Rites of Spring, Anders Motte [reading diary .TXT] 📗

‘I mean that both girls were actually murdered, probably by their fathers or someone doing their fathers’ bidding. One drowned, one beaten to death. As I said, the Gordons are terrible people. Generations of incest and marriage between cousins gives rise to certain defects, both on the inside and the outside.’

Thea doesn’t quite know how she’s expected to respond.

‘What a wonderful library,’ she says when the silence has gone on long enough.

‘That’s mostly thanks to my mother. She organised the collections when I was small. She loved books.’ He stares down into his cup.

‘Have you always lived at Bokelund?’

‘Mostly. I went to boarding school in England for a while – a family tradition. The Gordons are originally British.’

‘And the rest of the time you went to school in Tornaby?’

The question isn’t as innocent as she is trying to make it sound. Hubert is only a few years older than Elita Svart. His father owned Svartgården. Maybe he knew her?

To her disappointment, Hubert shakes his head.

‘I was educated here in the castle. The schoolroom is over in the east wing, and the governess lived in the room next door. That was Father’s decision. He didn’t want me mixing with the villagers.’

Thea tries to work out whether the last comment is a joke; she’s not sure.

‘You mentioned your sick friend . . .’ Hubert points to Emee, who has settled down on the floor beside them. ‘The one with the dog. What’s her name?’

‘Margaux. She’s French.’

‘From Paris?’ His face lights up.

‘Yes, actually. Have you been there?’

‘Once, when I was very young. My aunt lived there, and my mother and I went to visit her. I remember it as a fantastic place. I dreamed of going back there when I was older, but Father and my aunt hated each other, and after Mother died he wouldn’t let me go anywhere. And since I grew up, it just hasn’t happened. Maybe I’m afraid the city won’t live up to my expectations, that it won’t be as perfect as it is in my dreams. Things rarely are.’

He takes another sip of coffee, seems surprised by how talkative he is, like so many people who meet Thea.

‘Have you known each other long, you and Margaux?’ he asks, turning the focus of the conversation back to her.

‘Yes.’ Thoughts she usually manages to suppress are threatening to come pouring out. She wants to tell him that Margaux was her best friend. Her only friend. That she meant much more than that. Instead she is a coward, hiding behind her coffee cup.

Hubert gazes at her. His eyes are soft, full of sorrow.

‘I’ve also lost someone who was close to me,’ he says. ‘It’s a long time ago now, but the pain never really goes away. It leaves an empty space inside you.’ He glances up at the portrait.

Neither of them says anything for a long time, but as before, the silence isn’t in the least uncomfortable.

‘What about you and David? How long have you been together?’

‘About five years, on and off.’

‘On and off?’

‘We dated whenever I was home from my travels – nothing too serious. But after the bombing he was there for me. He flew down to the hospital in Cyprus, took care of everything. It was the same when I came back here. I’ve been suffering from the after-effects for almost a year, but David’s supported me, helped me to get back on my feet.’

‘Was that why you married him?’

The question surprises her. So does the answer.

‘Yes.’

She hasn’t shared that thought with anyone except Margaux, but when you get behind his slightly morose façade, Hubert is very easy to talk to. It’s as if he has the same effect on her as she has on other people. The admission makes her feel strangely relieved. Hubert doesn’t say a word; he merely nods.

They sit in silence again. The feeling of affinity between them has grown even stronger.

Thea looks at her watch. David must be wondering where she is. Whether she’s found Emee. Maybe he’s worried? She stands up, even though she would rather stay.

‘I’m afraid I have to go. Thanks for the coffee.’

Hubert accompanies her into the corridor.

‘Wait a minute,’ he says when they reach the top of the stairs. He disappears through one of the closed doors and returns after a few seconds. Thea catches a glimpse of a narrow bed and a TV, and guesses that it’s his bedroom.

‘I think you might enjoy this.’

He hands her a well-thumbed book: Selected Poems by Stanley Kunitz.

‘It’s helped me sometimes, when things have been difficult. Maybe it will help you.’

‘Thank you.’ The gesture is so kind that a warm glow spreads through her body.

‘You’re welcome. I hope you’ll come and see me again.’

‘I’d love to.’

They go downstairs and she hears him close the front door behind her. And double lock it.

37

Walpurgis Night 1986

I have chosen them with care, my little tadpoles. Chosen the children whose parents snigger at me behind my back and pull faces when they talk about me, as if my name has a nasty taste.

Those children will witness the death of Elita Svart.

Arne pressed the binoculars to his eyes so hard that he couldn’t see properly. A big fire is burning over in the glade, casting long, flickering shadows over the stones. Elita and the children were standing in the centre of the circle, right next to the flat sacrificial stone. The whole thing looked exactly like the Polaroid: Elita’s white dress, the antlers, the silk ribbons, the masked children. The full moon riding high above them intensified the sense of unreality.

His ghetto blaster was on one of the other stones. The recorded sound of drumming reverberated around the glade, along with voices chanting something in English that Arne didn’t understand at first.

Elita gestured to the children, said something. They formed a circle around her, fully extending the ribbons attached to her wrists. Arne adjusted the focus, managed to sharpen the image.

Elita began to move, taking slow steps in time with the drums. She was