The Quarry (8 page)

Per stopped fighting with the bag. He looked out of the window towards the quarry and discovered something unbelievable: a volcano had begun to form out in the sound between the island and the mainland. The water was boiling, the air was full of grey smoke, and a crater a hundred metres wide was rising towards the sky, higher and higher.

Lava poured down the sides, starting to fill the quarry.

Then he woke up, disorientated and confused, fumbling in vain for the doll in his bed.

The gale was still blowing over the house, but the dull roar had stopped. It didn’t come back, and eventually he fell asleep again.

Sunday morning was sunny, with a strange rushing noise in the wind. Per got up at about half past seven, and noticed something different as soon as he looked out of the window to the west: the sound was no longer greyish white, it was dark blue.

He realized what had happened. The roaring din that had woken him during the night was the noise of the ice being broken up by the strong wind. Now there were just odd ice floes drifting around out on the water, and a grey patch of slushy ice bobbing up and down among the rocks by the shore. The rushing noise was coming from the newly liberated waves.

The ice had left the sound – hundreds of tons of frozen water had been released, and Per had heard their thundering roar.

Terrific.

But last night’s dream had been strange and unpleasant. He didn’t want to think about it.

As Max sat pondering his cookery book, Vendela wandered around the new house thinking about not eating. She had decided to do two things here on the island: jog more and eat less. Not to lose weight – she weighed fifty-two kilos on the bathroom scales at home – but as a way of cleansing her body and getting closer to nature. So on the first morning in the new house she drank only a glass of water for breakfast, alone with Aloysius in her big new kitchen.

The idea of throwing a party for the neighbours was still in the back of her mind. She had decided to invite everyone she could find in the village. On Ash Wednesday – people didn’t normally give dinner parties on that day, did they? To be on the safe side, she had tapped on the door and run the idea past her husband.

Max was in his study – one of them.

He had driven a furniture van to the new house the previous week. Max needed
three
desks when he was writing his books: a work desk where he sat and thought, a desk where he wrote, and a desk where he did his editing, and in order to have space for everything, he had to have two rooms all to himself, side by side.

He had a rowing machine, some weights and a skipping rope in one of the rooms as well. No treadmill.

When Vendela knocked on the door he was sitting at the thinking desk, which was completely empty. She told him about her idea of inviting the neighbours to a party. He listened, then nodded in the direction of the cottage to the north.

‘Including them?’

She knew who he meant – the father with the son Max had almost run over.

‘We could leave them out,’ said Vendela, but he shook his head.

‘No, invite them too. Do you need any help?’

‘It’s fine, I’ll sort out the food, but you could welcome the guests.’

Max sighed. ‘I can play the host, but I’ve no intention of handing out advice.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘People are always asking me for help with all kinds of problems … but I have to be free while I’m here.’

Max closed his eyes and Vendela left the room.

She would go for a walk soon, but first she went into the bathroom. She hadn’t unpacked her toilet bag yet. She placed it on the cistern and started taking out her tablets and arranging them in the medicine cabinet. Her allergy tablets with the Latin names went on the bottom shelf. She had several boxes, but this morning her nose and eyes felt quite good. Then she put away the box of tranquillizers, plus the small packs of Vistaril, which she had started to take at night a few years ago; sometimes she took them first thing in the morning as well.

But that was in Stockholm. Here on the island she would be more careful, and today she was going to take only two tablets. Something new. It was called Folangir, and had arrived by post from Denmark last week. It was a kind of diet pill that was supposed to suppress hunger and anxiety – but it also contained nutrients. Extract of calendula and several important vitamins, according to the label.

She washed them down with a glass of water.

There. Time for that walk.

The new tablets were unusually strong, and she felt slightly dizzy as she stepped outside. The sun was shining, and a chilly spring breeze swirled around the house, but neither warmth nor cold affected her now. She had found her balance. Everything was lovely.

The sky was immense here; there wasn’t a single mountain to stop the light flooding the island. That was why the elves were happy here.

The countryside was so silent as Vendela crossed the narrow track. No cars, no voices. Just birdsong all around her, and the tranquil lapping of the waves from the open sound.

On the other side of the gravel track was an even narrower path. Two wheel ruts with a line of grass running up the middle; it could lead anywhere. She set off, jogging along with her eyes closed for a few seconds.

When she looked up, she saw a closed gate in an old stone wall. Behind it was a small garden, with someone sitting on the pale-yellow lawn. A man in a deckchair.

As Vendela crept closer she could see that the man was very old, wrinkled and almost bald, with a fringe of white hair at the back of his head. He had a thick scarf knotted beneath his chin, a blanket over his legs and a slender book on his knee. His eyes were closed, his chin resting on his chest, and he looked completely at ease, like a man who had finished his work here in this life and was satisfied with everything he had achieved.

It could have been her father sitting there – but of course Henry had always been too restless to sit in the garden.

Vendela thought the man was asleep, but as she stopped by the gate he raised his head and looked at her.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she called out.

‘No more than anybody else,’ replied the man, tucking the book beneath the blanket.

He had a quiet yet powerful voice, the voice of someone who was used to being in charge. A bit like Max.

The tablets made Vendela more courageous than usual; she opened the gate and went in.

‘I’m sitting here looking for butterflies,’ said the man as she walked towards him. ‘And thinking.’

It wasn’t a joke, but Vendela still laughed – and regretted it immediately.

‘I’m Vendela,’ she said quickly. ‘Vendela Larsson.’

