Echoes From the Dead

15

Tuesday morning was cold and windy, and it was humiliating for Gerlof not to be able to walk out to the car on his own. He was forced to lean on both Boel and Linda as he made his way out of the home to Julia’s Ford out at the front.

Gerlof could feel how hard both women were working to make his heavy, unwilling body move forward. All he could do was grip his cane tightly with one hand and his briefcase with the other, and allow himself to be led.

It was humiliating, but there was nothing to be done about it. Some days he could walk without too much difficulty, other days he could hardly move. This autumn day was cold, and that made everything worse. It was the day before Ernst’s funeral, and Gerlof and his daughter were off on an excursion.

Julia opened the passenger door from the inside, and he got in.

“Where are you off to?” asked Boel beside the car. She always liked to keep tabs on him.

“South,” said Gerlof. “To Borgholm.”

“Will you be back for dinner?”

“Probably,” said Gerlof, closing the door. “Right, off we go,” he said to Julia, hoping she wouldn’t comment on the wretched state he was in this morning.

“She seems to care about you,” said Julia as she drove away from the home. “Boel, I mean.”

“It’s her responsibility, she doesn’t want anything to happen to me,” said Gerlof, and added, “I don’t know if you heard, but a pensioner has disappeared in the south of Öland... The police are looking for him.”

“I heard it on the car radio,” said Julia. “But we’re not going out onto the alvar today, are we?”

Gerlof shook his head. “Like I said, we’re going to Borgholm. We’re going to see three men. Not all at the same time. One after another. And one of them sent Jens’s sandal to me. You want to talk to him, don’t you?”

“And the others?”

“One of them is a friend of mine,” said Gerlof. “His name’s Gösta Engström.”

“And the third man?”

“He’s a little bit special.”

Julia braked as they approached the stop sign at the intersection with the main road.

“You always have to be so secretive, Gerlof,” she said. “Is it because you want to feel important?”

“No, it isn’t,” said Gerlof quickly.

“Well, that’s what I think,” said Julia as she turned onto the main road to Borgholm.

Maybe she was right, thought Gerlof. He’d never really considered what it was that motivated him.

“I’m not self-important,” he said. “I just think it’s best to tell stories at their own pace. Before, people always took their time over telling stories, but now everything has to be done so quickly.”

Julia didn’t say anything. They drove south, past the turning for Stenvik. A few hundred yards further on, Gerlof could see the old station house on the horizon to the west. This was where Nils Kant had walked that summer’s day after the end of the war, the day that ended with him shooting District Superintendent Henriksson dead on the train.

Gerlof could still remember the commotion. First two German soldiers shot dead on the alvar, then the murder of a policeman, and a murderer on the run — a sensation that merited plenty of news coverage, even during the final bloody and dramatic months of the Second World War.

Reporters had come from far and wide to write about the violence and the horrifying events on Öland. Gerlof himself had been in Stockholm at the time, trying to resume his civilian maritime career, and had only been able to read about the drama in the newspaper. The police had called in reinforcements from all over southern Sweden to search the island for Kant, but he had jumped off the train and managed to get away.

There were no trains on Öland now; even the railway tracks had been pried up, and the Marnäs train station had become someone’s home. A summer home, of course.

Gerlof looked away from the station house and leaned back in his seat; a few minutes later something suddenly started bleeping persistently somewhere inside the car. He looked around quickly, but Julia remained calm and, as she was driving, slid a cell phone out of her purse. She spoke quietly, answering in monosyllables, then switched off the phone.

“I’ve never understood how those things work,” said Gerlof.

“What things?”

“Cordless phones. Cell phones, as they call them, whatever a cell is.”

“All you have to do is switch them on and make a call,” said Julia. Then she added, “That was Lena. She says hello.”

“That’s nice. What did she want?”

“I think she mainly wants her car back,” said Julia tersely. “This one. She keeps calling me about it.” Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I own it jointly with her, but that doesn’t seem to bother her.”

“Right,” said Gerlof.

