Shadow

16

Axel lay wide awake. Since not even one of the twenty-four hours made any specific demands, they were all interchangeable. He often lay sleepless at night. Waking hours that were compensated for during the day when he was still lying there. But tonight there was something else hovering over his wakefulness. Jan-Erik’s visit and everything he’d said had dragged him away from where he wanted to be and left him with memories he didn’t want to confront. Now they were streaming in from every direction, like old acquaintances happy that he’d finally got in touch. Eager to contribute what they could, as if they’d never been banished. Shadows crowded around the bed, all talking at once to fill in the gaps. Piece after piece was dragged out to complete the picture. Even the emotions he’d once felt, which he’d always wanted to forget. Because like spilled water one could never take back what one had once said and done.

The desire to be perfect. To know that not a single shadow could stain. To be able to lean on his life’s work, and deep inside know that it was untouchable.

He was back in the little room where they gathered, where the bookseller was informing them of the order of events at Västerås Theatre.

‘… and we thought that Axel should close the show. Then there’ll be a book signing in the foyer, where tables and book displays will be set up, and when the whole thing is over we’ll serve some hot food, canapés and sweets, and then the evening can continue as long as you like.’

Axel thumbed through his book and noticed that his hands were sweaty. This was the fourth Book Day event he had participated in this autumn, and as usual they wanted him to close it. Implicit in this was that he was the big name of the evening, a fact not always appreciated by the other authors.

‘I hope there’s a little something for the throat as well, and not just hot food.’

Scattered laughter followed Torgny Wennberg’s comment. He was the one who had the honour of opening the evening.

‘I don’t think anyone will be disappointed.’

They were sitting in a room behind the stage. Book Day was a popular event out in the country, and the tickets were sold out. The authors had an opportunity to read aloud and discuss their books and perhaps sell a few copies. In the early seventies the book trade had fluctuated as book prices rose, sales dropped and bookshops closed. Now optimism had begun to grow, but publishers were still being cautious with their lists. Even though Axel was comparatively safe, he had sensed an undertone of concern from his publisher that it had been a long time since he had delivered a new manuscript. In the end it was his publisher who had convinced him to show up at some Book Day celebrations during the autumn, even though he had nothing new to offer. Axel had been reluctant. The book he was struggling with was far from ready, and he feared more and more that he might never finish it. For days he sat ensconced in his office without squeezing out a single word, and with each day he grew more frustrated. Worried that something had been lost. Before, creativity had been taken for granted, as if all he had to do was open up to the universe and take notes – a collaboration with a divine source that flowed through his pen. His duty and calling was to write down what came to him. He had a feeling of being chosen. The process was very delicate and required that he shield himself from earthly distractions.

Now he wondered if the gift had deserted him. Or maybe it was Alice’s bitterness that lay like a cloud over the house and blocked the flow. After Jan-Erik had moved to the States she had become even more difficult to be around. It was as though the air itself was contaminated by her presence, which halted all creativity. It had contributed to his decision to say yes to travelling this autumn. The opportunity to breathe a little fresh air.

Despite his loss of creative power the promoters wanted him to close the evening. He felt neither joy nor pride. He hid behind old achievements, and it gave him as little satisfaction as the memory of a sandwich when he was hungry. Writing was what he lived for, and without it he was nothing. To lap up admiration from a stage only made him uncomfortable, as if the audience were secretly peeking at him through a keyhole.

‘You’re on in ten minutes.’

The evening’s organiser left the room and only the authors remained. He had known Torgny for some time, while the other two were strangers, one a first-time novelist and the other a crime writer. The latter had apparently sold a good number of books, although it was incomprehensible to Axel that people read such drivel.

Torgny reached out his hand and grabbed the book that Axel had on his lap, eyeing it as if it might divulge a secret.

‘Oh, that’s right, you haven’t published a new novel this year. This one’s two years old, isn’t it?’

He turned the book over.

‘So you’re going to read from this one, I suppose, since you won’t say anything about your writing, as usual.’

He laughed but his taunt was clear to everyone in the room.

‘Yes, I thought I’d read a few selected passages.’

‘How’s your new one going, then? Or maybe you can’t tell me about it because then you’d have to shoot me.’

