Astrid and Veronika (22 page)

They had agreed to walk down to the river and then on to the church in the afternoon. On All Saints Day even those graves that were left abandoned throughout the year were likely to have a visitor. And a candle. From her childhood Veronika had a memory of visiting the grave of her grandparents on All Saints Day. She remembered a day just like the one outside her window: still, chilly and enveloped in light fog. The large cemetery in Stockholm had been lit by thousands of flickering candles. She had wandered the magical landscape, pleased to be holding her father’s hand, uncertain whether her feelings of excitement were appropriate.

 

Veronika walked across to Astrid’s. It was just after two in the afternoon, and dusk was already falling. When she knocked on the door the old woman answered quickly, fully dressed with her jacket on. She pulled her knitted hat over her hair and began to pull on her mittens as she stepped down onto the path. There was snow on the ground, but it hadn’t snowed for several days and the layer on the path was worn down to the gravel. Astrid took Veronika’s arm and they walked down the hill in comfortable silence.

The air was cold against their faces, but they were both dressed for the weather, Astrid in a heavy sheepskin jacket and Veronika in a padded jacket with a hood. There was no wind and they took their time, walking more slowly than they usually did on their morning walks. The trees stood bare with a thin coating of frost, and light snow covered the fields.

‘The day I arrived, the weather was like this,’ Veronika said. ‘But there is a fundamental difference between March and November.’ She looked out over the village below. There were no signs of life, other than smoke trailing from some of the chimneys, blending with the fog. ‘In March, you know that if you hold on, there will be light. In November, you must have the strength to embrace darkness. Your barns should be filled, your harvest stored.’ Astrid said nothing, but their steps naturally fell in rhythm. ‘They say that March is the hardest month. Deaths peak in March. And I read that children born in November have the best chance, their mothers sustained by the summer. We associate spring with new life, when often it brings death.’

Veronika fell silent. When she spoke again, she stopped and turned to Astrid. ‘For me, March was the hardest month,’ she said. ‘Spring is not for the weak, I think. But now I have had this summer, and I am ready. I am strong.’ Astrid said nothing, but when they resumed their walk, her arm held Veronika’s tightly.

They took the same route as on their very first walk, and as they left the small forest area and entered the open fields, they again stopped to look at the cluster of new buildings, which looked particularly forlorn in this weather. The surrounding fields lay barren and exposed, the dark clay wiped clear of snow. There were no trees, no visible growth of any kind around the houses. To Veronika, they looked to be leaning into one another for support, even more desperately than the first time they had passed them.

‘I have thought about those houses,’ Astrid said. ‘And it made me think about many things.’ They walked on. ‘About how we choose to live. Look at the village and the old houses. They are clustered together. I suppose that is the very definition of a village.’ They both looked across the open land towards the church.

‘But they are not clinging to one another the way these new ones do,’ Veronika said. ‘The old houses look as if they have developed organically, over time. They don’t belong together as a group — they are individual, separate houses.’ They continued down the road towards the river.

‘I have thought about the people who live here, in these new houses,’ said Astrid. ‘I think they are old people. And I don’t think they are desperate at all. Or afraid.’ She paused. ‘I think I know what they are searching for.’ Astrid lifted her head to the sky, where fog blurred the weak light of the setting sun. ‘I think they came here to be with each other. I think they are people who have come to realise that they need other people. And have acted on this insight before it became too late. I hope I am right. I think it is appropriate that old people live in new houses, and young people move into the old ones.’ Her hand patted Veronika’s arm. ‘I like to think that they are not leaning against one another because they are afraid. No, they are embracing one another. And I think it’s a good thing.’

The river was moving slowly, as if the water was in the process of freezing. They walked up onto the riverbank and stood on the snow looking down at the dark undulating mass of water. There seemed to be movement underwater, but the surface was still.

‘We used to skate on the river some years,’ Astrid said. ‘But not until January, when the ice was safe. It didn’t happen every year. Sometimes, the ice never set properly.’ She inhaled deeply and looked up. ‘It’s only November — we don’t know what lies ahead for this winter.’

