Let The Old Dreams Die Part 4

When he spotted Tina his beard shot up on both sides of his face in a great big smile. He covered the corridor in a few thundering steps and extended a hairy arm.

'Good morning,' he said. 'I do apologise. I was fast asleep.'

She shook his hand. 'No, I apologise. I didn't mean to wake you.'

'No problem. It's time I got up anyway.'

Tina nodded and looked around. 'I've never actually been here before.'

'But you still recommended it?'

'Well, it was actually the surroundings I recommended, if I remember rightly.'

'I've no complaints on that score. I went for a long walk yesterday afternoon. I love forests like these, where man hasn't had the chance to destroy everything.'

'Yes. It's a nature reserve.'

'Let's hope it stays that way.'

Tina herself was very fond of the forests around Riddersholm. Since the area was protected, no one was even allowed to chop up a fallen tree unless it was lying right across the track, and in that case permission was needed.

Just for something to say, she came out with, 'It's just a pity they hunt elks.'

Vore frowned. 'Yes, it's a terrible thing. You don't go in for hunting with dogs around here, I hope?'

'Not as far as I know. Why?'

'Because you end up with dogs running around all over the place with that kind of hunting.' He looked at her. 'But you have dogs, I noticed.'

'They're Roland's. He's my...' She waved her hand vaguely. 'He lives there too.' She took a deep breath. 'Which actually brings me to my reason for coming here. If you're interested in renting the cottage, then of course you're welcome to do so.'

'He...That's not what Roland said.'

'No. But it's not his decision. It belongs to me.'

'I see.'

'So...if you're interested, just turn up.'

'I'll give it some thought. How are you?'

'Fine. Why do you ask?'

'He said you were at the hospital.'

Tina laughed with relief. 'Oh, I see. I'd just given my neighbours a lift-they were having a baby.'

Now he's going to ask if I have children, she thought, and decided to bring the conversation to an end. Admittedly Vore was a woman, and it shouldn't be difficult to discuss this kind of thing with a woman. But as he stood there in front of her...she would have had to pinch her arm until it was black and blue to remind herself of that fact.

'Did it all go well?' he asked.

'I don't know.' She looked at her watch. 'I have to go to work.'

'In that case I'll see you this afternoon. What time do you finish?'

'Five.'

'Good. Then I'll call round in the early evening.'

They said goodbye, and Tina walked back to her car. As she drove out of the carpark she glanced in the mirror to see if he was waving to her. He wasn't. She shook her head.

How did we get to be so familiar with one another?

It was impossible to say. If she was threatened with torture, she might perhaps admit that she had felt some kind of...affinity. Once the torture was well under way, she would add that the feeling had been there the very first time she saw him.

But red-hot pincers wouldn't get any more than that out of her. Because there wasn't any more. But there was an affinity. Just as difficult to grasp as a perch with your bare hands, but it was there nonetheless. Beneath the jetty on a sunny day. The warmth of the planks against her stomach, the sun glittering on the water. A shimmering movement.

Work was dull, to put it mildly.

A lorry driver she had been on nodding terms with for years had suddenly decided to bring in ten cases of cheap Russian vodka. He was furious with her when she explained that she had to report the matter and confiscate the liquor, as if she had broken some kind of trust.

A hundred bottles, what would he make on those? Five or six thousand, max. His son needed a new violin if he was going to be able to continue playing-did she have any idea what a violin cost? And now he would be facing fines and all h.e.l.l would break loose. He would probably lose his job, and how would they manage to pay the mortgage then? Couldn't she just let it go, just this once, for f.u.c.k's sake, Tina. Won't happen again, promise.

No, she couldn't let it go. Dearly bought experience had taught her that the situation became impossible in the long run if she started ignoring this kind of thing. Secret smiles, unspoken complicity. When he had been going on for a while, still talking about the violin and the fact that she had no heart, she suddenly snapped.

'Heikko, for f.u.c.k's sake! Give it a rest! How many times have you brought in more than you should?'

He said it was the first time. She shook her head.

'I'd say it was eight or ten times. Smaller amounts, admittedly. Perhaps a case or two above the limit. And I've let it go every single time, without saying a word. Thought it was for personal use, as they say, but now you've gone too far, you understand?'

