The Double Silence (5 page)

Knutas glanced at the clock on the wall. Five thirty. He’d been swimming for half an hour, but he wasn’t tired at all. He decided to keep going for another fifteen minutes. Rain was pouring down outside the big windows of the swimming hall. That never-ending rain.

Sometimes he wondered whether he was going through a mid-life crisis. Nothing seemed to give him real joy any more. Now summer had arrived, and later he would go on holiday. He was supposed to have the entire month of August off, and he was planning a two-week trip to Italy with
his family. Knutas had never been to Italy. But he was having trouble mustering his usual enthusiasm. He seemed overcome with apathy. That was also the accusation that Lina had flung at him when they argued the night before.

‘You don’t react to anything any more,’ she’d told him. ‘You have no opinions, there’s nothing you want, you just don’t care. As far as you’re concerned, the world can go ahead and fall apart and all you’ll do is shrug. Your indifference is driving me crazy!’ And, as usual, she’d shouted and waved her arms about. Lina was so temperamental. She’d always been like that, with that flaming red hair of hers, and her pale complexion that flushed crimson whenever she got angry. In the past he had always admired her fiery temper.

Nowadays it merely made him tired.

AT FIRST GLANCE
the inn looked like an ordinary house. A small sign with the name ‘Slow Train’ painted on a piece of driftwood appeared right next to the turnoff. They just managed to see it in time, or they would have driven past. The name made Andrea think of an old tune by Bob Dylan, ‘Slow Train’, and the minute she got out of the car, she sensed a nostalgic air about the place.

The rain in Visby hadn’t yet reached here. The clouds looked threatening, but so far no rain. Several horses were grazing in a pasture, a man in a straw hat was pottering about in the garden filled with flowers, and a slender woman wearing a long white skirt was taking in the laundry hanging on a line between the apple trees. From an open window in the large stone house came the scent of freshly baked bread. The woman stopped what she was doing and came to greet them.

‘Hi. Welcome.’

Her gentle voice clearly revealed a French accent. She had a small, pale face with classic features, and she gave them a friendly smile. Then she ushered them into the house, which reinforced the feeling of a bygone era. They first went through a glass veranda with comfortable sofas along both sides. The window ledges were covered with all sorts of odds and ends: ceramic figurines, scented candles, baskets filled with flowers, and lamps in various colours and sizes.

A dark wooden table in the entrance hall served as the checkin desk. On the table stood a brass Strindberg lamp, an old inkwell with fountain pen, and a glass vase with a single rose.

‘We call it the Bergman rose,’ the Frenchwoman told them. ‘It comes from the same rosebush that was planted on his grave.’

Andrea gave a start, not sure whether she thought the rose added to the pleasant atmosphere or not.

The woman gave them the keys to their rooms. Andrea and Sam had been assigned a room upstairs in the main building, while the others were given rooms in the surrounding buildings. They agreed to meet for a drink before the opening ceremonies of the Bergman festival, which would be held in the Fårö church.

‘What a … picturesque room,’ exclaimed Andrea after they huffed and puffed their way up the narrow staircase and opened the door to what was called the ‘bridal suite’. She paused in the doorway and looked around in confusion. ‘No toilet?’

The room held a double bed with a crocheted coverlet, a small night table, and a chiffonier. It was not a large room, but it was charming and bright. The window was open, facing the flower garden.

‘For God’s sake, the bathroom is just next door. Remember, this is a bed and breakfast, not some fancy hotel,’ said Sam in annoyance as he sank on to the bed. ‘We’re way out in the country on this little island. What did you expect? A fucking Sheraton?’

Andrea stared at him in surprise.

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, the sharpness gone from his voice. ‘It’s just that you sounded so whiny. Everything can’t be perfect all the time.’

‘I know that,’ she said, offended. Her cheeks were flushed with indignation. ‘Excuse me, but I was just wondering where the toilet was. I thought we were going to have a good time now that you’re finally free. And you’re the one who wanted to come here. Not me. You should be happy that everybody agreed to do what you wanted.’ Disappointment made her voice husky. With one blow he had ruined her joy. How could he? Tears filled her eyes.

