Depths. Part 4

They had a candlelit dinner.The heat from the tiled stove spread all round the room. Tobia.s.son-Svartman would have dearly liked to find peace, and for everything that had happened around the Sandsankan lighthouse to slip out of his memory. Then there would be no truths or lies, just the navigable channel he had redefined.He drank wine with the dinner and afterwards port. Kristina sat in the low light embroidering a tablecloth. He could feel that he was not yet ready for bed.She stood up soon after ten. He waited until he heard her settling down in bed, then he drank two gla.s.ses of cognac, washed, drank two more gla.s.ses of cognac, brushed his teeth and went into the dark bedroom. The alcohol made his desire stronger than his insecurity.When it was over, the act that had taken place in total silence, it seemed to him that their love was a bit like running for your life. What he felt most was relief. He tried to think of something to say, but there was nothing.He lay awake for a long time, knowing that she had not gone to sleep either. He wondered if there was a greater distance than the one between two people in the same bed pretending to sleep. It was a distance he was not able to a.s.sess, using any of the measuring instruments at his disposal.

CHAPTER 76.

It was almost three before he was sure that she was asleep.She was breathing deeply, snoring slightly. He got out of bed, put on his dressing gown and left the room. He took a pair of white gloves out of a cupboard.He poured himself a gla.s.s of cognac and went over to her escritoire. He listened to be sure she had not woken up, carefully turned the key and took out her diary. It seemed to him that the white gloves would lessen the gravity of his intrusion, not touching the pages with his hands.She had made an entry every day since he left. She had not recorded her sudden unwillingness to accompany him to the quay. It just gave the time, the weather, and said: Lars has left. Lars has left.He leafed through the pages, listening all the time for her padding footsteps. In the street outside a drunken man gave vent to his anger and cursed G.o.d.Her notes were usually short, non-committal. I have had a letter from Lars. I have had a letter from Lars. But nothing about the contents, nothing of her reaction to what he had written. Her life is like a slow sinking process, he thought. One day she will drag me down into the depths with her. One day she will no longer be the lid over the abyss on whose edge I am balancing. But nothing about the contents, nothing of her reaction to what he had written. Her life is like a slow sinking process, he thought. One day she will drag me down into the depths with her. One day she will no longer be the lid over the abyss on whose edge I am balancing.When he came to 14 November he found something that broke the pattern. She had recorded the temperature, the wind direction, a light snowfall at about nine that soon pa.s.sed over, a light snowfall at about nine that soon pa.s.sed over, but then something more, the first personal comments. but then something more, the first personal comments.She described a dream she had had that night. It had woken her up and she had immediately got out of bed and written down what she could remember. She concluded with the words: Some nights the silence is cold and unresponsive, other nights it is soft and inviting. Tonight the silence has gone away. Some nights the silence is cold and unresponsive, other nights it is soft and inviting. Tonight the silence has gone away.After that the entries reverted to the previous pattern. Falling temperatures, gusts of wind, having a new water pipe installed in the kitchen.During the night of 27 November she had another dream:I wake up with a start. In the dark bedroom I think I can detect the presence of some person, but when I sit up there is n.o.body there, only the white glint of the moon on the door. I remain sitting up, and I know the dream is important. Suddenly I find myself standing in a street in an unknown town, I have no idea how I got there or where I am going. Nor do I recognise the town. The people all around me are speaking a foreign language I cannot understand. I start walking down the street, the traffic is lively, it's very hot and I have a thick black veil over my face. I come to a big open square where there is a cathedral. People are bustling back and forth over the square, they are all blind, but they are playing a violent game, b.u.mping into one another, crashing into the cathedral walls or the fountain in the middle of the square and drawing blood. So as not to be in the way I go into the cathedral. It is cold and dark inside there. The floor is covered in newly fallen snow, individual flakes are still drifting down from the high-vaulted ceiling. It is a gigantic church, like a vast expanse of ice. A few people are sitting in the pews. I walk down the centre aisle and sit in a pew. I don't say any prayers, just sit there; I still don't know what town I'm in, but I'm not afraid. That surprises me because I'm always made anxious by unfamiliar things, I can never bring myself to travel alone but must always have a companion. I sit in the pew, it's still cold, snow is swirling around over the stone floor, then somebody sits down in front of me. I can tell it is a woman, but am unable to see what she looks like. She turns round, and I see that it is in fact me sitting there. She whispers something I can't understand. Who am I, if that really is me sitting in front of me? Then I wake up. I have some idea of what the dream means, of course, perhaps I am unsure about what is the real me. But the most important thing is that I wasn't afraid in the dreamThat was the end of the entry, there wasn't even a full stop.He put the diary back and locked the escritoire. He stood in a window and looked down at the street. A rat ran along the bottom of the house wall and disappeared through a bas.e.m.e.nt window. He thought about the dream his wife had described in her diary. A dream that got the better of her comfort, he thought. It takes a lot to make her get up once she's in bed, unless she really has to. She leads a very lazy life. But a dream about visiting a cathedral, an unexpected mirror image of her own face, makes her get out of bed and make an effort.He paused on the words. His wife had made an effort. made an effort. How often had she done that? When she dusted and polished her china figurines. But other than that? How often had she done that? When she dusted and polished her china figurines. But other than that?He tried to interpret the dream. It was like breaking and entering her in secret. He sat in a rocking chair, cognac in hand, and rehea.r.s.ed the dream in his head. But he could not find a way in. The moment she stepped inside the snow-filled cathedral, the dream closed its doors.He drank another gla.s.s of cognac, realised he was becoming very drunk but continued walking around the apartment. He paused to listen outside the maid's door. He could hear her snoring. Very gently he opened the door and peered inside. The girl was sleeping on her back with her mouth wide open. The quilt was pulled right up to her neck. For a moment he was tempted to lift it up and see if she was sleeping naked. He closed the door and went to the room where his wife kept her china figurines. He overcame his urge to smash one of them. What an awful indictment, he thought I am jealous of a collection of lifeless, mostly badly made china figurines.Their lifeless eyes stared at him in the pale light seeping in through the windows.