He cast a glance at the two listeners in the room who were obviously amused by this exchange, and by Torgny’s disrespectful tone towards the famously shy author. Axel was aware of his reputation but had no intention of apologising for taking his creativity seriously. There were plenty of buffoons like Torgny, never missing a chance to draw attention to themselves. He came to visit sometimes, always without an invitation and always with a bottle in his pocket. Sometimes the visits would amuse Axel as a welcome break in the daily grind, but often he found them simply tiresome. They came from a similar background; both had made the escape from poor working-class homes. He suspected that Torgny’s visits were prompted more by curiosity and a desire to stay up to date. With the starting blocks in the same place it was possible to pick a winner, and the race was always on. Axel knew very well that Torgny’s indulgent friendship was feigned, since Axel was several lengths ahead in the race. His name had even been mentioned in connection with the Nobel Prize. The fact that he had not yet been elected to the Swedish Academy was remarkable and much discussed, and not merely an omission that was magnified by his own offended look.

‘It’s going well, very well in fact. I just don’t want to let go of it before it’s done, so I’ll hold onto it a bit longer and polish it up. Nobody wants to publish a book that’s worse than the last.’

Torgny’s latest novel had received bad reviews in the main papers. Axel had been somewhat amused by the sarcastic pieces.

Torgny looked at the clock.

‘I think it’s about time to go out.’

Axel remained seated in his chair. ‘Quite right. You’re supposed to lead off, aren’t you?’

Torgny smiled, winked and raised his hand. He pointed his finger like a pistol barrel and aimed it at Axel. At least he had a sense of humour.

The performance, if that was the right word for the evening’s event, was neither worse nor better than expected. Torgny’s opening act contained many funny lines, and one burst of laughter from the audience followed another. He told them frankly about the agonies of writing and his sources of inspiration, ending with a reading. Axel’s discomfort grew. The book in his hand seemed more irrelevant with each minute that passed, as if someone else had written it and he’d been sent to defend it. Now it was his turn to take the stage. He listened to the lyrical introduction and tried to step into the role of celebrated author.

‘… who with his unique narrative voice and his shimmering prose has given us so many magical reading experiences. With the clarity of his vision into the depths of the human soul he leads us in a search for atonement in a hard and inhumane world. In the contrast between light and darkness his characters assume razor-sharp contours, and their fates continue to enthrall us. Tonight it is with great pleasure that I have the honour of introducing Axel Ragnerfeldt.’

He didn’t recognise the man described. Only at his desk in the moment of inspiration was he this person. Not here and now, trembling in the wings, ready to show himself to the masses. Unsteadily he walked out on stage. The book in his hands was shaking, and he wondered if it was noticeable. A sea of expectant faces. Well-educated, intellectual, well-read.

Engineers.

At any moment he could be unmasked. He quickly turned to the first page and began to read. He read and read until his time was up and he was free to go. The audience’s thunderous applause. Like a wave it crashed over him, on and on. The master of ceremonies standing next to him seemed pleased at the evening’s success. Some in the audience stood up, pulling others with them, and there he was, Axel Andersson – now Ragnerfeldt – esteemed, celebrated, idolised by a standing ovation.

And it gave him nothing.

Nothing.

It was time for book signing; Axel and Torgny walked out to the foyer. There was no doubt which table was Axel’s; the queue was already quite long. A few fans were standing at the other authors’ tables, several more at the crime writer’s, but it was obvious that Torgny had no intention of showing his envy. After a pat on Axel’s back he went to his own table.

‘Just say the word if you need any help.’

Axel sat down and began signing books. Several of his older titles were on the table, and some of them ran out before the end of the queue. What fantastic books you write, said the strangers standing before him. Time after time: how good you are. It made him feel worse each time the words were repeated. What did they know about what was good? he wanted to ask. What is it that’s so good about my novels, can you tell me that? Anyone able to describe it would have the right to say the words, he thought, as he wrote his name in yet another book that would be read by yet another ignoramus. Someone who had no idea of the effort that lay behind the book. Who would rush through the pages without devoting the same care and time to each sentence as he had done.

The others had already filled their plates by the time he was finished and stepped into the room where the food was laid out. About thirty people were there, those involved in arranging the evening and specially invited guests. Everyone was already in high spirits.

He noticed her immediately. A perfect work of art among a pile of rejected sketches.

‘Come and sit with us, Axel, we’ve saved you a seat.’

It was Torgny calling to him, a bit louder than necessary. He had always been keen on pointing out how well they knew each other, forcing his way in and taking advantage of the spotlight. The woman was sitting next to him, and the chair he was pointing to was facing her. Axel went over to the buffet and took a glass of red wine. His curiosity was aroused in a way that felt unfamiliar.

‘Axel, bring a bottle with you, we need a refill.’