His daughters obviously had points of disagreement between them that he knew nothing about. Their mother would doubtless have done something about it if she’d been alive, but unfortunately he had absolutely no idea what he ought to do.

Julia sat in silence behind the wheel after her telephone conversation, and Gerlof couldn’t come up with any way of breaking the silence.

After a quarter of an hour Julia turned off onto the exit road to Borgholm.

“Where are we going now?” she asked.

“First of all we’re going to have our morning coffee,” replied Gerlof.

It was warm and comfortable in the Engströms’ apartment on the southern outskirts of Borgholm. Gösta and Margit had a fantastic view of the ruined castle from their balcony in the low apartment block. On the far side of a narrow, deserted meadow was a long steep hillside with huge deciduous trees clinging to it, and on the plateau above the hillside rose the medieval castle. One of Borgholm’s many mysterious fires had ravaged it at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and now both the roof and the wooden beams were gone. Great black openings gaped where the windows had been.

The burnt-out windows up there always made Gerlof think of a skull with empty eye sockets. Some of those who lived in Borgholm had never liked the castle, he knew, at least not until it was transformed from a showy, dilapidated wreck into a historic ruin that brought in the tourists. Centuries ago, the inhabitants of Öland had been forced to build the castle, but it had been yet another royal command that brought nothing but blood and sweat and disappointment for them. The people of the mainland had always tried to suck the island dry.

Julia stood in silence on the balcony contemplating the ruin, and Gerlof turned to her.

“In the Stone Age they used to throw the old people who were sick off that cliff,” he said quietly, pointing toward the ruin. “That’s what they say, anyway. Of course, that was before the castle was built. And long before those who govern us started building old people’s homes...”

Margit Engström bustled toward them. She was carrying a tray of coffee cups and wearing an apron that proclaimed THE BEST GRANNY IN THE WORLD!!!

“In the summer they have concerts in the ruin,” she told them, “and it can get a bit noisy here. Otherwise it’s really nice living below a castle.”

She set the tray on the table in front of the television and poured coffee for them all before fetching a basket of buns and a plate of cookies from the kitchen.

Her husband Gösta was wearing a gray suit with a white shirt and suspenders, and was smiling the whole time. He had looked happy when he was a sea captain too, Gerlof remembered — at least as long as people were doing what he told them to do.

“Nice to see you both,” said Gösta, picking up a steaming cup of coffee. “Of course we’re coming up to Marnäs tomorrow. You’re going too, I presume?”

He was talking about Ernst’s funeral. Gerlof nodded.

“I am, at least. Julia might have to get back to Gothenburg.”

“What’s happening to his house?” said Gösta. “Have they said?”

“No, I suppose it’s too early to decide,” said Gerlof. “But I imagine it will end up as a summer cottage for his family in Smäland. Not that northern Öland needs any more summer cottages... but I expect that’s what it will be.”

“Yes, things will have to change a good deal before anybody moves in to live there all year round,” said Gösta, taking a sip of his coffee.

“We’re so happy down here in town, with everything close by,” said Margit, placing the generously filled dishes on the table. “But of course we’re members of the Marnäs local history association.”

Her husband smiled lovingly at her.

They didn’t stay long at the Engströms’, no more than half an hour.

“Okay,” said Gerlof once they were back in the car, “you can drive over to Badhusgatan now. We’ll stop off at Blomberg’s car lot and do a little shopping before we head off down to the harbor.”

Julia looked at him before she started the car.

“Was there any point to this visit?”

“We got coffee and cookies,” said Gerlof. “Isn’t that enough? And it’s always nice to see Gösta. He was the captain of a Baltic cargo ship, just like me. There aren’t many of us left now...”

Julia turned onto Badhusgatan and drove past the empty sidewalks. They hardly met any cars either. Ahead of them at the end of the street was the white harbor hotel.

“Turn in here,” said Gerlof, pointing to the left.

Julia blinked, then turned onto an asphalt area where a sign saying BLOMBERG’S AUTOS hung in front of a low building housing both a workshop and a used-car lot. A few newer Volvos had the honor of being positioned inside behind glass, but most of the vehicles were parked outside. Handwritten signs behind each windshield showed the price and mileage.