CHAPTER 77.

On the morning of 17 December the city was covered by thick fog, the temperature was a few degrees above zero. He felt nervous in advance of the meeting he had to attend at Naval Headquarters. The measurements he had carried out had been conducted and reported in exemplary fashion, and he had no reason to think that they would not be pleased with his work. Even so, he was on edge.The invisible torpedo was still hurtling towards him.He went for a long walk through the town, having left home before six without waking his wife. Nor had he roused the maid, but made his own coffee. She had pressed his uniform the day before, supervised by Kristina Tacker. He strolled up the hills to Brunkebergstorg where the coachmen had set up braziers to keep warm, as usual. He crossed the bridge at Strombron and continued through the alleys of the Old Town, where shadowy figures scuttled in all directions. He was going through everything that had happened at the Sandsankan lighthouse. It was all there: Captain Rake, Lieutenant Jakobsson, Welander with his vodka bottles, the sailor Richter with no eyes.The only thing missing was Sara Fredrika.The woman who, day after day, dreaded catching her own husband in her nets.

CHAPTER 78.

At eight o'clock he walked through the main entrance to the Swedish Navy Headquarters on Skeppsholmen. An adjutant invited him to sit down and wait as not everybody on the committee had arrived. A vice admiral who lived out at Djursholm had telegraphed to say that he would be late.Tobia.s.son-Svartman shuddered in the cold corridor. He listened to some bugle calls drifting in through the window, followed by the dull thud of a single artillery shot.After half an hour or so the adjutant informed him that the committee was ready to receive him. He entered a room with previous Admirals of the Fleet staring down at him from the walls. The committee comprised two vice admirals, a captain and a lieutenant whose job it was to keep the minutes. A chair had been placed in readiness for him, in front of the committee who were sitting in a row behind a table covered in a green baize.Vice Admiral Lars H:son-Lydenfeldt was the chairman. For many years he had been the driving force behind efforts to increase the Swedish Navy's operating capabilities. He had a reputation of being impatient and arrogant, and dominated all those around him by means of sudden outbursts of fury. He invited Tobia.s.son-Svartman to sit down.'Your work is impressive,' he said. 'You seem to have that rare thing, a pa.s.sion for secret military navigable channels. Is that true?''I just try to do my job to the best of my ability.'The vice admiral shook his head impatiently.'Every single member of the Swedish Navy does his job to the best of his ability. Or at least one can a.s.sume that there are not too many idlers and layabouts. I'm talking about something different. Pa.s.sion. Do you understand?''I understand.''Then perhaps you would be kind enough to answer my question?'Tobia.s.son-Svartman thought about his dream of finding a depth too deep to measure.'It is exciting to record things that cannot immediately be taken in and comprehended.'The vice admiral looked doubtfully at him, but decided to accept the answer.'What you say is understandable. I thought something similar myself in my younger days. But what you thought in your youth, you forget in your manhood and only recall it in your old age.'The vice admiral sat up straight and held up a chart.'Our commander-in-chief will receive the chart with the new stretches of channel at Sandsankan in the new year. A couple of our frigates will test them out during night manoeuvres in differing weather conditions.'He reached for another chart.'Gamlebyviken,' he said. 'The approach to the narrow bay. Cramped, existing depth soundings doubtful, constant silting up that hasn't been checked since the 1840s. Well, Commander Svartman, have you been informed that we are counting on you to undertake this mission in the new year?''Yes, I have been informed.''In our judgement this mission is important and will be given priority. Other measuring operations will be postponed for the time being, since the war means that vessels are needed for other duties.''I am ready to start at once.''Excellent. You will receive your instructions immediately after Christmas.'The vice admiral glanced at the lieutenant who was keeping the minutes.'On 27 December, 08.45 hours,' the lieutenant said.The vice admiral nodded.'So, that's that. Has any member of the committee any questions?'Captain Hansson, who was the oldest person present, with experience dating from the age of sailing ships and always overlooked when it came to promotion, raised his hand.'You seem to be surrounding yourself with a series of peculiar deaths,' he said. 'It's not exactly commonplace for dead sailors to be fished up out of the sea, for regular bosuns to pa.s.s away and ships' captains to fall down dead on deck.''I didn't catch the question,' Tobia.s.son-Svartman said.'It wasn't a question,' Hansson said. 'It was just a comment that doesn't need to be recorded in the minutes.''Can I declare the meeting dosed, then?' Vice Admiral H:son-Lydenfeldt inquired.Tobia.s.son-Svartman raised his hand.'I have a question. There will probably be a layer of ice at the approach to Gamlebyviken in January. Is it the intention that I should make soundings through boreholes?''All your work will be concentrated in an area less than half of a nautical mile,' the vice admiral answered. 'Which means that boring holes through the ice will be a satisfactory method of proceeding.'Tobia.s.son-Svartman nodded. The vice admiral smiled.'I've bored holes through the ice myself in my time,' he said. 'I remember when we were sounding a channel in the far north of the Gulf of Bothnia. The ice was a metre thick. It was so cold that the lines froze stiff in the boreholes. It's strenuous work, but you can console yourself with the thought that your task will only take three to four weeks at the most'The meeting was over. Everyone stood up. Tobia.s.son-Svartman saluted and left the room. The adjutant handed him his black overcoat. He left through the front door of the headquarters building and felt mightily relieved.But Captain Hansson's words gnawed away inside him. Was it mere coincidence that he had been surrounded by so many peculiar deaths? Or was there a message involved? A warning?Stockholm was still enveloped in fog.