The request was so loud that all conversation stopped, but when nothing more of interest occurred the chatter resumed. Axel took a bottle of red and went over to the place Torgny had saved for him. He tried to act less interested than he was. But a true aesthete could not ignore her beauty. She was staring at him intently, and his eyes swept past hers not daring to stop. Torgny grabbed the wine and filled their glasses.

‘Axel, this is Halina. She’s here with me but she didn’t want to come backstage to say hello before we started. She’s a bit shy that way.’

Torgny grinned.

‘I just didn’t want to bother you.’ She reached her hand across the table. ‘Halina.’

Axel took her hand. It was cool and dry and he felt that it might break if he squeezed too hard.

‘Axel.’

She gave him a little smile then lit a cigarette. He couldn’t help it, her touch had affected him. Shy as a schoolboy he sat down on the chair and tried to direct his attention elsewhere. His reaction surprised him; at forty-eight he thought that sort of response had been lost. So many years had passed since he’d last felt it.

Torgny babbled on. For once his torrent of words was welcome. Axel exchanged a few words with a man from the city’s bookshop, the whole time uncomfortably aware of her presence. Glasses were filled and emptied and the noise increased, chairs scraping on the marble floor as people moved around and changed places. Torgny stood up to get more food and fell into a conversation by the buffet table. She was the one who spoke.

‘We’ve met before. Do you remember?’

Axel was taken aback.

‘Really? I can’t believe I’d forget.’

The wine had given him courage. Her eyes were dark brown, her face framed by curly dark-brown hair. She was wearing an embroidered green jumper, and he had noticed straightaway that she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her make-up was subtle, if she was wearing any at all, and on her left wrist she wore some thin silver bangles that clinked when she moved.

‘It was only a brief meeting, not particularly special, so it’s no wonder you don’t remember. At a writers’ demonstration in ’69.’

He certainly hadn’t forgotten the event, but he didn’t remember their meeting. In protest against the low payment they received for books borrowed from the libraries, the writers had gathered at the main branches of libraries in Stockholm, Göteborg, Malmö and Umeå. Together with sympathetic librarians they had emptied the shelves and driven off the books in buses, and hadn’t returned them until a week later. He had felt invigorated, taken back to his working-class roots.

‘So you’re a writer too?’

She smiled and fingered her glass.

‘I do the best I can, but I haven’t had anything published yet. I’m struggling. What I’m working on feels like it could turn into something, but right now I’m stuck.’

Her voice was as pleasant as her appearance. Despite her foreign name he could hear no accent. Her fingers slid along the stem of the wine glass, and he couldn’t stop following the movement with his eyes. He wanted to reach out his hand and touch her again, see whether her skin was as soft as it looked. It was so long since he had felt the nearness of a woman. Sometimes he would ejaculate in his sleep. Like a teenage boy. The body’s desperate self-regulation when nothing else was available.

‘Since you’re the “master of good and evil”, I have to ask you something.’

‘Those are your words, remember.’

‘But that’s what people say about you.’

‘Oh, that’s something altogether different. But go ahead and ask, and I’ll do what I can.’

Suddenly she was eager. She stubbed out her cigarette and took a pen out of her handbag, looked for something to write on and pulled over an unused paper napkin. She drew two parallel lines across it and then drew small wavy lines between them.

‘This is a river full of crocodiles. No one can get across without a boat.’

She drew a square on one side of the river.

‘Per lives here. He loves Eva who lives on the other side of the river and Eva loves him. One day Per comes down with a serious illness and he rings Eva and asks her to come and help him. He explains how sick he is and asks her to hurry. But Eva has no boat, so she runs over to Erik, who lives on her side of the river and has a boat. She explains the situation and asks him to lend her the boat so she can row across and help Per.’

Axel was following her words with interest and looking at the little map taking shape on the napkin.

‘But Erik refuses to help Eva for free. He says that she has to have sex with him first, then he’ll row her over to the other side of the river.’

Axel raised his eyes and looked at her face, following the movement of her lips as she went on with her story.

‘Eva, of course, is broken-hearted, so she goes to Olof, who lives here…’

He forced himself to look at the napkin, where she drew another square between Eva’s and Erik’s houses.

‘… and tells him what Erik said. She asks him to come with her and talk some sense into Erik. But Olof doesn’t want to get involved and asks her to leave. So Eva sees no alternative but to do as Erik wants, and even though he’s a disgusting old man she goes there and has sex with him. Then he rows her across the river.’

Torgny came back and leaned across the table to look at the napkin.