The rough lorry driver shrank before her; he looked terrified. She waved in the direction of the lorry, which was parked down below the window.

'If you bring in one extra bottle, or two or three, I can't be bothered doing anything about it, but this can't happen again, is that clear?'

Heikko nodded. Tina took out her notebook.

'Right. This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to report you as a private individual. You'll be fined and all h.e.l.l will break loose as you so rightly pointed out, but you can keep the firm out of it. Next time you won't be so lucky, OK?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

She pointed to her chest. 'And I do have a heart. It's here, in exactly the same place as yours.'

'Yes, yes. Thank you.'

'And if you say thank you one more time I'll change my mind. There might have been amphetamines hidden in those cases, now I come to think of it.'

Heikko grinned, held up his hands in defence. 'You know I never-'

'Yes, I know. Now get out of here.'

When Heikko had gone and Tina had watched him climb into the cab of his lorry and drive away, she was seized by a sudden melancholy.

The tough approach was necessary and it was like a second skin as far as she was concerned, but it wasn't really her, just an essential facade that enabled her to do a job she was increasingly beginning to feel was pointless. What did she care about those cases of vodka? Who would suffer, apart from the state-owned liquor monopoly?

Heikko would have sold a couple of bottles to one neighbour, three to another. Everyone would have been happy, the boy would have got his new violin. Sweetness and light all around, if it hadn't been for that witch on customs. Perhaps she should pack it in, just do consultancy work. Drugs were another matter. She had no pangs of conscience there.

She could see Heikko in her mind's eye, arriving home. His wife. His son going sadly to his room, closing the door. Continuing to practise on his old violin, far too small for his big fingers.

d.a.m.n it, she thought. He was probably lying.

But he hadn't been lying, and she knew it. That was why she had let him off lightly. The customs witch.

SEPTEMBER 18.

Vore came last night. I knew it was him when the dogs started barking. He's rented the cottage for a week, to begin with.

Roland wasn't happy. Said it was down to me if there were any problems. He sounds like the Muddler from the Moomintroll stories. The only thing missing is the b.u.t.ton collection.

The neighbours came home with a baby girl. Haven't been to see her yet, but I suppose I'll have to.

I'm not happy with my life. b.l.o.o.d.y Heikko, he showed me that. I don't like catching people out. Maybe there are those who do. The other people at work don't seem to have a problem. Perhaps because it's still a challenge for them.

Roland sulked all evening. The strangest thing about him is that he's not an alcoholic. It would suit him very well. But then again, he has the TV. I asked Vore if he'd like me to put the small TV in the cottage. He said televisions gave him a headache. Yet another thing we have in common. We talked for a while about herbal remedies.

I'm not allergic to electricity, I don't want to be allergic to electricity.

But if I had the choice, I wouldn't want to be indoors at all during the warmer months. It makes my skin itch. Is being allergic to electricity actually an illness? Everybody who has it seems to be loopy.

Went for a walk this evening. Everybody says there are no mushrooms at all this year, but as usual I still keep finding them. They're few and far between, though.

SEPTEMBER 21.

Very windy, the TV aerial is making a noise. Roland has sold two of the puppies and is thinking of getting a satellite dish. Good. That will keep him occupied, and I won't have to listen to the sound of the aerial.

Pulled up a bodybuilder with eight hundred cartons of M. He got aggressive, smashed the table in the little room. Had to lock him in until the police arrived. He broke the window overlooking the carpark. Didn't try to jump, fortunately.

The autumn changes the forest. The conifers regain the upper hand. That's it. That's exactly how it is. In the summer the forest is a fairground. Bright, laughing colours. All welcome. It's still like that, with more colours than ever. But everything is moving towards the colours of the conifers. In a couple of months they will be in charge, because they will be the only ones still breathing.

Went to see the addition to the family next door. The other children were playing video games. Looked at the little person all wrapped up in her blanket, and wondered how long it would be before she too was sitting in front of the television. The neighbours were tired but happy. The whole house smells of breast milk and static electricity. I can't cope with it.

Something has just struck me: perhaps Vore took/takes hormones? How could he be the way he is otherwise? Perhaps that was what I sensed. After all, I have no problem knowing when someone is under the influence of drugs.