CHAPTER 79.

Something strange happened on the Sunday before Christmas. Tobia.s.son-Svartman was bewildered by it, and also by Kristina Tacker's reaction.It was as if, out of the blue, she had leapt ahead and left him far behind her.They had gone for a walk to the traditional Christmas market in Stortorget. They left home late in the afternoon, as it was rapidly getting dark. It was mild, a week of freezing cold weather had been followed by a thaw. They left their flat in Wallingatan even though the streets and pavements were slippery and covered in slush. Kristina Tacker insisted, they needed some exercise and he did not want to disappoint her even though he would have preferred to take the tram or a cab.In the Old Town the square and all the alleys were swarming with people. They examined the goods for sale at the various stalls, his wife bought a little goat made of straw, and after strolling around for an hour they decided to make for home.When they came to Slottsbacken they suddenly heard a little girl screaming. In the shadow of the royal palace, a man was smacking his daughter. He raised his heavy hand time and time again and smacked her. Kristina Tacker ran up to the man and dragged him away from the girl. She was yelling something neither the man nor her husband could make out, and wrapped her arms round the girl who was howling in pain and fear. She let go of the girl only when the man had promised faithfully not to beat his daughter any more.The whole incident, from the moment his wife had run ahead of him until the man and the girl disappeared down Skeppsbron, lasted for four minutes and thirty seconds. He had switched on his inbuilt timer then stopped it when she came back to him, out of breath and trembling.They continued walking home without exchanging a word.They made no reference to what had happened later that evening either. But Tobia.s.son-Svartman wondered why it was his wife who had reacted and not him.

CHAPTER 80.