The road along the river to the church was still. They met no cars, heard no sounds. As they arrived at the cemetery, Veronika was surprised to be proven wrong. Very few graves had lights on them, and there was only one other visitor, an old woman lighting a candle on a grave at the far end of the cemetery.

They stopped at the Mattson family grave and Astrid pulled out four small candles from the pocket of her jacket. She bent down, placed them on the snow and lit them. It took a while — she struggled to light the match and had to light another when the first one flickered and blew out. Veronika stood back, allowing the old woman to go through with the ritual.

As Astrid stood up, panting a little, all four candles glowed on the snow. ‘There was love. I think there must have been love,’ she said. ‘I think it’s when you become convinced that it’s been lost that sometimes it turns into its opposite. We must remember that our love is inside us. Always.’ She felt in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. She blew her nose. Veronika couldn’t tell whether she was crying, or whether it was just the chilly air that brought tears to the old woman’s eyes.

They turned and walked over to the wall. Astrid pulled out another candle and bent down. Veronika kneeled beside her. The small plaque was covered with a thin layer of snow and they both brushed it clean with their mittened hands.

‘You know, Veronika, there was a time when I was afraid to come here. Now I understand that it was my own company I feared.’ She pulled off her mittens, placed the small candle on the plaque and lit it. For a little while she held her hands around the flame. ‘Now I am not afraid,’ she said, and pulled on her mittens again.

They walked back and, although it was still not late, the light was fading quickly. ‘Come over when you are ready,’ Astrid said as she opened her gate. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

 

Veronika wandered through the house. Already, it seemed to be withdrawing. It felt distant, silent. She had cleaned the entire house and returned everything to its original place. And suddenly it was no longer hers. The link between her and the house was broken. They were both looking to the next phase. She hadn’t turned on the lights and when she walked up to the kitchen window she could see the warm lights in Astrid’s kitchen through the darkness. She stood for a long time looking out, watching the old woman moving inside the light, a doll in a doll’s house.

When she appeared on Astrid’s doorstep it had started to snow. Fine dry flakes drifted sparsely overhead but seemed to disperse before reaching the ground. Inside the kitchen the table was again set for two with Astrid’s fine china.

‘There are rules for this dinner,’ the old woman said as she led Veronika into the kitchen. ‘No farewells. This is just an ordinary dinner.’ She walked over to the stove and bent down to pick up a piece of firewood. ‘You’ll see that the food certainly is very ordinary. Pancakes.’ She smiled and turned her back to Veronika to place the firewood in the stove. ‘And tomorrow, just wave as you pass,’ she added without looking up. ‘Don’t stop.’

Veronika looked at the old woman’s back. ‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘We’ll just have an ordinary dinner. Though I doubt that pancakes will ever be ordinary for me again.’

Astrid poured batter into the frying pan and Veronika poured them each a glass of red wine. She intended to place Astrid’s on the side of the stove, but the old woman stretched out her hand and took the glass. ‘To you, Veronika,’ she said, and raised it. ‘
Lycklig resa.
Bon voyage.’ She blushed and grimaced. ‘Here I go, straight away. Full of farewells.’ She put the glass down, walked up to Veronika and opened her arms. ‘I might as well do it properly, then,’ she said, and embraced the young woman. She held her tightly for quite some time, before releasing her hold and abruptly turning back to the stove.

After dinner they sat at the table listening to music. Astrid had played the Brahms only once. ‘Once is enough for an ordinary dinner. Now let’s play something else,’ she said, and inserted one of Veronika’s CDs. She had turned off the lamp over the table and candles provided the only light, reaching no further than their faces.

‘Let me help you clean up,’ Veronika said, but the old woman raised her hand and shook her head. ‘I have all the time in the world to clean up,’ she said. Catching herself, she again grimaced. ‘This is too hard, Veronika,’ she said. ‘I think perhaps I will have to ask you to leave.’ She looked intently at the young woman, who nodded slowly.

