only calm, and everything in comparison became small and surmountable. He was not even sure whether he was afraid of death. Sometimes he envied people who had lived their lives and were now allowed to rest. Not that he longed to die, but neither did he feel particularly keen to live. He envied the dead because they avoided the responsibility of continuing to struggle. They had escaped having to maintain the will to go on.

Rich, poor, good, evil, ugly, beautiful, smart and simple – the same fate awaited all. No matter how fast one ran, it was impossible to escape.

All those names and dates on the gravestones. Some of the people resting below had been dead for hundreds of years, but their memory had won out over wind and weather. Only the special ones were allowed to have their graves undisturbed and the stones left in place, the ones who were of importance. The graves of ordinary people were cleared out as they were forgotten, and their last resting place became someone else’s. His goal was to be one of those who were left, one of those whose names were allowed to remain and remind new generations of their existence. He would be one of the special ones, one of those who had excelled, who had done something of significance. A true survivor.

Then death would no longer be able to get to him.

Herein lies that which belonged to the earth. Faithfully loving, eternally reunited.

The man had died in 1809, his wife in 1831. No one was now alive who had known them. And yet he was standing here 175 years later and knew that they had existed.

He liked reading the messages on the gravestones and found them consoling. He would wander among the well-tended graves with flowers that were constantly replaced, and those graves that no one cared for any longer. Time came and went and priorities changed; stones with one engraved name stood next to a blank space waiting for the spouse still living. He wondered how it felt to stand there, knowing that one’s name and a date would some day be etched there, and one would never see the result. He felt a flicker of jealousy that they at least knew where they belonged.

He continued along the illuminated gravel path, lured by the glow from the floodlights in the corner of the cemetery where the newer graves were located. On the way he passed several large stones with the inscription ‘Family Plot’. One of the most beautiful phrases he knew.

Eternally reunited.

He had not been without offers. He was good-looking and had been considered, at least as long as he was drinking, to be interesting enough to spend time with. Now he no longer knew. He didn’t frequent places where prospective speculators could show their interest, since that most often occurred under the influence of alcohol. But back then, when he was still participating in the mating dance of nightlife, he had seldom gone home alone. He had experienced sex so many times he eventually grew weary of it, but he hadn’t really known love. Whenever something was about to develop, he had declined and returned to his waiting.

For the answer to who he was.

Then his life could begin.

His ringtone began to play in his pocket, and he took out his mobile. He recognised the number at once.

‘Kristoffer here.’

‘Hello, it’s Marianne again. You know, it occurred to me that a Torgny Wennberg RSVP’d for the funeral. I thought that if he knew Gerda Persson, then maybe he knows more, and you might want to contact him. I don’t have his number, and I can’t get online right now, but maybe you could check it out yourself. There can’t be too many people with that name.’

‘Torgny Wennberg?’

‘Yes.’

‘With a W or a V?

‘I can’t check right now but I’m pretty sure it’s a W.’

‘Okay. And he’s coming to the funeral, you said?’

‘Yes, at least he said he was.’

‘I’ll check it out then. Thanks for calling.’

Torgny Wennberg. He added the name to the address book in his mobile so he wouldn’t forget it. Now he had those palpitations again. The feeling of wanting both to know and yet not know.

He had reached the new graves. Many of the dead resting here were children. Several graves were decorated with toys, pretty shells, teddy bears and small heart-shaped stones. There were almost always candles burning.

Eternally loved.

Words that appeared again and again. The endless care with which they looked after their beloved children’s graves. The thought of his own parents. How deep their pain and despair must have been if the only possibility remaining to them was to abandon him.

A cold wind swept over the cemetery and made the dry leaves whirl around. He pulled his duffel coat tight at the neck and decided to head for home. There he heated up a vegetarian lasagne in the microwave and sat down in front of the computer. With his dinner beside the keyboard he began to search. There was no turning back now; the door was ajar and he would never forgive himself if he missed the chance to step inside. He started with Torgny Wennberg. His name produced 313 hits. He clicked on the first one and was taken to the Workers’ Movement Archive. The heading was From our collections – Torgny Wennberg (b. 1928), forgotten proletarian writer. He skimmed through the text.

Torgny Wennberg was born in Finspång, Östergötland county. His father was a metalworker. Wennberg began as a metalworker at the age of 14. Early on he began to write stories. In 1951 he debuted as a writer with the novel It Will Pass. The next year he moved to Stockholm.

Torgny Wennberg is best known for his novels about the metalworkers in Östergötland. Keep the Fire Burning is considered one of his best works, published in 1961. Wennberg has also written several plays for the stage and radio. At First It Hurts was his last proletarian novel; later books can instead be characterised as relationship novels. His last novel, The Wind Whispers Your Name, was published in 1975 and portrays a man’s downfall after a love affair. Wennberg has published a total of twelve prose books and eight plays.

Kristoffer printed out the page. He went to another search engine, typed in the name and got a hit. There was a Torgny Wennberg living in Hantverkargatan. Kristoffer wrote down the phone number. He went back to Google and searched for Axel Ragnerfeldt. The name produced 1,000,230 hits. He hopped from page to page, reading a little here and there. He already knew much of the information. He had read all his books, some of them in school and the rest on his own. He added Gerda Persson to the search box but got nothing. Deleted Axel Ragnerfeldt and searched only for Gerda Persson and got 205 hits. It was impossible to tell which of them might be about the Gerda he was looking for. For the next hour he read selected pages about Axel Ragnerfeldt. Most of the hits led him to publishers and booksellers all around the world; there were also student projects and theses, but very few gave any clues to his private life. His wife Alice Ragnerfeldt was also a writer, and he spent a while reading about her books. Her last book was published in 1958, but from what he understood she was still alive. Many of the links were about the foundation that was established in Axel Ragnerfeldt’s name. He read about a children’s home in Chile and several clinics in Africa.

A true survivor.

The food on Kristoffer’s plate had grown cold. He went to the kitchen and put it in the microwave. Standing at the sink he shovelled down the last of the food then rinsed the plate. He wondered whether Axel Ragnerfeldt would come to the funeral. Whether he would have a chance to meet the great icon. Jesper would be green with envy. He pondered over whether to invite Jesper, but rejected the thought at once. Even though it would be his first funeral, and the occasion was definitely out of the ordinary, he would rather suffer through it alone. As he usually did. The alternative was to tell Jesper the whole story, but his sense of shame felt like a barrier. The truth would put him in an unbearably vulnerable position, increasing the distance that Jesper had already created between them. It would prove once and for all that Jesper was his superior.

Because his parents had chosen to keep him.

Kristoffer went back to his computer. Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt produced 768 hits. Most of them were information about lectures. Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt will speak about his famous father and his writings. A lecture the very next day at 7 p.m. at the Västerås Theatre. He leaned back in his chair and read the information again. Not that far away. It would be easier to meet him there in person than to pick up the phone and ring. He glanced at the dark windows. He wasn’t sure he could handle letting all his questions pile up and then ask them for the first time at the funeral. It would be better to get a general sense of him and be a bit prepared. He had no idea how Jan-Erik would react.