Until Thy Wrath Be Past Part 22

Turning on his heel, he marched out.

Hjalmar heard the door bang closed behind him.

I can't go on, he thought. There's no way out.

There was an opened packet of cheese nibbles next to the bed. He took a few handfuls.

He heard a voice inside his head. His old schoolmaster, Fernstrom: "It's up to you to decide what you're going to do next."

No, Fernstrom never understood.

He did not want to think about all that. But it made no difference what he wanted. Thoughts came flooding in like water through an open sluicegate.

Hjalmar Krekula is thirteen years old. On the radio Kennedy is debating with Nixon in the run-up to the presidential elections. Kennedy is a playboy; n.o.body thinks he is going to win. Hjalmar is not interested in politics. He is sitting in the cla.s.sroom with his elbows on the varnished lid of his desk. His head is resting on his hands, his palms against his cheekbones. He and Herr Fernstrom are the only ones there. Once all the other children have gone home and the smell of wet wool and stables has disappeared along with them, the smell of school takes over. The smell of dusty books, the sour smell of the rag used to clean the blackboard. The smell of soft soap from the floor, and the peculiar smell of the old building.

Hjalmar Krekula can sense Herr Fernstrom occasionally looking up as he sits at his desk, correcting exercise books. Hjalmar avoids meeting his gaze. Instead, his eyes trace the wood grain of his desk lid. It resembles a woman lying down. To the right is an imaginary creature, or perhaps a ptarmigan: the mark where a twig branched off is an eye.

The headmaster, Herr Bergvall, enters the room. Herr Fernstrom closes the exercise book he has been marking and pushes it to one side.

Bergvall greets him.

"Well," he says, "I've spoken to the doctors in Kiruna, and with Elis Seva's mother. His wound needed six st.i.tches. His nose wasn't broken, but he has concussion."

He says nothing for a while, waiting for Hjalmar Krekula to react. Hjalmar does what he always does: says nothing, fixes his eyes on something else, on the wall chart featuring a map of Palestine, on the harmonium, on the pupils' drawings pinned up on the wall. Tore had taken young Seva's bicycle. Seva had told Tore to give him the b.l.o.o.d.y thing back. Tore had said, "Come on, I'm only borrowing it." A fight had ensued. One of Tore's mates had gone to fetch Hjalmar. Seva had been furious, hitting out left, right and centre.

Herr Fernstrom looks at the headmaster and with a barely noticeable shake of the head indicates that there is no point in waiting for an answer from Hjalmar Krekula.

The headmaster's face becomes somewhat flushed and he starts breathing heavily, provoked by Hjalmar's silence. He says that this is bad, very bad. a.s.sault and battery, that is what it is. .h.i.tting a schoolmate with a spanner: for G.o.d's sake, there are laws against that, and those laws apply in school as well.

"He started it," Hjalmar says, as usual.

The headmaster's voice goes up a tone, and he says he thinks Krekula is lying to save his own skin. Says his friends might back up Krekula's story to save their own skins.

"Herr Fernstrom tells me that Krekula is a talented mathematician," the headmaster says.

Hjalmar Krekula says nothing, looks out of the window.

Now the headmaster loses his patience.

"Whatever good that will do him," he says, "when he is failing virtually every other subject. Especially conduct and att.i.tude."

He repeats the last sentence.

"Especially conduct and att.i.tude."

Hjalmar Krekula turns to face the headmaster. Gives him a disdainful look.

The headmaster immediately starts to worry that he might have his windows smashed at home.

"Krekula must try to keep his impulses under control," he says in a conciliatory tone.

And he adds that Krekula will have one-to-one tuition with the deputy head for two weeks. Get away from the cla.s.sroom for a while. Have an opportunity to think things over.

Then the headmaster leaves.

Herr Fernstrom sighs. Hjalmar has the impression that the sigh is a reaction to the headmaster rather than to himself.

"Why do you get involved in fighting?" Herr Fernstrom says. "You're not a fool. And you're really gifted when it comes to maths. You ought to continue your education, Hjalmar. You have the chance to catch up in your other subjects. Then you could go on to high school."

"Huh," Hjalmar says.

"What do you mean, huh?"

"My father would never allow it. We have to work in the haulage business, me and Tore."

"I'll have a word with your father. It's up to you to decide what you're going to do next. Do you see that? If you stop fighting and . . ."

