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

After another quarter of an hour a number of dots could be seen approaching from Domarö. Four mopeds. Elof and his brother Johan. Mats, who owned the shop, had his wife Ingrid on the back. Bringing up the rear, Margareta Bergwall, one of the few women in the village who had their own moped.

They rode around the lighthouse in ever-widening circles, searching every square metre of the ice. Anders and Cecilia wandered aimlessly around on the lighthouse rock itself, saying nothing. After an hour it was so dark that the moonlight was stronger than the small amount of sunlight that remained.

Simon went up to Anders and Cecilia, who were now sitting by the lighthouse door, head in hands. Far out on the ice the faint lights of the four mopeds were just visible, still circling round and round like satellites of a desolate planet. A police helicopter with a searchlight had arrived to extend the search area.

Simon’s joints creaked as he crouched down in front of them. Their eyes were empty. Simon stroked Cecilia’s knee.

‘What did you say about the tracks?’

Cecilia waved feebly in the direction of Domarö. Her voice was so weak that Simon had to lean forward in order to hear.

‘There weren’t any.’

‘You mean they didn’t go off in a different direction?’

‘They stopped. As if…as if she’d been lifted up into the sky.’

Anders whimpered. ‘This can’t be happening. How can this be happening?’

He looked into Simon, right through Simon, as if he were looking for the answer in a knowledge that lay somewhere behind Simon’s retina.

Simon got up and went back down on to the ice, sat on the back of his moped and looked around.

If only there were somewhere to start.

A nuance, a shadow, anything that could serve as a loose edge where they could begin tearing away. He pushed his hand down into his jacket pocket and closed it around the matchbox that lay there. Then he placed the fingertips of his other hand on the ice and asked it to melt.

First the snow melted, then a deepening hollow appeared, filling up with water. After perhaps twenty seconds there was a black hole in the ice, perhaps as big as a clenched fist. He let go of the matchbox and, with some difficulty, lowered his arm into the cold water. The surface of the ice was just above his elbow before he was able to grip the lower edge.

The ice was thick. There was absolutely no chance that Maja had fallen through somewhere.

So what has happened?

There was no loose edge. Nowhere for his thoughts to poke and prod, widen the crack, work things out. It was just impossible. He went up and sat down with Anders and Cecilia, giving them a hug and saying a few words from time to time, until in the end it was completely dark and the mopeds began to spiral their way back towards the lighthouse.

Domarö and time

During the course of this story it will be necessary occasionally to jump back in time in order to explain something in the present. This is regrettable but unavoidable.

Domarö is not a large island. Everything that has happenedremains here and influences the present. Places and objects are charged with meanings that are not easily forgotten. We cannot escape.

In the scheme of things, this is a very small story. You could say it would fit in a matchbox.

What the cat dragged in (May 1996)

It was the last week in May and the perch were plentiful. Simon had a simple method of fishing. He had spent several years experimenting with his nets, laying them out in different places, and had come to the conclusion that all this travelling around was unnecessary. It worked just as well if he tied one end of the net to the jetty and towed the other end out with the boat. Easy to lay and even easier to empty. He hauled the net in from the jetty, and could usually disentangle the fish he didn’t want on the spot and throw them back in the sea.

This morning’s seven perch were in the fridge, cleaned and ready, and the dace he had released had swum off. Simon was standing by the drying rack picking bits of seaweed out of the nets, while the gulls finished their meal of fish guts. It was a bright, warm morning, the sun was beating down on the back of his neck and he was sweating in his overalls.

Dante the cat had been following him all morning; he never seemed to learn how extremely unusual it was to find herring in the net. The odd herring he had been given was sufficient to keep the flame of hope burning in his head, and he always followed Simon down to the jetty.

Once Dante realised that no herring had managed to entangle themselves in the net this morning either, he had settled down on the jetty to glower at the gulls fighting over the fish guts. He would never dare to attack a gull but no doubt he had his fantasies, just like every other living creature.

Simon unhooked the net and rolled it up so that it wouldn’t become brittle in the sun. As he made his way down to the boathouse to hang it up, he could see that the cat was busy with something out on the jetty.

Or rather, fighting with something. Dante was jumping back and forth, up in the air, batting with his paws at something Simon couldn’t see. It looked as if the cat was dancing, but Simon had seen him play with mice in the same way. And yet this was different. The game with mice and frogs really was a game, in which the cat pretended his prey was harder to catch than it actually was. This time it looked as if the cat was genuinely…afraid?

The fur on his back was standing up, and his jumps and tentative attacks could only be interpreted as an indication