wanted to have her. Have her right then, if only she would stop lowering herself to the level of the riffraff surrounding them and follow him out of there. The thoughthad been dizzying: for once to say to hell with all obligations and let herself be swept along; finally to live the life for which she was destined. After that evening they had made a pact. Art above all else . Together they would realise their dreams and give the world what it had always longed for; nothing would stand in their way. And with a passion that almost killed them they had set to work.
At first everything had been wonderful. Too good to be true. She recalled how she often had that very thought. As if all her childhood dreams about how things could be had come to pass. She wrote long letters home and told them all about it, no longer as compliant, but still she got no reply.
They stopped going out with the old crowd. Hidden from the world they gave themselves over to their creativity. She received a small advance from her publisher, and occasionally they managed to sell a poem or short article to some magazine, which made their scant income stretch a bit further. Through Axel’s contacts they were able to rent a little house with two rooms and kitchen just outside Stockholm. Each had a room with a desk and bed. Being a couple made them bold, and what before had felt lonely and vulnerable now became a bulwark against mediocrity; two co-conspirators wrapped up in their separate worlds but at night reunited in the heat of passion.
She sat down at the kitchen table again and stared at her coffee cup. It had been bought by Gerda some time in the seventies. Maybe she should tell that to the woman from the council so they could mention it at the funeral. Always something. She hadn’t taken much with her when she moved to the flat after Axel had his stroke. She had no idea why she’d brought the coffee cups along. She hadn’t been able to get away fast enough, and Jan-Erik and Louise were left to pack most of the things. Maybe this was the reason – the cups were quite ugly when she inspected them more closely.
She played with her wedding ring. Slid it down her finger and looked at the impression it had left. For fifty-four yearsshe had worn it, and it had carved its way deeper and deeper into her finger. Just the two of them and a minister; no guests were invited, not even Axel’s parents. She knew he’d regretted it later, but since her parents refused to put in an appearance, his shouldn’t be there either. Fair’s fair.
Or that’s what he’d said back then.
In order to demonstrate their union they had both renounced their surnames and become united in the joint name ‘Ragnerfeldt’, the name that would bear their words out into the world. They both had novels published, first Alice and then Axel immediately after. Their new name became a constant on the arts pages. Their youth held the critics back, but more and more words of praise crept into the reviews. With genuine interest they participated in each other’s creations, following each other’s meandering thought processes, offering suggestions when needed and words of encouragement when things were going badly. After they both published a second novel, their affiliation was secured, but it brought higher expectations as well. Their books did not sell in great numbers, and they were utterly dependent on the publishers’ willingness to pay advances. The increased pressure made it harder for them to write. It had been so much easier to be new and to surprise people than it was to live up to expectations. They were both afflicted by writer’s block and retreated into their own work, becoming indifferent to the other’s. Fewer words were written when they met in the evening, and their reunion half-hearted since they both became mired in frustration over what had not been achieved. But even half-hearted seed is good enough to conceive a child. A year later they bought the house in
At first everything had been wonderful. Too good to be true. She recalled how she often had that very thought. As if all her childhood dreams about how things could be had come to pass. She wrote long letters home and told them all about it, no longer as compliant, but still she got no reply.
They stopped going out with the old crowd. Hidden from the world they gave themselves over to their creativity. She received a small advance from her publisher, and occasionally they managed to sell a poem or short article to some magazine, which made their scant income stretch a bit further. Through Axel’s contacts they were able to rent a little house with two rooms and kitchen just outside Stockholm. Each had a room with a desk and bed. Being a couple made them bold, and what before had felt lonely and vulnerable now became a bulwark against mediocrity; two co-conspirators wrapped up in their separate worlds but at night reunited in the heat of passion.
She sat down at the kitchen table again and stared at her coffee cup. It had been bought by Gerda some time in the seventies. Maybe she should tell that to the woman from the council so they could mention it at the funeral. Always something. She hadn’t taken much with her when she moved to the flat after Axel had his stroke. She had no idea why she’d brought the coffee cups along. She hadn’t been able to get away fast enough, and Jan-Erik and Louise were left to pack most of the things. Maybe this was the reason – the cups were quite ugly when she inspected them more closely.
She played with her wedding ring. Slid it down her finger and looked at the impression it had left. For fifty-four yearsshe had worn it, and it had carved its way deeper and deeper into her finger. Just the two of them and a minister; no guests were invited, not even Axel’s parents. She knew he’d regretted it later, but since her parents refused to put in an appearance, his shouldn’t be there either. Fair’s fair.
Or that’s what he’d said back then.
In order to demonstrate their union they had both renounced their surnames and become united in the joint name ‘Ragnerfeldt’, the name that would bear their words out into the world. They both had novels published, first Alice and then Axel immediately after. Their new name became a constant on the arts pages. Their youth held the critics back, but more and more words of praise crept into the reviews. With genuine interest they participated in each other’s creations, following each other’s meandering thought processes, offering suggestions when needed and words of encouragement when things were going badly. After they both published a second novel, their affiliation was secured, but it brought higher expectations as well. Their books did not sell in great numbers, and they were utterly dependent on the publishers’ willingness to pay advances. The increased pressure made it harder for them to write. It had been so much easier to be new and to surprise people than it was to live up to expectations. They were both afflicted by writer’s block and retreated into their own work, becoming indifferent to the other’s. Fewer words were written when they met in the evening, and their reunion half-hearted since they both became mired in frustration over what had not been achieved. But even half-hearted seed is good enough to conceive a child. A year later they bought the house in
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