‘And my name is Davidsson, Gerlof Davidsson.’

An unusual name. Vendela didn’t think she’d come across it before.

‘Gerlof … is that German?’

‘I think it was Dutch originally. It’s an old family name.’

‘Do you live here all year round, Gerlof?’

‘I do now. I suppose I’ll be here until they carry me out feet first.’

Vendela laughed again. ‘In that case we’ll be neighbours.’ She pointed back the way she’d come, trying to keep her hand steady. ‘We’ve just moved in over by the quarry, my husband Max and I. We’ll be living here.’

‘I see,’ said Gerlof. ‘But only when the weather’s warm. Not all year round.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘No, not all year round … just in spring and summer.’

She was going to add
thank God
, but stopped herself. It probably wasn’t very polite to mention that it was too cold and desolate to live on the island in the middle of winter. She’d done it when she was little, and that was quite enough.

Neither of them spoke. There were no butterflies to be seen, but the birds were still singing in the bushes. Vendela closed her eyes and wondered if their nervous twittering was a warning of some kind.

‘Have you settled in?’ asked Gerlof.

Vendela looked up and nodded energetically. ‘Absolutely, I mean it’s so …’ She searched for the right thing to say, ‘… so close to the shore.’

The old man didn’t speak, so Vendela took a deep breath and went on: ‘We were thinking of having a little get-together for everybody in the village. This Wednesday at seven, we thought … It would be nice if you could join us.’

Gerlof looked down at his legs. ‘I’ll come if I can move … it varies from day to day.’

‘Good, excellent.’

Vendela laughed nervously once more and walked back towards the gate. She was hungry now, and the new tablets were making her feel sleepy. But it felt good to be moving across the grass, drifting along like an elf towards the wind and the white sun.

‘Max? Hello?’

Vendela was back home, her voice echoing across the stone floor. There was no reply, but she was so excited by her encounter with Gerlof that she simply carried on calling out, ‘I met this man, an old villager … he’s just fantastic! He lives in a little cottage on the other side of the track. I invited him to our party!’

There was silence for a few seconds, then Max opened the door of his thinking room. He looked at his wife for a few seconds, then asked, ‘What have you taken?’

Vendela met his gaze and straightened up. ‘Nothing … Just a couple of slimming pills.’

‘Nothing to perk you up a bit?’

‘No! I’ve just got spring fever, what’s wrong with that?’

She wanted to turn and walk away, but remained where she was, shaking her head. She tried to stand up straight without swaying, even though the stone floor was moving slightly beneath her feet.

‘Vendela, you were going to cut the dose when we came here. You promised.’

‘I
know
! And I’m going to go jogging.’

‘Good idea,’ said Max. ‘It’s better than pills.’

‘I’m just feeling really happy,’ Vendela went on, keeping her tone as serious as she could, ‘but it’s nothing to do with any pills. I’m happy because spring is in the air, and because I met this wonderful old man …’

‘Yes, well, you always did like old folk.’ Max rubbed his eyes and turned back to his thinking room. ‘I must get back to work.’

The smell of limestone and seaweed, sea and coast. The wind over the shore, the sun shining on the sound, winter and spring meeting in the air above the island.

It was Sunday morning, and Per was standing out on the patio with a broom, wishing that the spring sunshine could reach into all the dark corners of his body. Ernst had built two stone patios along the front and back of the house, one facing south-east and the other north-west, which was clever, because you could either follow the sun from morning until evening, or sit in the shade all day.

He straightened his back and looked out over the rocky shoreline. He knew he should feel happier to be standing here by the sea than he actually did. He wanted to feel peaceful and calm, but his anxiety about Nilla was too strong. Anxiety about what the doctors would find.

There wasn’t much he could do about it; he just had to keep going.

The old patio was made of limestone; it was uneven and full of weeds growing between the slabs, but it was sturdily built. Once Per had swept all the leaves away, he walked to the edge and looked down into the quarry. Nothing was moving, and the stone steps they had built yesterday stood firm, halfway up the rock face. Then he looked over at the new houses to the south, thinking about the new neighbours and their money.

It was certainly worth thinking about. He estimated that the two plots and the houses on them must have cost a couple of million, at least. Perhaps even three, including all the overheads. His new neighbours weren’t short of money, and that was really all he knew about them.

Time to get out Ernst’s garden furniture. It was made of cane, like something you might find on a plantation veranda in the jungle.

The telephone in the kitchen started ringing as he was standing in the doorway with the first chair in his hands.

‘Jesper?’ he shouted. ‘Can you get that?’

He didn’t know where his son was, but there was no response.

The telephone rang again, and after the fourth ring he put the chair down and went to answer it.

‘Per Mörner.’

‘Hello?’ said a slurred voice. ‘Pelle?’

It was his father again, of course. Per closed his eyes wearily and thought that Jerry could have afforded to build one of those luxury villas by the quarry. Well, ten or fifteen years ago, anyway. But Per had never seen any of his money, and since the stroke Jerry’s finances were uncertain, to say the least. He was no longer able to work.

‘Where are you calling from, Jerry? Where are you?’

There was a hissing noise on the line before the answer came: ‘Ryd.’

‘OK, so you’ve arrived. You were going to go up to the studio, weren’t you?’

‘To see Bremer,’ said Jerry.

‘I understand. You’re at Bremer’s now.’

But Jerry hesitated, and Per went on, ‘Haven’t you seen Hans Bremer? Wasn’t he going to pick you up?’