"I couldn't give a toss," Hjalmar says vehemently. "I've no desire to continue at school anyway. It's better to get a job and earn some money. Can I go now?"

Herr Fernstrom sighs again. And this time the sigh is definitely aimed at Hjalmar Krekula.

"Yes, you can go," he says. "Go away."

But Fernstrom really does have a word with the old man. One day when Hjalmar comes home, Isak Krekula is bubbling over with rage. Kerttu continues making pancakes with a grim expression on her face while Isak lays down the law in the kitchen.

"I want you to be quite clear that I sent that schoolmaster of yours packing with a flea in his ear," he bellows at Hjalmar. "I'll be d.a.m.ned if a son of mine is going to become an anaemic calculating machine, and I made sure he understood that. Maths, eh? Who the devil do you think you are? Too posh to work in the transport business, is that it? Not good enough for your lords.h.i.+p? I'll have you know that it's the haulage business that has put food on your table for your entire life."

He gasps for breath, as if his fury is well on the way to choking him, as if it were a pillow over his mouth.

"If it doesn't suit you to help to take responsibility for your family, then you're not welcome to stay here, is that clear? Work away at your maths if you like, but in that case you'll have to look elsewhere for a place to live."

Hjalmar wants to tell his father that he has no intention of going to high school. This is all something thought up by Herr Fernstrom. But he does not say a word. His fear of his father gets in the way of what he wants to say. But there is something else as well. A flash of insight.

The insight is that he really is good at maths. Even talented. Just as the headmaster said. He is a talented mathematician. Fernstrom told the headmaster, and Fernstrom drove all the way to Piilijarvi to tell his dad.

And when Isak Krekula yells, "Well, how's it going to be?" Hjalmar does not reply. Isak gives him a box on the ear, two in fact, making his head spin and throb. Hjalmar has the feeling that he can become "an anaemic calculating machine". And that is something way beyond the reach of the rest of the family, something that makes Isak froth at the mouth with rage.

Then Hjalmar goes to the lake to sit on the sh.o.r.e. Has to turn the cheek that has been smacked away from the autumn sun, to prevent it hurting even more.

He watches two ravens playing tag with a twig. One of them performs wild acrobatics with the twig in its beak, the other chases close behind it. They loop the loop, spin round on their own axes, dive down towards the water, then shoot back up again.

The one with the stick flies straight into the crown of a tree; it seems certain that it will collide with the trunk or a heavy branch and break its neck, but the next second it emerges on the other side it has found its way through the network of branches like a black throwing knife. It sails out over the lake and gives a reckless "korrrp" and drops the twig, of course. Both ravens circle above the water before they decide they cannot be bothered and fly off above the tops of the pine trees.

I land on the jetty next to Hjalmar. He's thirteen years old, and his cheek is flaming red. Tears are streaming down his face, although he's trying hard not to cry. And then comes the anger. It hits him with such force that he starts trembling. He hates Isak, who bawled and yelled so violently that spit was flying in all directions. He hates Kerttu, who simply turned her back on it all, as usual. He hates Herr Fernstrom why the h.e.l.l did he have to go and have a word with his father? Hjalmar didn't ask him to. He has never even thought about going to high school. He's had something taken away from him that he didn't have in the first place. So why is he crying?

The fury inside him is like a red-hot poker. He stands up, has to struggle to stay on his feet. He goes looking for Tore, who is messing about with his Zundapp moped, fitting a bigger jet to the carburettor.

"Come on, there's a job we need to do," he says.

Herr Fernstrom's black Volkswagen is parked in its usual place, a hundred metres from the school.

Hjalmar has brought a crowbar with him. He starts with the rear and front lights. Soon the gla.s.s is lying like heaps of diamonds on the tarmac. But that's not enough: he still has so much anger pulsating inside him that needs to come out, out. He smashes the windscreen, the side windows, the back window. There is a loud bang as the panes splinter, the gla.s.s shoots out in all directions, and Tore takes a couple of paces backwards. Some children walk past.

"If you squeal on us, it'll be your skulls next time," Tore says, and they run off like startled mice.

Tore places one foot on the frame of a shattered side window and vaults up onto the roof, bounces up and down several times until it is completely dented and ruined, then jumps down onto the road via the bonnet.

It happens very quickly, all done within three minutes, and then it's time to run.

"Come on," Tore shouts, already on his moped, having driven some way off.