‘Promise me you will stand there, just inside your window tomorrow,’ Veronika said. ‘Promise me you will return my wave.’

Astrid smiled a thin smile and nodded. ‘I promise,’ she said.

Veronika stood and pushed her chair back. She walked around the table and put her hands on the old woman’s cheeks, pushing the hair away and tucking it behind her ears. She placed her lips on Astrid’s forehead and kissed her. Then she turned and crossed the room without looking back, closing the door softly behind her.

She walked slowly down the path to the gate, then onto the road, where the light new snow lifted with each step. As she turned into her own front yard she looked back to the other house. The kitchen lay dark. She lifted her arm and waved. She couldn’t be sure that there was a response, but she liked to think there was.

As Veronika closed the door, Astrid blew out the candles and sat in darkness. Although tears fell, there was a smile on her face. She looked out the window and saw Veronika outlined against the new snow. And as the young woman raised her hand and waved, Astrid raised hers.

The road ran along a sandy stretch of land, a natural pier cutting through the water. The banks were covered in white moss, with pines stretching their tall straight trunks towards the pale sky.

It was March. Just like the first time. But the evening was clear and mild and the light soft as the sun lingered near the treetops, reflecting on the dark surface of the lake. Spring was early: there was no ice on the lake and though there was still snow on the fields either side of the road, the road itself stretched before her, a dry meandering strip, into the distance.

There was no other traffic: she hadn’t seen a car since Ludvika. The rented Volvo was comfortable and anonymous, with the artificial smell of a new vehicle not yet tainted by contact with human bodies. Veronika had the radio tuned into a local station, the evening news and the weather forecast. She listened to the sounds more than the content — the rhythm of the language, familiar and strange at the same time. As if no longer entirely hers. She hadn’t planned for such a late start, but now she was enjoying the early evening drive and the thought of staying the night. She would stop in the neighbouring village to pick up the keys from the man who was managing the estate.

Just before she left the forest behind and reached the bridge she saw two moose standing absolutely still in a small clearing. The sun had dipped behind the trees and the animals were black silhouettes against the patches of snow and last year’s pale grass. She slowed down. As she crossed the bridge she could hear the muted rumbling of the river surging beneath, and to her right she could see the water swirling in deceptive slow motion.

She had been given a good description of the house and found it easily. It was a modern brick building set among older wooden houses painted the traditional rusty red. The air was still; ashen pillars of smoke rose from the chimneys. There were no sounds until a very old golden retriever beside the front steps spotted her and barked unconvincingly. She walked up the path to the front door in the approaching evening chill. The fields beyond lay black and barren, awaiting harrowing.

It was Saturday evening, and she felt a little guilty disturbing the peace as she rang the doorbell. She could hear the muffled sound of a TV through the door, and saw flickering lights in the windows of several of the other houses.

The woman who opened the door greeted her warmly and beckoned her into the hallway. Inside, the heavily furnished space was warm and cosy, with the smell of dinner still lingering.

‘You must be Veronika Bergman,’ the woman said, holding out her hand. She was plump and not very tall, dressed in a navy tracksuit and with large sheepskin slippers on her feet. She offered coffee, which Veronika declined, then called her husband, who emerged instantly through the doorway at the far end of the hall, as if he had been awaiting his cue. He was a big man, tall and heavy, with an open friendly face. Like his wife he was dressed in a tracksuit, the trousers tight on his muscled thighs and the top stretched over his shoulders. The sleeves were pulled up, leaving his wrists exposed. He took her hand in a firm grip, his hand rough and callused. Then he put his hands in the pockets of his tracksuit pants, and cleared his throat.

‘I have made the arrangements as per instructions,’ he said. ‘I trust you will find it all in good order. I am pleased the weather is mild. You should have no problems with the water.’ He paused, as if searching his mind for something more to say. ‘Sad the way she went, the old lady. But then, it was her choice, I suppose.’ He rubbed his chin with his hand and cleared his throat. ‘Just a moment, I’ll get the keys for you.’