“Come on,” said Gerlof when Julia had pulled up.

“Are we buying a new car?” she asked, bewildered.

“No, no,” said Gerlof, “we’re just going to pop in and see Robert Blomberg for a few minutes.”

His joints had grown warmer and coffee with the Engströms had perked him up. His aches and pains had subsided somewhat, and he was able to walk across the asphalt with only his cane for support, although Julia did go ahead of him to open the door of the workshop.

A bell rang, and the smell of oil hit them.

Gerlof knew a lot about boats but far too little about cars, and the sight of engines always made him feel unsure of himself. There was a car standing on the cement floor, a black Ford surrounded by welding gear and various tools, but nobody was working on it. The place was deserted.

Gerlof walked slowly over to the little office inside the workshop, and looked in.

“Good morning,” he said to the young mechanic in grubby overalls who was sitting at the desk, intent on the cartoon page of Ölands-Posten. “We’re from Stenvik, and we’d like to buy some oil for the car.”

“Oh? We actually sell that in the other place, but I can get it for you.”

The mechanic got up; he was a little taller than Gerlof. This must be Robert Blomberg’s son.

“We’ll come with you and have a look at the cars,” said Gerlof.

He nodded to Julia and they followed the young man through a door to the sales area.

There was no smell of oil here, and the floor was spotless and painted white. Rows of shining cars were parked in the showroom.

“Motor oil?” the mechanic asked.

“That’ll be fine,” said Gerlof.

He saw an older man come out of a small office and position himself in the doorway of the showroom. He was almost as tall and broad-shouldered as the mechanic, and he had a wrinkled face with cheeks flushed red by broken blood vessels.

They had never spoken to one another, because Gerlof had always conducted any business involving cars in Marnäs, but he knew immediately that this was Robert Blomberg. Blomberg had come over from the mainland and opened his car workshop and small showroom in the middle of the 1970s. John Hagman had had some dealings with the old man, and had told Gerlof about him.

The older Blomberg nodded to Gerlof without saying anything. Gerlof nodded silently back. He’d heard that Blomberg had had some problems with alcohol a while ago, and maybe he still did, but it was hardly a promising topic of conversation.

“There you go,” said the young mechanic, handing over a plastic bottle of engine oil.

Robert Blomberg slowly withdrew from the doorway and went back into the office. He was swaying slightly, Gerlof realized.

“I didn’t need any oil,” said Julia when they were back in the car.

“It’s always good to have some spare oil,” said Gerlof. “What did you think of the repair shop?”

“It looked like any other repair shop,” said Julia, pulling out onto Badhusgatan. “They didn’t seem to have that much to do.”

“Drive toward the harbor.” Gerlof pointed. “And the owners... the Blombergs? What did you think of them?”

“They didn’t say much. Why?”

“Robert Blomberg was at sea for many years, or so I’ve heard,” said Gerlof. “Sailing the seven seas, all the way down to South America.”

“Right,” said Julia.

It was quiet in the car for a few seconds. They were approaching the harbor hotel at the bottom of Badhusgatan. Gerlof looked at the harbor beside the hotel, and felt a quiet sorrow.

“No happy ending,” he said.

“What?” said Julia.

“Many stories have no happy ending.”

“The most important thing is that they have an ending, isn’t it?” said Julia. She looked at him. “Are you thinking about anyone in particular?”

“Yes... I suppose I’m thinking mostly about seafaring and Öland. It could have turned out better. It ended too quickly.”

Borgholm harbor had just a few concrete quays, and they were completely empty. Not one single fishing boat was in. A huge anchor, painted black, had been propped up on the asphalt beside the water, possibly as a reminder of livelier times.

“In the fifties the cargo boats would be lined up here,” said Gerlof, looking out the window at the gray water. “On a day like this in the autumn they would have been loading up or having maintenance work done, there would have been people all around them. The air would have been filled with the smells of tar and varnish. If it was sunny, the captains would have hoisted the sails to air them in the breeze. Ivory-colored sails all lined up against a blue sky, it was a beautiful sight...”