Hjalmar's arms ache, and he feels sweaty. He's calm now. He'll never cry again.

Opening the car door, he searches through the briefcase on the front pa.s.senger seat. Tore is shouting away, worried in case some adult should turn up at the scene. There is no wallet, just three maths textbooks Tekno's Giant Arithmetic Book, Practical Arithmetic, Geometry Manual and a paperback ent.i.tled Turning Points in Physics A Series of Lectures Given at Oxford University. Hjalmar tucks them all inside his jacket apart from the Giant Arithmetic Book, which is simply too big: he has to carry that under his arm.

I leave them to it. Soar up with the thermals. Up, up.

I shall start things moving with regard to Prosecutor Rebecka Martinsson and Hjalmar Krekula.

Martinsson is sitting in her office after the morning's proceedings. They comprised cases of dangerous driving, G.B.H. and fraud. The doc.u.mentation needs putting in order, and decisions must be made. She knows that if she knuckles down, it will take half an hour, no more. But she doesn't feel like it; she is finding it hard to concentrate.

The snowy weather has pa.s.sed over. Quickly. As it tends to do in the mountains. Just when it felt as if it would never cease. When the wind was raging and howling, and the sticky April snow was forcing its way inside people's upturned collars, wet and icy. Suddenly, everything died down. The clouds blew away. The sky became light blue and cloudless.

Martinsson checks her mobile. Hopes her man will ring or text her. Outside the sun is s.h.i.+ning down on the facades and roofs of buildings, onto all the newly fallen snow.

Two crows are sitting in the tree outside her window. They are calling to her, enticing her out. Although she has no awareness of that.

People don't think about birds. Birds inspire them with big, ambitious thoughts, but people never ask themselves why this is the case. Never wonder how it is that twenty little birds in a birch tree at winter's end, chirping and warbling, can open up people's hearts and let happiness come flowing in. The barking of a dog doesn't awaken such feelings.

Then Martinsson looks up into the sky and sees a skein of migrating birds: all those ma.s.sive emotions take possession of her. Just as when a hundred crows gather to form a croaking choir on a summer's evening. Or an owl cries dolefully, or a great northern diver appears on a summer's night. Or a swallow arrives with a clatter to feed its squeaking fledglings in their nest under the eaves.

Nor do people ask themselves why it is that their interest in birds increases the older they get, the closer they come to death.

Ah well, people don't know very much until they die.

The crows are cawing loudly, and Martinsson feels that she really must go out for a walk and make the most of the lovely weather. It occurs to her that it is a long time since she visited her grandmother's grave. Good. She stands up.

A flock of ravens lands in the parking area at the front of Hjalmar's house. Their beaks and feathers glisten in the sun.

My G.o.d, how big they are, Hjalmar thinks as he watches them through his window.

He has the feeling that they are staring straight at him. When he opens the front door, they shuffle to one side, but none of them flies away. They caw and croak quietly. He is not sure if he should think this is creepy or captivating. They stare at him.

I'll pay a visit to Wilma's grave, he thinks. n.o.body could possibly think there was anything odd about that. I live in the village, after all.

Snow covers Kiruna cemetery. High drifts between the cleared graves and paths. It is almost like walking through a maze. Martinsson looks around. It takes her some time to get her bearings. The snow makes everything look different. Hardly anybody has had the time to clear the graves since this morning's storm. They lie hidden beneath the snow. The sun is glistening on all the whiteness. The beech trees form imposing portals with their hanging branches, heavy with wet snow.

Martinsson usually reads the inscriptions on all the gravestones as she pa.s.ses by them. She loves all the old-fas.h.i.+oned t.i.tles: small-holder, certificated forester, parish treasurer. And all the old names: Gideon, Eufemia, Lorentz.

The grave of her grandparents is hidden under the snow. It was buried even before the latest storm. Her conscience p.r.i.c.ks as she goes to fetch a spade.

She starts digging. The newly fallen snow is light and easy to s.h.i.+ft, but the snow underneath is wet, icy and as heavy as lead. The sun hurts her eyes but warms her back. It occurs to her that she never gets the feeling that her farmor is present when she comes here. No, she meets her farmor in other places. Without warning in the forest, or sometimes in her house. When she goes to the grave it's more of an act of will, an attempt to make her thoughts and feelings home in on her farmor.