Kristina Tacker's parents lived in a large apartment on the corner of Strandgatan and Grevgatan. Tobia.s.son-Svartman hated having dinner with them on Christmas Day. It was one of the Tacker family's fixed rituals. Kristina's grandfather Horatius Tacker, a mining consultant, had established this ritual, and n.o.body in the family dared stay away.The Tacker family had a well-to-do branch that had made a fortune out of the discreditable acquisition of forests in the north of Sweden in keen compet.i.tion with the better-known d.i.c.kson family, and a less well-off branch comprising a number of wholesalers, low-grade civil servants and officers, none of whom had attained a rank higher than commander.The poor relations were browbeaten at the Christmas dinner, and the men and women who had married into the family were scrutinised as if they were cattle in a show. He disliked this dinner intensely, and knew that his wife hated it too because she could tell how much he was suffering. But n.o.body could escape. Those who tried were punished severely by being excluded from the family's financial circle that paid dividends every time one of the wealthy relations died and the will was read.Kristina's father, Ludwig, had displayed proof of considerable careerist agility in the Civil Service and a few years ago had achieved the ultimate triumph of being appointed a lord chamberlain in the King's household. Tobia.s.son-Svartman considered him to be a clockwork doll that never stopped bowing and sc.r.a.ping, and his instinct was to pull the key out of his father-in-law's back. He derived great pleasure from imagining unwinding the spring as torturers used to do in the olden days with their victim's guts.Ludwig Tacker for his part no doubt regarded him as an acquisition to the family of doubtful value. But he never said anything, of course. The Tacker family dominated by means of silence that ate into people like acid.Kristina Tacker's mother was like the figurines on the shelves in her daughter's flat. If Fru Martina Tacker were to trip over a rug or lose her balance on a polished floor she would not simply hurt herself, she would shatter like a china sculpture.Thirty-four persons were a.s.sembled round the dinner table on Christmas Day, 1914. Tobia.s.son-Svartman had been placed between one of Kristina Tacker's sisters and her grandmother. He was more or less in the middle of one of the long sides of the table, and still had a long way to go before reaching one of the sought-after places close to his father-in-law. The elderly woman on his right was asthmatic and had difficulty in breathing. She was also hard of hearing. She did not reply when he spoke to her; he could not make up his mind if that was because she had not heard, or because she did not consider it worth the trouble of responding. Now and then she would shout to somebody on the other side of the table, usually a line from a poem by Snoilsky, expecting to hear the next line in return.Nor did he manage to conduct a conversation with his sister-in-law, who was deeply religious. She was lost inside herself, and hardly touched her food.It was like being cast away on a barren reef.He drank a lot of wine in order to survive. He looked at his wife, who was sitting rather higher up on the opposite side. She was wearing a mint-green dress, and her hair was beautifully arranged. Their eyes would occasionally meet, bashfully, as if they were not acquainted.

CHAPTER 81.

After the dessert was served, an excellent lemon cheese, Ludwig Tacker delivered his traditional Christmas speech. He had a slightly m.u.f.fled, gravelly voice, his face was bright red despite the fact that he never drank much, and he put a lot of force into his speech, the writing of which Tobia.s.son-Svartman suspected had been his princ.i.p.al occupation during the past year. He lived for the speeches he gave to the a.s.sembled family. Every year he laid down the truths that everyone must acknowledge. It was like a speech from the throne, read out for obedient subjects.This year his topic was the Great War. Tobia.s.son-Svartman was not surprised to discover that his father-in-law was firmly pro-German. But Ludwig Tacker did not simply express his support for Germany in the war. He poured torrents of hatred on the English and French, and the Russian Empire was dismissed as 'a rotten ship that is kept afloat only by all the dead bodies in the hold'.I have a father-in-law who really knows how to hate, he thought. What will happen if he discovers that I do not share his enmities?During the speech he kept an eye on his wife. He realised that he had no idea about her views on the war. The speech faded out of his consciousness. I don't know my wife, he thought. I share a bed and a dinner table with an unknown woman. In the far distance he could see Sara Fredrika. She came gliding towards him, the dinner table had vanished, he was back on Halsskar.He did not return to the dinner table until toasts were proposed at the end of the speech, and coffee was about to be served in the drawing room.

CHAPTER 82.

The Christmas holidays pa.s.sed. On 27 December Tobia.s.son-Svartman arrived for the meeting on Skeppsholmen as agreed. He waited impatiently in the cold corridor to be allowed in and receive his instructions. But no adjutant came to collect him.The door was suddenly flung open and Vice Admiral H:son-Lydenfeldt invited him in. He was alone in the room. The vice admiral sat and gestured to his visitor to do the same.'At short notice the naval high command has decided that no more depth soundings will be made this winter. All ships will be required to guard our coastline and to escort our merchant navy convoys. The decision was made by Admiral Lundin and confirmed by Naval Minister Bostrom late last night.'The vice admiral looked hard at him.'Have I made myself clear?''Yes.''One could argue, of course, that a very few weeks spent boring holes through the ice would hardly have a significant effect on our fleet. But a decision has been made.'The vice admiral pointed at an envelope lying on the table.'I am the first person to regret that depth sounding has been postponed indefinitely, even though I personally would prefer not to have to be out on the ice boring holes in early January. Am I right?''Of course.''Meanwhile you will be at the beck and call of Naval Headquarters. There seems to be no shortage of tasks needing to be carried out.'The vice admiral placed one hand on his desk to indicate that the meeting was at an end. He stood up, Tobia.s.son-Svartman saluted and left the room.

CHAPTER 83.

Only when he was pa.s.sing the Grand Hotel did he pause and open the envelope.The message was short. At 9 a.m. the next morning he was to present himself at the Swedish Navy's special section for navigation channels, buoyage and harbours. The order was signed by Lieutenant Kaspersson on behalf of a section head at the Naval Fortifications Centre.He walked to the edge of the quay. Some white archipelago boats were docked there, frozen in and deserted.He noticed that he was trembling. The counter-order, cancelling his mission, had been wholly unexpected. In connection with the task he was to perform at Gamlebyviken he had drawn up a plan that he had kept secret, even from himself. He would return to Halsskar and meet Sara Fredrika. Nothing else meant anything, only that had any real significance.He went into the Grand Hotel and found a table in the cafe. It was still early, there were not many customers and the waiters had nothing to do. He ordered coffee and a cognac.'It's cold outside,' the waiter said. 'Cognac is made for days like today.'Tobia.s.son-Svartman managed to suppress an overwhelming urge to stand up and hit the waiter. He could not cope with being talked to. The decision had been a sort of declaration of war, he must resist it, make a new plan to replace the one that had just been foiled.He stayed in the cafe for several hours. He was drunk by the time he left. But he knew what he was going to do.When he left he gave the waiter a large tip.