He's hardly ever home. Either he's off out in the car, or out walking. What does he actually do? I've never had a proper conversation with him.

The storm is picking up. The noise from the aerial is terrible. It sounds as if the entire house is moaning.

SEPTEMBER 22.

Checked the cottage this afternoon.

Yes, there was a reason. This morning when I was on the way to work I thought I heard a child crying in there. Well, not exactly crying, it was more of a whimper. Of course it could have been something else (I think it was something else, or perhaps it was coming from the house next door), but...

When I got home his car wasn't there. So I did it.

There was no child, of course. Everything was neat and tidy. The bed was made, everything in its place. Piles of paperback crime novels and The Brothers Karamazov, also in paperback. On the desk lay his binoculars, his camera and a notebook.

Yes. I did read it. And I was none the wiser.

(Did I think there might be something about me? Yes, I did. I admit it.) But it wasn't a diary. Just numbers and abbreviations. Terrible handwriting. The numbers might have been times. The abbreviations could have been anything. Insects, maybe. The times when he saw them. Do people do that kind of thing?

The metal box was plugged in. I listened, heard a humming noise from inside. Didn't dare open the lid. Thought a load of insects might come swarming out.

Now I'm going to say what I think: my life lacks excitement. I make things up. I pick on just about anybody and try to use whatever clues there are to piece together that person's life. It automatically turns into a mystery. Why did he go there? Why did he do that? What did he mean by that?

It's only in old-fashioned detective stories that everyone is gathered in the library for the final explanation. In real life there is no explanation. And if there is an explanation, it's unbelievably ba.n.a.l.

After I'd finished poking about I stayed in the cottage for a long time. Why? Because it smelled so good in there. If anyone ever reads this diary I will immediately commit seppuku. I slipped into the bed. Terrified the whole time, listening for the sound of his car, for the front door of my house. The sheets smelled...I don't know. But I wanted to stay there. Lie in that smell.

I lay there for just a few minutes, then made the bed exactly the way it had been.

In the afternoon Roland put up the satellite dish. He spent the evening trying to get a picture, but no luck. We played Scrabble. I won.

SEPTEMBER 24.

I hate my job, and I hate myself.

I don't know what got into me today. Out of sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness I stopped every single person who was carrying anything. One extra bottle of whisky, a few boxes of Marlboro. Suppressed rage, vicious words directed at me all day. A little old lady weeping, her suitcase full of brandy.

Went into the forest for a few hours when I got home. Grey skies, cold. Went out in a T-shirt but didn't manage to get really cold. Met an elk. One of the placid ones. He stood there and let me pat him. I wept, pressed my face against his coat. Tried to explain that it was the hunting season, that he should keep away from cleared areas. I don't think he understood.

Autumn depression, it's called. As if it were natural to think that life is s.h.i.t. I don't want to be here, I don't want to do what I do.

Elisabet called round this evening with the baby. Burbled on. I got even more depressed, but tried not to show it. 'Melancholy', that's what it always says in the Moomintroll books. Never depressed. If only I could be melancholy instead. Have a sorrow that is somehow enjoyable.

I hated Elisabet too. The baby's sleeping really well at night. Only wakes up twice for a feed, blah blah. Her cheeks are glowing, her eyes shining. One bullet in the middle of her forehead. I'm a bad person.

Vore came to tell me that he's staying for another week. That's good. He asked if he could take a photograph of the baby, and Elisabet said yes. She kind of stiffened up. What is it with people?

Roland has managed to sort out the dish, he was gawping at some film. I chatted for a while with Vore after Elisabet had gone. Didn't get very far. But I don't hate him. No. Now I come to think of it. I can actually cope with him. I'm thinking about him now. I feel happier. There you go.

He's travelled all over Sweden, lived in lots of different places for short periods. Travels to Russia sometimes. On business. But he spends most of his time out walking. Collecting insects and looking around. That's good. That's what I'd like to do. No more poking about, no more talking, just...looking around. Like Snufkin.

Now I'm going to bed. Perhaps I'll feel better tomorrow.

SEPTEMBER 25.

Sat.u.r.day. My day off.