Harbor, John Lindqvist [feel good books to read .TXT] 📗

‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’

Torgny shook his cup so that the tower disappeared, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘I could go up there with a can of kerosene and a match, of course, but…he might take it the wrong way.’

Erik came home that evening in an excellent mood. He and Anna-Greta were agreed on plain, simple rings, so that matter had been more or less a formality. But they had had a lovely day in Norrtälje, sitting by the canal and professing their love for each other while planning their wedding.

Torgny was sitting at the kitchen table mending nets; he listened to his son’s unusual talkativeness, nodding and making the right noises as he agreed that Erik had got himself a fine girl there.

Maja stood at the stove stirring the apple purée, making little contribution to the conversation. After a while, Erik noticed that something was wrong. He looked from one to the other.

‘Has something happened?’

Torgny looped the yarn through a hole, pulled it tight and knotted it; he didn’t look up from his work as he asked, ‘What were you thinking of doing about the slates?’

‘What slates?’

‘For your…house.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m allowed to ask a question.’

Erik looked at his mother, who was stirring the apple with great concentration, keeping her back to both of them. His father still had his eyes entangled in the torn mesh of the net. After a short silence Erik asked, ‘Isn’t it right?’ When his father didn’t reply, he added, ‘So what’s wrong with it, then?’

Torgny cut off the loose ends with his penknife and rolled them into a little ball.

‘Well, if I can put it like this…you ought to consider using sheet metal. If you’re planning on having people actually living in that house.’ Erik just stared at him. He went on, ‘If we could just go through it together, there are a few things I think need taking care of, and perhaps we could…’

Erik interrupted him. ‘You think I ought to pull it down, don’t you? The whole thing?’ Torgny opened his mouth to reply, but Erik slammed his hand down on the table and yelled, ‘Fuck you!’

Maja spun around from the stove so quickly that a few drops of apple purée flew off the wooden spoon in her hand and landed on the front of Erik’s shirt as he got up from the table.

‘Erik!’ she said. ‘That’s no way to speak to your father!’

Erik glared at her as if he were thinking of hitting her, then his gaze dropped to the warm amber drops on his chest.

‘Two things,’ said Torgny as Erik stood there with his head down. ‘Two things. Then you can go wherever you want, and you can get as angry as you want. You are not putting slates on that roof. And you will put air vents in the foundations. After that you can do what you like.’

Torgny cut a piece of yarn to begin darning the next tear. But his hands were shaking and he cut his thumb. It wasn’t a deep gash, but a few drops of blood oozed out.

He looked at the blood. Erik looked at the blobs of apple purée on his shirt. Maja was still standing there with the wooden spoon half-raised. A couple of seconds went by and something that was not a house collapsed between them, there was the sound of splintering wood, the squeal of protest as nails were ripped out.

Then Erik walked out of the kitchen. They heard his footsteps thundering up the stairs, the door of his room slamming behind him. Torgny sucked the blood off his thumb. Maja stirred the pan a few times.

Something had collapsed.

After that evening Erik lost all his enthusiasm. He carried on with his carpentry during the autumn and had the panels finished before the winter came, and he fitted a metal roof. He drilled air vents that were misshapen and ugly, but at least they let some air into the foundations.

He did all of this, but he did it without pleasure, without energy. He ate his dinner in silence and gave monosyllabic answers to hisparents’ questions. Sometimes he went to Nåten to meet Anna-Greta, and he must have made a bit of an effort on those occasions, because the wedding was still on.

Torgny never went to the house again while it was being built. When people asked how the lad was getting on with his house, he said he wasn’t interfering at all, it was Erik’s business. He had said his piece, had saved what could be saved. He could do no more.

Winter came late. Apart from the usual cold snap at the beginning of November, it was mild with no sign of snow until well into January. Erik had put the windows in and was now spending the afternoons and evenings in his house. A large kerosene lamp spread its light across the cliffs, and from a distance it looked really cosy.

In the middle of January, Erik moved his bed and basic household equipment down to the house. Torgny and Maja stood at the kitchen window secretly watching as he carried his bed on his back down the hill. Maja placed her hand on Torgny’s shoulder.

‘Our boy is leaving home.’

‘Yes,’ said Torgny, turning away as tears began to prick at his eyes. He sat down at the kitchen table and filled his pipe. Maja stayed at the window, watching Erik as he disappeared behind Seaview Cottage.

‘He’s got a mind of his own, anyway,’ she said. ‘Nobody can take that away from him.’

The house was finished at the beginning of May. The wedding took place two weeks later. The ceremony was to take place outdoors, on the cliffs at North Point, and afterwards everyone was invited to a combined wedding reception and topping-out ceremony in Erik’s house on the point.

It was a windy day. People had to hold on to their hats, and when the bride threw her bouquet it was swept out to sea before