CHAPTER 84.

He said nothing to Kristina Tacker about the cancellation of his mission. She asked how long he thought he would need to stay at Gamlebyviken and when he would be leaving. He told her that it could take several weeks, but hardly longer than to the end of January, and that she should think in terms of thirty days when she did his packing for him.That evening and night he sat hunched over his sea charts and notebooks with the new stretch of navigable channel at Sandsankan. By five in the morning he had finished, and lay down on the sofa in his study with his naval overcoat over him.Twice during the night Kristina Tacker had got up and peeped through his study door. He did not even notice that she was there. Her fragrances did not get through to him.

CHAPTER 85.

On 9 January 1915 a violent storm raged over Stockholm. Roofs were blown off, chimneys collapsed, trees fell, people were killed. When the storm had subsided there followed a period of extreme cold. It held the city in its grip until the end of the month.On 30 January Tobia.s.son-Svartman put his plan into action. He had started work on Skeppsholmen, apparently willingly and contentedly, on a check of all sea charts covering the Gulf of Bothnia. He arrived at the office as usual at eight, exchanged a few words with his colleagues about the severe cold, then asked for an interview with his boss, Captain St.u.r.de. His section head was obese, rarely completely sober and regarded by all and sundry as a master of the art of doing nothing. He dreamed of the day when he could retire and devote all his time to his beehives in his garden near Trosa.Tobia.s.son-Svartman spread his charts out on the table.'A serious error has crept into the calculations relevant to the new section of navigable channel at Sandsankan,' he said. 'In the notes I received from Sub-Lieutenant Welander, the depth for a section of three hundred metres has been wrongly presented as eighteen metres on average. I have reason to believe, on the basis of my own notes, that the average depth can be put at six or seven metres at most'Captain St.u.r.de shook his head.'How could that have happened?''No doubt you are aware that Welander suffered a breakdown.''Was he the one who drank himself silly? I'm told he's in a mental hospital now. Destroyed by alcoholism and the desperation caused by his having to stay sober.''I'm convinced my measurements are correct.''What do you suggest?''Since the measurements I am referring to can neither wait nor be carried out by anybody else, I propose that I should go down to ostergotland and make another check.''Isn't the sea there under ice?''Yes, but I can get help from local fishermen and bore holes through the ice.'Captain St.u.r.de thought for a moment. Tobia.s.son-Svartman looked out of the window and observed a flock of bullfinches squabbling over something edible in a tree made white by the h.o.a.r frost.'Obviously something needs to be done about this,' St.u.r.de said. 'I can't think of a better solution than the one you suggest. I just find it hard to understand how this could have happened. Indefensible, of course.''Sub-Lieutenant Welander was very good at concealing his alcohol abuse.''He must have realised that his negligence could have given rise to a catastrophe.''People with a severe alcohol problem are said to be interested in nothing but the next bottle.''Tragic. But I'm grateful to you for discovering the error. I suggest that this matter should stay between you and me. I shall give instructions to the effect that the new chart should not yet be sent out. When could you embark on this mission?''Within the next two weeks.''I'll see to it that you get the necessary orders.'Tobia.s.son-Svartman left Captain St.u.r.de and returned to his own office. He was drenched in sweat. But everything had gone according to plan. Without anybody knowing, he had taken Welander's journals home and spent several evenings altering the figures. It was a perfect forgery that would never be discovered. Even if Welander were able to leave hospital one of these days, his memories of the time spent on the Blenda Blenda would be twisted and muddled. would be twisted and muddled.He thought about Sara Fredrika and the journey over the ice that was in store. He thought that his father would no doubt have secretly admired him.

CHAPTER 86.

Somebody was practising the violin. The tone was tinny, the same phrases were repeated time after time.It was the evening of 12 February. The severe cold lay like a carpet over the platform of Norrkoping railway station when Tobia.s.son-Svartman stepped off the train and looked around for a porter. There were only a few pa.s.sengers, black shadows hurrying through the darkness. Only when the engine hissed out steam and a shudder ran through the coaches as it began its journey further south did a man with icicles in his beard appear to take care of the luggage.Tobia.s.son-Svartman had sent a telegram and ordered a room in the Gota Hotel. The river running through the town was frozen over.The room was on the second floor and looked out on to a church squatting in the half-light. It was warm in the room he had chosen that hotel because it had central heating. When he had closed the door behind him he stood perfectly still and tried to imagine that he was on board a ship. But the floor beneath his feet refused to shift.That was when he heard the violin. Somebody in a room nearby was practising. It might have been Schubert.He sat on the bed. He could still call off the journey. He thought he was mad. He was heading w.i.l.l.y-nilly towards chaos, towards an abyss from which there was no return. Instead of continuing with it he could take a train back to Stockholm. He would be able to explain it away. He could remember at the last minute that he still had the correct figures. He could dispose of the forged chart and replace it with another one that was correct. Nothing was too late, he could put a stop to the headlong dash he had set in train, he could still save himself.A cage, he thought. Or a trap. But is it inside me? Or am I the trap myself?

