Harbor John Lindqvist (grave mercy TXT) 📖

checked all the connections and cleaned the spark plug. It was starting to get dark by the time he put the cover back on and yanked at the starter until he was sweaty, with no success.

He resisted a powerful urge to lift the engine off the plank, carry it down to the jetty and throw it in the sea. Instead he took the cover off once again, sprayed the whole engine with WD-40 with an air of resignation, put the cover back on and left it.

Major and minor questions

As Simon approached Anna-Greta’s house with the evening drawing in, he saw that she had lit candles in the kitchen. His stomach contracted, and he suddenly felt nervous. He felt he was on her wavelength to a certain extent, having put his best pullover on under his jacket, but he perceived a ceremonial air that he wasn’t quite sure he could rise to.

When he looked back at his life it seemed to him that he had lived it without making any actual decisions. Things had turned out the way they had turned out, and he had just gone along with it all. His alliance with Spiritus was perhaps an exception, but that had been dictated by necessity. He couldn’t have done anything else.

Or could he?

Perhaps it was just that he had never been faced with such a clear question before, such a definite choice as this proposal. He had probably made decisions and choices, but it had happened quietly, so to speak. No bells and whistles, no candles, no sinking feeling in his stomach.

The business of children, for example. He and Anna-Greta had been unable to have children, and presumably he was the weak link. They had never consciously tried to have children. If their love had resulted in a child they would no doubt have accepted it with joy, but when it didn’t happen, they left the matter alone. They didn’t have any tests and they never discussed adoption.

It just didn’t turn out that way.

That expression contained the essence of an attitude to life that was embraced by many people on Domarö, and that Simon also shared. A kind of fatalism. The meeting in the mission house had shown him where the roots of this fatalism lay. Things happened, and that was just the way it all turned out. Or they didn’t happen, and things just didn’t turn out. Nothing to be done about it.

But now he was on his way to the prettily illuminated house to answer a question that wasn’t just going to turn out one way or the other by itself. It was Yes or No that mattered here, and his best pullover was chafing slightly at the neck. He wished he had brought a present, a flower, or something to hold in his hands at least.

With his customary combination of city behaviour and village behaviour he knocked on the door first and then opened it. He hung his jacket in the hallway, ran a finger inside the neckline of his pullover and went into the kitchen.

He stopped by the stove. The ceremonial air he had sensed was definitely there. The candelabra had been brought out, there was a clean white cloth on the table, and a bottle of wine was waiting. Anna-Greta was wearing her blue dress with the high neck and the Chinese embroidery. Simon hadn’t seen it for ten years, at least, which was why he stopped dead.

There she was, the woman he…

the woman he…

the woman.

Her. The other one. You. And wasn’t she beautiful, wasn’t she elegant. She certainly was. The candles made the silk of the dressshimmer, and the glow spread to her face, which seemed to lose its age altogether rather than looking twenty years younger. It was just her, Anna-Greta, through all the years and all the different ways she had looked. Just Anna-Greta.

Simon swallowed and didn’t know what to do with his hands. There should have been something in them, something to hand over, some kind of gesture to be made. Instead he waved vaguely in the direction of the table, the room, Anna-Greta, and said, ‘This is…lovely.’

Anna-Greta shrugged, said, ‘Sometimes you just have to make a bit of an effort,’ and a little of the communion-like atmosphere eased. Simon sat down on the opposite side of the table and reached out his empty hand, palm upwards. Anna-Greta took it.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

Anna-Greta leaned forward. ‘Of course what?’

‘Of course I want to marry you. Of course I do.’

Anna-Greta smiled and shut her eyes. With her eyelids closed she nodded silently. Simon swallowed around the lump in his throat and squeezed her hand.

This is how it is, he thought. This is how it’s going to be.

With his free hand he dug in his trouser pocket and took out the matchbox, placing it on the table between them.

‘Anna-Greta?’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to tell you.’

Bloody tourists go home

Anders and Elin dedicated the evening to a lot of wine and a little chat. Elin lit a fire in the living room and stayed in there, Anders sat in the kitchen staring at the bead tile, trying to find a pattern. Nothing occurred to him. The silence that had been acceptable when he was alone in the house was suffocating with Elin there.

From one of the kitchen cupboards he dug out his father’s old cassette player and a plastic bag of tapes. They were well usedand grubby, and had been played many times. They were mostly compilations from a program of top twenty hits, Alf Robertsson and Lasse Lönndahl. He had come to terms with the idea of listening to Alf Robertsson’s growling voice for a while when he found a tape that was so worn that the label was almost illegible. It didn’t matter, he recognised it and knew what it said, ‘Kalle Sändare Makes a Call’.

The cassette player had no lead. He searched through the drawers frantically, with growing anticipation. He had listened to this particular