‘Are you telling that one again?’

‘Don’t bother me, go away.’ Halina shooed him off.

Torgny sighed and left, stumbling a little as he went.

Halina continued filling in details on the napkin. Axel preferred looking at her rather than her drawing.

‘Is this the plot of the book you’re writing?’

‘No, it’s a moral dilemma. Shhh. Eva finally arrives at Per’s house and tells him what’s happened. Per is furious that Eva had sex with Erik and throws her out. Eva then goes to Sven and tells him that she was forced to have sex with Erik so she could help Per, who then threw her out. Sven flies into a rage and goes to Per and beats him up.’

Halina looked up.

‘Are you following this?’

‘I think so. People seem to be on neighbourly terms in this town.’

She put down the pen and took out a cigarette, lit it, and blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth.

‘What I want to know is which of them was most in the wrong. Grade them from one to five, with the one who was most in the wrong a five.’

‘Am I supposed to decide?’

‘Not decide. Just tell me what you think. This should be a topic that appeals to you.’

‘I generally focus on asking interesting questions rather than answering them.’

‘But you must have an opinion, don’t you? Here’s a taste of your own medicine.’

He pulled over the napkin and looked at her drawing. She had even drawn in a little crocodile, on the riverbank next to Erik’s house. He glanced up again and could see her nipples under her jumper.

‘What do you think?’

She leaned back and looked at him. Torgny’s distinctive laugh resounded through the room, and both turned to look his way. He had sat down on a sofa with a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other.

Halina took a drag from her cigarette.

‘I know what I think.’

‘Who is it then?’

‘Olof.’

‘Olof?’

She nodded.

‘But he’s the only one who didn’t do anything.’

‘That’s precisely why.’

For a moment he recalled the first years with Alice. All the dizzying conversations that had enriched their writing. The dialogue that had now broken off and fallen silent. He looked at Torgny, who was leaning back in the sofa with his eyes closed. He never would have believed that anything Torgny had would ever arouse his envy. But now he felt it, a painful jealousy. To have a woman it was possible to talk with.

‘I was nine years old when the war ended and I was liberated from Treblinka.’

She pulled up her sleeve and showed him a row of tattooed numbers.

‘My mother was shot as soon as we stepped off the train, but my sister and I managed to survive for three years inside the barbed wire. Just before the liberation she died of exhaustion.’

Axel searched for words.

‘I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you.’

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Halina stubbed out her cigarette. All around them the partying continued.

‘The evil I saw in the camp was inconceivable. It’s impossible to understand how human beings can behave that way, how something like that can happen. But one thing I do know: many of the people working in the camps thought that they were doing the right thing; they didn’t consider themselves evil. They were driven by their convictions and believed that the men who made the decisions and gave the orders possessed the truth. Because who decides what is good or evil? From what angle must one look to get the right view?’

Axel refilled their glasses.

‘Perhaps by trying to see the whole thing through the eyes of an opponent.’

Halina snorted.

‘And you think that people are capable of that? If we were, the world wouldn’t look the way it does.’

‘But that wasn’t what your question was about. You asked how we should act.’

Halina raised her glass but set it down again without taking a drink.

‘I believe that what is most dangerous for a society is when people turn over their responsibility to others. When they stop thinking and acting for themselves.’

She reached for the napkin and drew a circle round Olof ’s house. She crossed it out with repeated strokes.

‘All those people who knew what was going on, who thought it was wrong but still did nothing, isn’t that evil? You Swedes, for instance, who saved your own skin by letting the German trains pass through to Norway and even fed the soldiers along the way. Your king who apparently wrote a letter to Hitler congratulating him on his successes on the Eastern Front. All your banks and companies that continued doing business with the Nazis and made tons of money and never had to answer for it later. Isn’t that evil? How many of the banks’ or other companies’ customers do you think care about that today? Or take Hugo Boss. He was the one who designed and sewed the uniforms of SS officers. That’s not something they use in their advertising.’

She drew small circles on the napkin.

‘I was only a child, and every day I waited for someone to come and rescue us. I was sure that if only someone found out what was happening, they would come for us. That’s what hurts the most, finding out afterwards that so many people just let it happen, even profited from it. Afterwards they simply switched sides and went on with their lives as if nothing had happened.’

Axel listened as she continued her story, how she travelled alone, exhausted and malnourished to Sweden on a hospital ship. How she lived at first in a sanatorium where she regained her strength and then went to live with her grandmother’s sister, who had managed to flee to Sweden only a few days before her friends and family were shut in behind the walls of the Warsaw ghetto.