CHAPTER 87.

He went down to the dining room and had dinner.A string quartet played something he took to be highlights from Verdi operas. The dining room was almost empty, waitresses standing around with nothing to do. Outside, where it was very cold and the snow crunched underfoot, was somewhere the shadow of a war that n.o.body really understood, nor very much cared about, in fact.He imagined himself with a gun, firing gas sh.e.l.ls. A red-faced man sitting next to one of the pillars in the dining room was hunched over a newspaper. He estimated the distance as thirteen metres, then fired the gun. The man was blown to smithereens and swallowed up by flames. He killed the diners one by one, then the waitresses and the cashier, and finally the musicians in the string quartet.He fled the dining room at midnight. He lay in bed with the cold sounding lead clutched to his body. The freezing temperatures made the hotel walls creak. The violin in the nearby room could no longer be heard.Before he slept he tried to take his bearings. Where was he, where was he actually going to? Every movement made him feel dizzy, perhaps he was heading for his own demise. The last thing he thought about was the ice. Would it hold his weight? Had the sea frozen over as far out as Halsskar? Or would he be forced to pull a boat over the ice and row the last part of the way? Would he ever get there?Ice floes drifted through his sleep.

CHAPTER 88.

He left the hotel after a quick breakfast.The receptionist, who spoke with a Danish accent, ordered him a cab. This was not straightforward since he wanted to be taken as far as the jetty at Gryt, where he would set out on his trek. The road was icy, and the cold could cause engine problems. After being offered ten kronor extra, a taxi driver with a Ford agreed to take him.They left shortly after half past seven. Tobia.s.son-Svartman was wrapped in a thick blanket in the back seat. The driver had a scarf round his winter hat. It reminded Tobia.s.son-Svartman of Lieutenant Jakobsson. He shuddered at the memory of the man who had dropped dead in front of him on the deck.The countryside was embedded in the cold.Just before driving through Soderkoping they pa.s.sed the Gota Ca.n.a.l. Barges were frozen in beside the ca.n.a.l banks. They were chained by their hawsers, like animals in their stalls. He turned to look at the barges through the back window for as long as they were visible. I shall remember those barges, he thought. One of them will take me over the final border when my time comes.At Gusum the engine began coughing and it was not possible to go any further when they reached Valdemarsvik.He decided to stay there overnight, paid the driver and booked into a guest house on a hill beyond the big tannery on the sh.o.r.e of the bay. The wind was from the east and blew the smell away. The landlord, who spoke a dialect very difficult to understand, promised to arrange transport the next day.Having installed his luggage in his room he walked down to the harbour and examined the ice. It was thick and did not give when he stood on it. He approached a man who was busy chiselling ice off a fishing boat and asked what conditions were like out in the archipelago, but he did not know.'If it's as cold out there among the skerries, the sea will no doubt be frozen there as well. But I don't know, and I don't want to know.'He had dinner at the guest house, avoided answering anything more than yes or no to the questions asked by the inquisitive landlord and his wife, and went early to bed.He snuggled down deep into his pillow and tried to imagine that he did not exist.

CHAPTER 89.

