left sleeve, and unwound from her wrist a length of faded blue ribbon. She let it drop to the floor of the carriage.
AXEL LINDWALL threw his cigarette into the empty grate when he heard the trap approaching. He took the valise from his wife, helped her down, and paid the driver.
“Axel,” she said, in a tone of bright affection, once they were inside the house, “why do you always smoke when I am not here?”
He looked at her. He did not know what to do or say. He did not want to ask her questions in case that made her tell him lies. Or in case that made her tell him the truth. He feared them equally. The silence continued. Well, he thought, we cannot live together in silence for the rest of our lives. So, eventually, he answered, “Because I like smoking.”
She laughed a little. They were standing in front of the unlit grate; he still held her valise. For all he knew, it contained all the secrets, all the truths and all the lies he did not want to hear.
“I returned sooner than I thought.”
“Yes.”
“I decided not to spend the night in Falun.”
“Yes.”
“The town smells of copper.”
“Yes.”
“But the roof of the Kristina-Kyrka blazes in the setting sun.”
“So I have been told.”
It was painful for him to watch his wife in such a state. It would only be humane to let her tell whatever lies she had prepared. So he allowed himself a question.
“And how is … he?”
“Oh, he is very well.” She did not know how absurd this sounded until she had said it. “That is to say, he is in the hospital. He is very well, but I suspect this cannot be the case.”
“Generally speaking, people who are very well do not go to hospital.”
“No.”
He regretted his sarcasm. A teacher had once told his class that sarcasm was a moral weakness. Why did he remember that now?
“And …?”
She had not realized until now that she would have to account for her visit to Falun; not its incidentals, but its purpose. She had imagined, when she left, that on her return everything would be quite changed, and that it would merely be necessary to explain this change, whatever it might be. As the silence prolonged itself, she panicked.
“He wishes you to have his stall. At church. It is number 4.”
“I know it is number 4. Now go to bed.”
“Axel,” she said, “I was thinking on the train that we can become old. The sooner the better. I think things must be easier if you are old. Do you think that is possible?”
“Go to bed.”
Alone, he lit another cigarette. Her lie was so preposterous it might even have been true. But it came to the same thing. If it was a lie, then the truth was that she had gone, more openly than ever before, to visit her lover. Her former lover? If it was the truth, Bodén’s gift was a sarcastic payment by the jeering lover to the wronged husband. The sort of gift that gossip loved and never forgot.
Tomorrow the rest of his life would start. And it would be changed, quite changed, by the knowledge of how much of his life up till then had not been as he thought. Would he have any memories, any past, that would remain untainted by what had been confirmed tonight? Perhaps she was right, and they should try to be old together, and rely, over time, on the hardening of the heart.
“WHAT WAS THAT ?” asked the nurse. This one was starting to become incoherent. It was often the case in the final stages.
“The extra …”
“Yes?”
“The extra is for gunshots.”
“Gunshots?”
“To awaken the echoes.”
“Yes?”
His voice toiled as he repeated the sentence. “The extra is for gunshots to awaken the echoes.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bodén, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then I hope you never find out.”
AT THE FUNERAL of Anders Bodén, his coffin, made from white fir cut and seasoned within a gull’s cry of the town’s crossroads, was placed in front of the carved altar brought from Germany during the Thirty Years War. The vicar praised
AXEL LINDWALL threw his cigarette into the empty grate when he heard the trap approaching. He took the valise from his wife, helped her down, and paid the driver.
“Axel,” she said, in a tone of bright affection, once they were inside the house, “why do you always smoke when I am not here?”
He looked at her. He did not know what to do or say. He did not want to ask her questions in case that made her tell him lies. Or in case that made her tell him the truth. He feared them equally. The silence continued. Well, he thought, we cannot live together in silence for the rest of our lives. So, eventually, he answered, “Because I like smoking.”
She laughed a little. They were standing in front of the unlit grate; he still held her valise. For all he knew, it contained all the secrets, all the truths and all the lies he did not want to hear.
“I returned sooner than I thought.”
“Yes.”
“I decided not to spend the night in Falun.”
“Yes.”
“The town smells of copper.”
“Yes.”
“But the roof of the Kristina-Kyrka blazes in the setting sun.”
“So I have been told.”
It was painful for him to watch his wife in such a state. It would only be humane to let her tell whatever lies she had prepared. So he allowed himself a question.
“And how is … he?”
“Oh, he is very well.” She did not know how absurd this sounded until she had said it. “That is to say, he is in the hospital. He is very well, but I suspect this cannot be the case.”
“Generally speaking, people who are very well do not go to hospital.”
“No.”
He regretted his sarcasm. A teacher had once told his class that sarcasm was a moral weakness. Why did he remember that now?
“And …?”
She had not realized until now that she would have to account for her visit to Falun; not its incidentals, but its purpose. She had imagined, when she left, that on her return everything would be quite changed, and that it would merely be necessary to explain this change, whatever it might be. As the silence prolonged itself, she panicked.
“He wishes you to have his stall. At church. It is number 4.”
“I know it is number 4. Now go to bed.”
“Axel,” she said, “I was thinking on the train that we can become old. The sooner the better. I think things must be easier if you are old. Do you think that is possible?”
“Go to bed.”
Alone, he lit another cigarette. Her lie was so preposterous it might even have been true. But it came to the same thing. If it was a lie, then the truth was that she had gone, more openly than ever before, to visit her lover. Her former lover? If it was the truth, Bodén’s gift was a sarcastic payment by the jeering lover to the wronged husband. The sort of gift that gossip loved and never forgot.
Tomorrow the rest of his life would start. And it would be changed, quite changed, by the knowledge of how much of his life up till then had not been as he thought. Would he have any memories, any past, that would remain untainted by what had been confirmed tonight? Perhaps she was right, and they should try to be old together, and rely, over time, on the hardening of the heart.
“WHAT WAS THAT ?” asked the nurse. This one was starting to become incoherent. It was often the case in the final stages.
“The extra …”
“Yes?”
“The extra is for gunshots.”
“Gunshots?”
“To awaken the echoes.”
“Yes?”
His voice toiled as he repeated the sentence. “The extra is for gunshots to awaken the echoes.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bodén, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then I hope you never find out.”
AT THE FUNERAL of Anders Bodén, his coffin, made from white fir cut and seasoned within a gull’s cry of the town’s crossroads, was placed in front of the carved altar brought from Germany during the Thirty Years War. The vicar praised
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