But I know you'd want me to keep things neat and tidy here, she thinks to her grandmother, and vows to become a better grave-keeper.

Now memories of her farmor start to surface. Martinsson is fifteen years old and riding her moped the 13 kilometres from Kiruna to Kurravaara, chugging up to the house on her Puch Dakota with her satchel over her shoulder. It's almost the end of term, and in the autumn she'll be starting grammar school. It's 6.00 in the evening. Farmor is in the cowshed. Martinsson throws her jacket over the big cast-iron cauldron built into the wall. There is a grate underneath it. Farmor uses it to heat up water for the cows in winter. She sometimes uses the warm water to soften up dried birch sprigs so that the cows have birch leaves to eat together with soaked oats: Martinsson often helps her farmor tear the sodden leaves from the twigs. Farmor's hands are always rough and covered in wounds. When Martinsson was a little girl she used to bathe in the cowshed cauldron every other Sat.u.r.day. Short wooden planks were placed at the bottom so that she didn't burn herself on the hot iron.

All those noises, Martinsson thinks as she stands by the grave. All those calming noises that I shall never hear again cows chewing, milk spurting onto the sides of the pail as Farmor does the milking, chains rattling as the cows stretch to reach more hay, the buzzing of flies and the chattering of barn swallows. Farmor giving me strict instructions to go and change you can't mess around in the cowshed wearing your elegant school uniform. Me saying: "Who cares?" and turning my attention to brus.h.i.+ng down Daisy.

Farmor never argued. Her strictness was only in her voice. My life with her was one of freedom.

Then she died alone. While I was in Uppsala, studying for my exams. But I'm not ready to think about that yet. There are so many things for which I can never forgive myself. And that is the worst one.

Martinsson is sweating, digging into the heavy snow with the spade, when a shadow falls over her. Someone is standing behind her. She turns round.

It's Hjalmar.

He looks like a man on the run. A man who has been sleeping in his clothes in stairwells, a man who has been searching through rubbish bins and wastepaper baskets for bottles and tins with a deposit he can collect.

Martinsson is frightened at first. But then her heart becomes heavy and she feels sorry for him. He looks really awful. He's going rapidly downhill.

She says nothing.

Hjalmar looks at Martinsson. He hadn't expected to see that prosecutor here. He pa.s.sed through the new part of the cemetery on his way to Wilma's grave. All the new graves were free of snow, neat and tidy. The relatives must have been here the moment the sun came out. They had certainly spent their lunch breaks making sure everything looked presentable. Much loved and missed, it said on nearly all the stones. Hjalmar wondered vaguely what it would say on his own stone. Whether Tore's wife Laura would look after the grave. She might well do, simply to stop people talking in the village. He paused for a few moments in front of a child's grave. Calculated quickly on the basis of the inscribed dates how old Samuel had been when he died. Two years, three months and five days. There was an image of the boy on the top left-hand corner of the stone. Hjalmar had never seen anything like that before. Not that he visited the cemetery all that often. There was a wreath with a teddy bear in it, flowers and a lantern.

"Poor little lad," he said, feeling a tug at his heart-strings. "Poor little lad."

Then he couldn't bring himself to stop at Wilma's grave. Just walked past the temporary plastic nameplate on an aluminium peg: "Persson Wilma". Gifts, flowers, a few flickering candles. He walked back through the old part of the cemetery wondering why the h.e.l.l he had come, and then caught sight of the prosecutor.

He recognized her by her overcoat and long, dark hair. He didn't know why he decided to walk towards her. He stopped a few metres short. She was frightened when she turned round. He could tell.

He wants to tell her she has nothing to be afraid of, but can't produce a sound. Just stands there like an idiot. But that is what he's been all his life. An idiot people are afraid of.

She says nothing. The fear disappears from her eyes and is replaced by something else. Something he finds it difficult to cope with. He's not used to it. He's not used to people being quiet. He's usually the one who says nothing and lets the others do the talking, lets the others decide what to do.

"They can scatter my ashes to the winds," he says eventually.

She nods.

"Have you come to visit the people you killed?" he asks after another pause.

He knows about that, of course. He's read about her in the evening papers. And people talk.

"No," she says. "I've come to visit my grandmother. And my grandfather."

She nods towards the grave she is clearing.

Then it dawns on her what his question sounded like. There was an "also" there that he didn't actually say. But it was there. Have you also come to visit the people you killed?