although these days only in the country; they now rented a little summer cottage. And Edvin had a good job with an insurance company.
“And Mr Lundblad?”
“Passed away six years ago,” said Mrs Lundblad. “Peacefully; he didn’t suffer much. I see you have flowers with you, Miss. I expect they’re for her, upstairs in your old studio. Have you time for a cigarette?” She sat down on the stairs. “I see we both still smoke the same brand. And now you’ve gone and got famous for your paintings! We’ve read all about it in the paper, so congratulations from the whole family. Are your pictures still the same?”
Stella laughed. “Oh no! They’re so big these days, they wouldn’t even fit through the door up there! As big as this!” She stretched out her arms.
A blast of loud dance music suddenly filled the stairwell and was almost instantly switched off again. Stella recognised it: “Evening Blues”. That used to be our tune, she thought, Sebastian’s and mine. So she’s still got my old 78s…
“She does that all the time,” said Mrs Lundblad, tossing her cigarette butt into her pail. “Five years older than you, Miss, and still living her life as if it’s a nonstop party; not that anyone ever comes to see her. The place is empty. Not like when you used to live up there! All those artists running up the stairs – it was fun. They’d work all day and come here in the evening and play and sing and you’d make them all spaghetti. Remember, Miss? And she’d hang around trying to be like the rest of you?” Mrs Lundblad lowered her voice. “And then you let her stay there for ages when she couldn’t pay her rent, for heaven’s sake, and then you won that scholarship and went abroad and she just took the whole place. Fifteen years! No, no, don’t say a word. I know what I know. Any idea, Miss, what we used to call the studio? The swallows’ nest! But all the swallows flew away. And it’s like that old saying: when the swallows go, it’s because the home’s no longer a happy one. And one swallow doesn’t make a summer. Now, enough’s enough. I’m not saying another word. I’ll just get on with these stairs. Oh, and they’ve put in a new lift at the back. Would you like to try it?”
“Maybe not today. Tell me, Mrs Lundblad, did I really use to run up all these stairs?”
“Yes, Miss, you surely did. But time passes.”
There were lots of unfamiliar names on the doors of the flats.
Well of course I ran. Maybe just because I liked to run. I couldn’t help it.
The studio door had been repainted but the knocker with its little brass lion was the same, a present from Sebastian. Wanda called from inside, “Who is it? Is that you, Stella?”
“Yes it’s me. It’s Stella.”
A moment passed before the door opened.
“Darling, how wonderful,” cried Wanda. “You’re finally here, imagine! It takes a bit of time to open the door, but you know how it is these days: one can’t be too careful… Safety chain, police lock, everything… But there’s no choice, there’s just no choice – they steal! One has to be careful day and night; they come in vans and take everything and just drive off… They clean you out, you know, just leave the place empty! But not here! This door’s locked and bolted. But come in and have a look around! Flowers – how nice of you…” She set the flowers aside still wrapped and inspected Stella intently with the same pale, fixed gaze, unchanged in a somewhat heavier face. And the same insistent voice. The walls were still whitewashed, but everything else in the very small room was new and different: an excess of furniture, lamps, ornaments, draperies… It was much too warm. Stella took off her coat. The room was shrunken and frightening. As if trees had been cut and a thicket of undergrowth had taken their place.
“But make yourself comfortable,” Wanda said. “What can I get you? Vermouth? Or wine? Like I used to serve in the old days, red wine
“And Mr Lundblad?”
“Passed away six years ago,” said Mrs Lundblad. “Peacefully; he didn’t suffer much. I see you have flowers with you, Miss. I expect they’re for her, upstairs in your old studio. Have you time for a cigarette?” She sat down on the stairs. “I see we both still smoke the same brand. And now you’ve gone and got famous for your paintings! We’ve read all about it in the paper, so congratulations from the whole family. Are your pictures still the same?”
Stella laughed. “Oh no! They’re so big these days, they wouldn’t even fit through the door up there! As big as this!” She stretched out her arms.
A blast of loud dance music suddenly filled the stairwell and was almost instantly switched off again. Stella recognised it: “Evening Blues”. That used to be our tune, she thought, Sebastian’s and mine. So she’s still got my old 78s…
“She does that all the time,” said Mrs Lundblad, tossing her cigarette butt into her pail. “Five years older than you, Miss, and still living her life as if it’s a nonstop party; not that anyone ever comes to see her. The place is empty. Not like when you used to live up there! All those artists running up the stairs – it was fun. They’d work all day and come here in the evening and play and sing and you’d make them all spaghetti. Remember, Miss? And she’d hang around trying to be like the rest of you?” Mrs Lundblad lowered her voice. “And then you let her stay there for ages when she couldn’t pay her rent, for heaven’s sake, and then you won that scholarship and went abroad and she just took the whole place. Fifteen years! No, no, don’t say a word. I know what I know. Any idea, Miss, what we used to call the studio? The swallows’ nest! But all the swallows flew away. And it’s like that old saying: when the swallows go, it’s because the home’s no longer a happy one. And one swallow doesn’t make a summer. Now, enough’s enough. I’m not saying another word. I’ll just get on with these stairs. Oh, and they’ve put in a new lift at the back. Would you like to try it?”
“Maybe not today. Tell me, Mrs Lundblad, did I really use to run up all these stairs?”
“Yes, Miss, you surely did. But time passes.”
There were lots of unfamiliar names on the doors of the flats.
Well of course I ran. Maybe just because I liked to run. I couldn’t help it.
The studio door had been repainted but the knocker with its little brass lion was the same, a present from Sebastian. Wanda called from inside, “Who is it? Is that you, Stella?”
“Yes it’s me. It’s Stella.”
A moment passed before the door opened.
“Darling, how wonderful,” cried Wanda. “You’re finally here, imagine! It takes a bit of time to open the door, but you know how it is these days: one can’t be too careful… Safety chain, police lock, everything… But there’s no choice, there’s just no choice – they steal! One has to be careful day and night; they come in vans and take everything and just drive off… They clean you out, you know, just leave the place empty! But not here! This door’s locked and bolted. But come in and have a look around! Flowers – how nice of you…” She set the flowers aside still wrapped and inspected Stella intently with the same pale, fixed gaze, unchanged in a somewhat heavier face. And the same insistent voice. The walls were still whitewashed, but everything else in the very small room was new and different: an excess of furniture, lamps, ornaments, draperies… It was much too warm. Stella took off her coat. The room was shrunken and frightening. As if trees had been cut and a thicket of undergrowth had taken their place.
“But make yourself comfortable,” Wanda said. “What can I get you? Vermouth? Or wine? Like I used to serve in the old days, red wine
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