‘And don’t believe that we were welcome in Sweden, not with a J for Jew in our passports. She was smuggled in on a fishing boat and never dared register here, not even after the war was over, although I tried to talk her into it. She died of pneumonia in the late fifties because she was too scared to go to the doctor. When I finally got her there it was too late.’

He recalled the government’s decision the year before the war broke out, even though he was too young really to understand and only afterwards grasped the cynicism behind it. A foreigner could be refused entry if it was suspected that the person intended to leave his homeland for ever. At the same time in Germany, the law was that a Jew could get an exit visa only if the person promised never to return. For an immigrant to be granted a residence permit in Sweden, financial guarantees were required, and at the same time Jews emigrating from Germany were not allowed to take their property with them. The opinion in Sweden had been clear. They wanted to prevent the risk that a great mass of fleeing Jews would come to Sweden. By the time the war broke out, Jewish immigration had almost completely ceased.

Halina fell silent and picked at the napkin. He wanted to put his hand on hers but couldn’t pluck up the courage.

‘Have you any other family in Sweden?’

She shook her head and took a gulp of wine. He watched her, fascinated. She was a survivor. And as beautiful as could be. He sat quietly and searched for something to say. Suddenly she shifted in her chair, as if she wanted to shake off what she had told him, let the conversation take another tack.

‘You know, they’ve tried this moral dilemma on a great many people. Almost no one puts Eva at the top of the list.’

‘Well, I’d say she’s most likely to be thought of as self-sacrificing. Nothing she does is for her own sake.’

‘But one thing is rather interesting. If instead of calling her Eva we give her a foreign-sounding name, the result is altogether different. I don’t recall the percentage, but a good number of people suddenly think she’s the one who is most in the wrong.’

‘Can that really be true?’

‘Yes, really. A foreign name is not an advantage, I can tell you that. A publisher I was in touch with who liked what I wrote told me straight out that I ought to write under a pseudonym if I wanted to get anything published.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

She said nothing, but looked at him for a long time. Then she gave a little smile.

‘You’re pretty naïve for someone who’s supposed to be so wise and so brilliant.’

‘I’m no more brilliant than anyone else; a rumour often grows larger than the source itself.’

A comfortable silence followed.

‘So are you happy?’

He smiled and thought it over for a moment. ‘That depends on what you mean by happy.’

She gave a little shrug. ‘Happy as in content with life, I should think.’

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

With a resolute movement she crossed her arms.

‘You never answer questions, do you? You just bat them back.’

‘Do I?’

‘You’ve just done it again! Is it so awful to let somebody get close to you?’

‘That depends.’

Her arms relaxed and she leant forward, resting her chin in her hand.

‘On what?’

It was so long since Axel had been challenged he no longer knew how to react. He felt both annoyed and excited. Annoyed because she was threatening his integrity, and most people refrained from doing that. Excited because she dared to do so, because she offered him a resistance that was worth countering.

‘Nowadays happiness is looked on as a right, almost as an obligation. There’s a great risk of being disappointed if one’s expectations are too high.’

‘So are you afraid of being disappointed?’ The whole time she was smiling, as if she were teasing, her eyes fixed on his. Both of them were aware of what was going on.

‘I don’t know. Are you?’

‘There you go again.’

‘I’d already answered.’

She took a sip of wine. ‘I read somewhere that someone who always puts caution first stifles the life he’s trying to save.’

Suddenly her finger stroked his hand. A quick caress was all it took.

No one in the room paid any attention; they were all deeply involved in their own conversations. His cock was throbbing, and he needed to adjust his trousers, but didn’t dare lower his hand. It had been so long since anyone had touched him, so long since he had touched anyone else. What he’d thought was dead had suddenly come to life, a glimpse of the man he had once been.

‘What about you? Is Torgny the man who makes you happy?’

She pulled back her hand.

‘Torgny is my friend, but not my man. We’re not a couple or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

She glanced at Torgny over on the sofa. He was asleep with his mouth open.

‘He’s… a little too shallow, one might say.’

The next moment her eyes were on his, and he felt her foot between his thighs.

‘I like it better in deeper waters.’

White noise filled his ears. The others in the room were no longer there. Only her foot on his cock and the bra-less swelling under her jumper. There was no writer’s block, no Alice, nothing was important any more. Only the goal of his desire, within reach on the other side of the table.

Why should he say no? Nobody would thank him. Least of all Alice, who no longer wanted him.

Why in the world should he say no?