‘OK. I know.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry. Come here.’

He reached out his arms towards her, and she sank into his embrace. Sam stroked her back. She wrapped her arms around him. The warmth
from his body consoled her, and it didn’t take long before her mood was restored. She began kissing him on the neck, more and more eagerly, searching for his lips. She wanted to feel close in order to forget about the tiresome exchange they’d just had. They lay down on the bed, and she pressed herself against him, put one leg over his. Gently he pushed her away.

‘Now, now, take it easy. We have to meet the others in half an hour. We’re going to have a drink before the ceremonies.’

‘Oh, is it that late already? I need to fix my hair.’

They gathered in the garden among the apple trees where a table was set with champagne glasses and platters of French cheeses, biscuits and nuts.

‘Oh, how marvellous!’ exclaimed Beata, beaming at their French hostess, who gave a quick smile and then disappeared after placing two dewy bottles of champagne on the table.

‘Time to celebrate!’ cried Sam, popping the cork from the first bottle. ‘We finished shooting the film yesterday.’

‘That’s great. Congratulations!’ said Håkan. ‘It must feel bloody wonderful!’

‘You’re so clever,’ cooed Beata, standing behind Sam. She put her hands on his shoulders and rubbed her curvaceous body against his. ‘Simply amazing. You should be proud of your husband, Andrea.’

Andrea managed a strained smile. Sometimes Beata really went overboard.

Stina raised the glass that Sam handed her.

‘Cheers, Sam. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that the film is a big hit. You deserve it. Right?’

‘You better believe it. It’s been pure hell. The most difficult and spoiled movie stars that I’ve ever worked with, not to mention the diva herself: Julia Berger. Good God!’

He rolled his eyes and went on pouring the champagne. When everyone had a glass, Sam cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders, and put on a solemn expression.

‘Welcome, dear friends, to our annual holiday together. I’ve really been
looking forward to this trip in particular. You all know why. Bergman was the greatest director and will always remain so. The rest of us mortals try our best, and I’m so happy that today I can also celebrate finally finishing the film
The Last Commandment
. Thank God it’s over.
Skål
, everyone!’

They all raised their glasses as they exchanged glances, glad to be in the company of friends.

The dry champagne tasted perfect.

THE CHURCH GREEN
was crowded with people dressed in their summer best in honour of the evening. The weather was appropriate for the occasion, considering it was Bergman they were celebrating. Dark clouds raced across the sky, forming fantastical shapes at the same time as rays of sunlight sporadically burst through the darkness, creating their own dramatic effect. Light and darkness, which was precisely the speciality of the acclaimed director.

Johan Berg had a few anxious moments as his camerawoman, Pia Lilja, adroitly manoeuvred the TV van through the throng in the car park near the Fårö church. He hadn’t been back here since his wedding day.

Two years ago he had stood in this very place on the church green, sweating, with a packed church, a puzzled pastor and a missing bride. It was a real ordeal, especially considering the turbulent relationship that he and Emma had endured. He never knew what sort of ideas would pop into her head. New doubts, new questions. Their first year together had been a real roller-coaster. Anything was possible. It would have been typical of their relationship if she hadn’t turned up at all. But in the end she did. Thank God. Sometimes when he thought back on everything they had gone through together, he wondered how he’d managed. Love was incomprehensible. Certain relationships couldn’t handle the least bit of trouble, while others survived one setback after another. His relationship with Emma belonged to the latter group. That was why he was positive it would last.

Now he looked out at the swarm of people and recognized quite a
few famous actors, directors, and others with ties to the film business. There were plenty of figures from the world of culture. He and Pia started walking towards the gravesite, which was a short distance away. Pia was filming.

Ingmar Bergman was buried there alongside his wife in the simple but lovely grave situated high up in one corner of the cemetery, with a view over the fields, meadows and sea.

People had been making pilgrimages there ever since he was laid to rest. There were so many visitors that the cemetery association had been forced to put a flagstone path in the grass leading to the gravesite.

