The Quarry

18

On the Tuesday of Easter week Gerlof had two new visitors — a father and son who didn’t appear to like each other.

After warming up his lunch and eating it, he settled down in his chair out in the garden to read the newspaper and listen to the birds, waiting peacefully for the evening.

Then he caught sight of a grey-haired man in a crumpled coat, walking along the road with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. A young man, at least compared with Gerlof, though he might have been in his seventies; he didn’t look all that well.

The man appeared to be lost. First of all he stood by the gate for a little while, smoking his cigarette and looking around, then he opened it and walked in. He stood on the lawn looking around, as if he couldn’t remember where he was or how he had got there. His left arm was dangling straight down from the shoulder; it looked paralysed.

Gerlof stayed where he was, without saying anything. He wasn’t particularly keen on having any visitors apart from the home-care service today.

However, the man eventually walked up to the lawn in front of the house. He carried on staring around him in a slightly odd way, before suffering a violent coughing fit and stubbing the cigarette out on the grass. Then he stared straight at Gerlof and said, ‘Jerry Morner.’

His voice was hoarse and rough, and he had a Skåne accent. It sounded hardened and experienced.

‘I see,’ said Gerlof.

The man took two steps closer and sat down heavily on the other chair.

‘Jerry,’ he repeated.

‘In that case, we have similar names. I’m Gerlof.’

Jerry took out a fresh cigarette, but merely held it in his hand, staring at it. Gerlof noticed that oddly enough the man had two watches on his left wrist, one gold and one stainless steel. Only one of them was showing Swedish time.

‘Is everything all right?’ asked Gerlof.

The man looked at him open-mouthed, as if the question was too complicated.

‘Jerry,’ he said eventually.

‘I understand.’

Gerlof realized that the man in front of him was lost in more ways than one, and asked no more questions. Silence fell in the garden, but Jerry seemed happy in his chair.

‘Do you have a job?’ asked Gerlof.

There was no reply, so he went on: ‘I’m a pensioner myself. I’ve done my bit.’

‘Jerry and Bremer,’ said Jerry.

Gerlof had no idea what he was talking about, but Jerry smiled contentedly and lit his cigarette with a lighter adorned with the American flag.

‘Jerry and Bremer?’ said Gerlof.

The man coughed again, without answering Gerlof’s question. ‘Pelle,’ he said.

‘Pelle?’

Jerry nodded.

‘I see,’ said Gerlof.

Silence.

‘Jerry!’

They heard a shout from the road. A youngish man was standing there; he owned one of the houses over by the quarry.

Was this the son? He opened Gerlof’s garden gate and walked in. ‘Jerry... I’ve been looking for you.’

Jerry didn’t move at first, as if he didn’t recognize the man who had shouted to him. Then he straightened his back. ‘Pelle,’ he said again.

‘You need to tell me where you’re going, Jerry,’ said the younger man.

‘Bremer,’ said Jerry, getting to his feet. He looked anxious. ‘Bremer and Markus Lukas...’

He set off towards the gate. The younger man lingered and nodded to Gerlof, who suddenly realized he had met him before, many years ago.

‘You’re related to Ernst Adolfsson, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Per...?’

‘Per Mörner.’

‘That’s it, I remember now,’ said Gerlof. ‘You used to stay with Ernst sometimes when you were little.’

‘Me and my mother,’ said the man. ‘We stayed with him quite often. Were you and he friends?’

‘We certainly were. My name is Gerlof.’ He nodded towards Jerry. ‘Is that your father?’

‘Jerry? That’s right.’

‘He doesn’t talk much.’

‘No, he finds speech difficult. He had a stroke last year.’

‘I see. And why does he wear two watches on one arm?’

‘You might well ask,’ said Per, looking away. ‘One shows American time... Jerry’s always been fond of the USA.’

‘So who are Bremer and Markus Lukas, then?’

‘Has he been talking about them?’ Per glanced over at his father and went on, ‘Hans Bremer was his work partner. And Markus Lukas... I don’t really know.’ He stopped. ‘I’d better get him home.’

He set off, but stopped when Gerlof asked, ‘So will you be living here now?’

Per nodded. ‘Well, I will anyway... along with my children. I inherited Ernst’s cottage last year.’

‘Good. Look after it.’

Per nodded again and caught up with his father, who had stopped by the gate. ‘Come on, Jerry.’

Gerlof watched them disappear behind the stone wall, a father and his son who were definitely a little bit tired of each other.

It was strange, this business of people and their children. They were close to each other, but the relationship was often strained.

The older man reminded Gerlof of some of the more senile residents in the home at Marnäs; it was just as impossible to conduct a conversation with them over coffee as it would be with someone who was roaring drunk. They lived mostly within their own memories, making only brief visits to the real world. But from time to time they came out with unexpected things. Ideas, stories, sometimes shameless confessions.

Two expensive watches on one arm... He wondered how Jerry Morner had made his money.