The Gryt jetty was deserted, a few boats frozen into the ice, a locked boathouse, a battered slipway. The driver lifted out the two rucksacks and took his payment. There was a thin layer of snow on the ice, but the only footprints were those of an occasional crow or magpie.'n.o.body's gone from here,' said the driver. 'And n.o.body's come neither. No boats'll be coming here until the ice melts in March or April. Are you really sure this is where you wanted to come to?''Yes,' Tobia.s.son-Svartman said. 'This is where I wanted to come to.'The driver nodded slowly and asked no more questions. The black car disappeared up the hill from the jetty. Tobia.s.son-Svartman stood motionless until the sound of the engine had died away. Then he took out his sea chart. Panic was ticking deep inside him. I cannot go back, he thought. There is nothing behind me, perhaps nothing in front of me either, but I must do what I have set myself to do.There was an easterly breeze blowing. It would take him three days to get to Halsskar, a.s.suming the weather did not take a turn for the worse, and that there really was ice in the outer archipelago. He decided to walk as far as Armno in the central part of the archipelago this first day. There ought to be a boathouse there where he could spend the night and be comparatively warm.He strapped on his two rucksacks after fixing crampons to his leather boots and hanging his ice prods round his neck. It was ten minutes past ten when he took his first step out on to the ice. His route would take him round the south end of Fgelo and then he would head towards Hoga Svedsholmen. He estimated the distance to Armno to be eight kilometres, which meant that he ought to be there before dusk.He set off. The thin layer of snow had been blown away in some places, exposing the dark ice beneath. It felt like balancing on the edge of a precipice that could give way at any moment. The archipelago was empty. He would occasionally pause and listen. Sometimes an invisible bird would call, but apart from that it was totally silent. When he had pa.s.sed Fgelo he stopped, unstrapped his rucksacks and made a hole through the ice with his knife. It was fourteen centimetres thick. It would not crack under his weight.He walked at twenty-five metres per minute. He did not want to run the risk of sweating and then freezing. He paused at Hoga Svedsholmen and broke off a branch to use as a walking stick. He drank some water and ate some of the sandwiches provided by the guest house. Then he rested for twenty minutes.When he left Hoga Svedsholmen he tried pulling his rucksacks behind him, as if they were on runners. He fastened a rope around his waist and started pulling. The rucksacks slid easily on the ice and thin snow. But before he was even halfway to Grholmarna the small of his back started to ache. He stopped and tried to think of another way of doing it. He made a harness out of the rope, so that the weight was shared by his back and shoulders. When he began walking again he could feel that there was less of a strain.At Grholmarna he made a fire between some stones. Nowhere could he see any smoke rising above the tree-tops, nowhere was there any sign of human life. A whole world had disappeared from view.While he was waiting for the coffee water to boil he stood on a rock and shouted over the ice-covered bay. The sound was tossed about, returned as a distant echo, then all was silent again. From there he could see Krkmaro and Armno through his telescope.He found an unlocked boathouse by the Armno Sound. There was a fireplace inside, and no sign of any footprints around the building. There were nets, decoys and a strong smell of tar in the boathouse. He opened a tin of American meat and snuggled down in his sleeping bag. He fell asleep with a feeling of being inaccessible.

CHAPTER 90.

The next day he walked ten kilometres.That took him over Bockskarsdjupet and as far as Hokbdan, where he set up camp.He had intended to head straight for Halsskar, but a channel had opened up near Harstena and so he was forced to make a detour to the north. Hokbdan proved to be no more than a collection of bare rocks with no boathouses. Before darkness fell he managed to make a shelter of branches and moss over a crack in the rocks where he intended to spend the night. He made a fire and opened another tin of American meat. The wind was still no more than a gentle breeze when he eased himself into his sleeping bag. It had grown noticeably less cold during the day. He estimated the temperature at minus three degrees. When darkness fell and his fire died he lay listening to the sea. Was that open water he could hear lapping against the ice? Or would the thick ice stretch as far as Halsskar? He could not make up his mind what he could hear, whether it was the sea or the silence inside his head.Several times he thought he could hear gunfire, first a distant thud and then a shock wave pa.s.sing through the darkness.n.o.body knows where I am, he thought. In the middle of winter, in the cold world of the ice, I have found a hiding place that n.o.body could possibly imagine.

CHAPTER 91.

He lit a fire as day broke. The wind was still no more than a breeze, the temperature minus one. He ate his remaining sandwiches, drank coffee, then prepared to walk the ten kilometres to Halsskar. The clouds were motionless above his head, the ice with its thin covering of snow was no longer broken by rocks and skerries. Now he was heading towards the open sea. He could see Halsskar and the Sandsankan lighthouse through his telescope. He could still not see whether the ice stretched all the way, though.He pulled his rucksacks behind him, the harness had chafed his left shoulder, but it was not painful enough to stop him walking for one more day.He saw no animal tracks. He was walking eastwards and gave himself no time to rest. Every half-hour he scanned the horizon with his telescope.He had pa.s.sed Krokbden to his right before he could be confident that there was ice all the way. There was no open water forming a barrier between him and the island. The ice extended as far as Halsskar and perhaps even to the Sandsankan lighthouse.He scanned Halsskar with his telescope. Eventually he was able to make out a narrow wisp of smoke rising from the skerry.She was still there. But she was not expecting him.

CHAPTER 92.