‘I can’t believe how many celebrities are here today,’ exclaimed Pia eagerly as they walked back to the church. ‘I’m going to get a few shots before they go inside.’

‘Sure,’ said Johan as he headed for the actress Pernilla August, who was talking to Jörn Donner, a famous director who had also been Bergman’s good friend.

Both of them promised Johan an interview as soon as the opening ceremonies were over.

In the crush he saw the director Sam Dahlberg. He had an open and pleasant face; his sunglasses were pushed up on his head and he had that slightly unshaven look that made him even more handsome. At the moment he was smoking a cigarette with a beautiful, dark-haired woman whom Johan recognized as his wife, Andrea. Johan introduced himself, wanting to know whether he might ask a few questions.

‘That’s fine. Go ahead,’ said Dahlberg enthusiastically.

Johan motioned for Pia to join them. She was busy documenting how Jan Troell was stuffing himself with pastries that the waitresses were serving on big silver trays. The next moment she was at his side, ready to get started.

‘What does the Bergman festival mean to you?’ asked Johan.

‘A tremendous amount. I’ve been here every year since it started. I think it’s important to discuss his work and show his films. And what better place to do that than on Fårö?’

‘What are you most looking forward to this week?’

‘The bus trip when we ride around to see all of the locations that he used in his films. Four of Bergman’s films were shot here on the island. It’s going to be especially exciting to see where
Persona
was filmed. Apparently it’s very near his house.’

‘Bergman’s house has stood empty for the past year, and no one seems to know what to do about it. What’s your opinion?’

‘The nightmare would be if his children think only of the money and sell it to some super-rich Arab prince or a Hollywood millionaire to use as their private summer place. But I also have a hard time imagining it as a museum, with thousands of visitors allowed to tramp through his living room and library. That would seem like an assault on Bergman, since he valued his seclusion here on Fårö so much. But I like the idea of giving out grants to writers and permitting them to spend time here. I think Bergman would have approved of that.’

‘What kind of relationship did you – or do you – have with Bergman?’

‘Unfortunately, I never met him, but I once talked to him on the phone. He rang after the premiere of my film
Master
to say how much he liked it. I thought Andrea was joking when she told me that Ingmar Bergman was on the phone.’ Sam Dahlberg laughed, poked his wife in the side, and shook his head.

‘So what did he say?’

‘He thought the film was important and well done. We talked for quite a while. It was an amazing conversation, and when I put down the phone, I wondered if it had actually taken place. He was calling from here on Fårö. I remember that I imagined where he might be sitting in his house, how it might look.’

‘So you’ve never been there?’

‘No, I think hardly anyone has. Its location has always been kept so secret. I know only a few people in the business who ever visited Bergman at his home, and those who have been there of course refuse to say where it’s located. Nobody knows. Not even you journalists. Am I right?’

Johan was forced to agree. Where Ingmar Bergman lived was a well-guarded secret. He was fascinated by the loyalty displayed by the residents
of Fårö. Whenever a journalist appeared and asked about Bergman’s house, the people would shake their heads and seal their lips.

‘But maybe all the secrecy will come to an end now that he’s no longer alive.’

‘I assume so. And I think that’s too bad. In our media-fixated society where people’s personal lives are exposed right and left, it might be a good thing if some secrets still existed.’

Sam Dahlberg’s face took on a distracted expression, and his voice faded. At that moment the church bells began to toll.

It was time.

THE MAN STOOD
a safe distance away and watched the crowd of people outside the church. He was casually dressed in dark-blue chinos and a white shirt. He wore sunglasses, even though it was overcast, and held a cigarette in his hand. Smoking fulfilled a function, since it made him seem occupied. No one noticed that he was focused on only one thing. A single thing that interested him. He was watching her, and from this distance she seemed even more beautiful. Like a madonna with her long hair falling in a mane down her back. Slender and fit, wearing a floral dress in some sort of thin fabric. So thin. He knew what was hidden underneath; he had tasted her fruits, and their sweetness still lingered on his tongue. Like a remembered pain from something that had been lost. Something that would never come back.