It was starting to get dark as he approached Halsskar.His first impulse was to hurry over the ice and go straight to Sara Fredrika's cottage. But something stopped him, he hesitated. What would he say? How would he explain his return? What would happen if he changed his mind the moment she opened the door?He squeezed the questions into a little clump: why was he out on the ice, why had he lied to set up this journey, what was he really looking for?He reached the skerry as dusk fell without having found an answer. Sara Fredrika's boat was on land, upside down and resting on large pieces of driftwood. The nets had been taken in, an abandoned herring barrel was brimful of snow.He made a shelter in a crevice between the inlet and the rocks where he could not be seen from the cottage. He knew the way from there, he would be able to walk it in the dark. That was the only thing he had managed to decide, he would wait for it to get properly dark and then creep up on her. He wanted to look through the window and see what she was doing, only then would he know how to take the final steps.He crept down into his sleeping bag. Night fell, and still he waited. The clouds dispersed, the sky was full of stars, the narrow sliver of a new moon. When he eventually got up it was nine o'clock. He made his way to the edge of the rock and looked out to sea. There was no sign of the Sandsankan lighthouse. He screwed up his eyes, momentarily confused and wondering if he was completely disorientated. Then he realised that the light had been switched off as part of the increased security operation along the Swedish coast. The war had brought its darkness here as well.He waited for another hour. The wind had dropped altogether, the ice continued so far out that he could not even hear the sea. He groped his way along the path. There was a faint light coming from the window. He made a start when something rubbed against his leg. It was the cat. He bent down and stroked it. The cat that did not exist.He was careful where to tread as he approached the window. Despite the h.o.a.r frost on the pane he could see into the room, a fractured image.He moved away from the window. The cat went with him, rubbing against his leg. He looked again through the window. Sara Fredrika was squatting in front of the fire. She was wearing a woolly cap and was wrapped in blankets.But she was not alone. Sitting on the floor next to the hearth was a man in uniform.He had seen a similar uniform some months earlier. Then it had been on a dead German soldier floating in the sea next to the gunboat Blenda. Blenda.The picture sent a shudder of pain through him. There was a German sailor sitting in Sara Fredrika's cottage. A German sailor barring his way.The cat was beside him, rubbing against his leg.

PART VI.

The Adder Game

CHAPTER 93.

Someone had taken his place, his fox pelt.He could hear the sailor's voice through the wall. It was hard to make out all his words, he was speaking in a low voice as if he suspected or feared that there was somebody close at hand, listening.The German Tobia.s.son-Svartman had learned during his hated school years was not good enough for him to understand fully what was being said. In addition, the sailor was speaking dialect, he seemed to slur words, some consonants were almost inaudible, as if he had swallowed them.Tobia.s.son-Svartman pressed his cheek against the cold wall. What he really wanted to do was to smash the windowpane with his fist, kick the door open and throw the man squatting in front of the fire out into the night. But he did and said nothing, and stayed in the darkness by the cottage until the fire had almost gone out. She was lying in the bunk, and the sailor on rags and old pelts on the floor, just as he had done.He returned to his crevice. He was very tired, his joints were aching from the cold. A wind was getting up. At dawn he obliterated all traces he had left in and around the crevice, and moved to the north-eastern cliffs which dropped steeply to the sea. There were cavelike recesses there. He found one sheltered from the wind, scrambled down to the water's edge, collected some driftwood and started a fire. With his naked eye he could see that the covering of ice extended almost as far as the Sandsankan lighthouse. The open sea looked like a black belt, a line from the north-east to the southwest. At the very edge of the ice he could make out some black spots that moved, a little group of seals, perhaps.He took out his telescope and scanned the horizon. Nothing but sea, no ships.The sea was emptiness, a reminder of infinity, an absence of limits.He warmed himself in front of the fire, and eventually dozed off. The surrounding cliffs protected him from the wind. The smoke blew out to sea, almost invisible.He woke up when the fire started to go out. For more than an hour he crawled among the icy rocks, collecting branches, broken fish boxes, parts of a ship's rail that had been washed up in a storm. He built himself a hut, just large enough for him to huddle up inside. He made some coffee and opened the last of his tins of meat. All he had left now were a few rusks and a frozen lump of b.u.t.ter. He drank the coffee in a series of sips, put more wood on the fire then huddled up with his feet inside one of the rucksacks.He a.s.sessed the situation. That evening at the latest he would have to make his presence known. He could not keep watch on the cottage for another night. There was a risk that he would freeze to death. He had all day to make up his mind, to invent a story. A man who has walked all the way here over the ice must have a convincing explanation when he reveals his presence.He tried to think calmly. The sailor and Sara Fredrika had not been sleeping together. They hadn't touched each other, not even laughed. The man had seemed despondent. Fear, he thought. Perhaps what I could see in the sailor wearing a German uniform was simply fear?Something moved next to him. He gave a start. It was the cat. It was hungry, sniffing after bits of food in the empty tin and on the knife he had used to open the lid.The cat studied him with vacant eyes. It was like one of the china figurines on Kristina Tacker's shelf. One that had fallen on the floor without breaking.He exploded in fury. He grabbed the knife, stabbed the cat in the throat and slit open its stomach. Its intestines started to ooze out, the cat only had time to hiss before it was dead. Its mouth jerked a few times, its eyes wide open. He flung the body over the cliff and down to the ice. Then he wiped the blood from his hand and the knife.There was no cat, he thought, wild with rage. That's what she said when I asked her. There was no cat. There is no cat. There is nothing.

CHAPTER 94.