He fell silent.

“So when did the ships stop coming here?” asked Julia.

“Oh... in the sixties. But they didn’t stop coming here — it was more that they stopped sailing from here. Most captains on the island needed to exchange their boats for more modern ships around that time, so they could compete with the shipping companies on the mainland, but the banks wouldn’t approve any loans. They didn’t believe in seafaring on Öland anymore.” He stopped speaking, then added, “I couldn’t get a loan either, so I sold my last schooner, Nore... Then I went to evening classes to learn about office administration, to make the time pass in the winter.”

“I don’t remember you being at home in the winter,” said Julia. “I don’t remember you being home at all.”

Gerlof looked away from the empty quays, at his daughter.

“Oh, but I was at home. For several months. I’d intended to get a job as a captain on an oceangoing ship the following year, but then I got an office job for the local council, and there I stayed. John Hagman, who had been my first mate, bought his own boat when I came ashore, and he had that for a couple more years. It was one of Borgholm’s very last ships. It was called Farewell, appropriately enough.”

Julia had allowed the car to roll slowly forward, away from the quays and toward the imposing wooden houses that lay to the north of the harbor, behind neat wooden fences. The house nearest to the harbor was the biggest, wide and painted white and almost as big as the harbor hotel.

Gerlof raised his hand.

“You can stop here,” he said.

Julia pulled in at the side of the road in front of the houses, and Gerlof leaned slowly forward and opened his briefcase.

“The Öland boat owners were too stubborn,” he said, taking out a brown envelope and the slim volume he had brought with him from his desk. “We could have got together enough capital between us to buy new, bigger ships. But that wasn’t for us. Strength lies in working alone, I suppose we thought. We didn’t dare to make a big investment.”

He handed the book over to his daughter. Malm Freight — Forty Years was the title, and on the cover was a black-and-white aerial picture of a big motorized ship plowing through an endless ocean in the sunshine.

“Malm Freight was the exception,” said Gerlof. “Martin Malm was a captain who had the courage to invest in bigger ships. He built up a small fleet of cargo ships that sailed all over the world. He made money, and bought more ships with his profits. Martin became one of the richest men on Öland by the end of the sixties.”

“Did he?” said Julia. “Great.”

“But nobody knows where he got the capital from to start up,” said Gerlof. “He didn’t have any more money than any other skipper, as far as I know.” He pointed at the book. “Malm Freight published this memoir last spring. Turn it over, I want to show you something.”

On the back was a short text explaining that this was an anniversary publication about one of Öland’s most successful shipping companies. Beneath the text was a logo, consisting of the words MALM FREIGHT with a silhouette of three seagulls hovering above them.

“Look at the seagulls,” said Gerlof.

“Right,” said Julia. “A drawing of three seagulls. And?”

“Compare it with this envelope,” said Gerlof, passing her the brown envelope. It had a Swedish stamp with a blurred postmark, and was addressed to him at the Marnäs Home, Marnäs, in shaky handwriting in black ink. “Somebody has torn off the right-hand corner, just there. But there’s still a little bit of the right seagull’s wing... can you see it?”

Julia looked, then nodded slowly. “What is this envelope?”

“The sandal arrived in it,” said Gerlof. “The boy’s sandal.”

“But you threw that envelope away. That’s what you told Lennart.”

“A white lie. I thought it was enough that he was taking the sandal.” Gerlof quickly went on: “But the important thing is that this envelope came from Malm Freight. So it was Martin Malm who sent Jens’s sandal. I’m sure of it. And I think he’s phoned me too.”

“Phoned you?” said Julia. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“He might have phoned.” Gerlof looked out at the big houses. “There wasn’t much to say about it, just that somebody has called me this autumn on a few evenings. It started after I got the sandal. But the person who called never said a word.”

Julia lowered the envelope and looked at him. “Are we going to see him now?”

“I hope so.” Gerlof pointed at the big white wooden house. “He lives there.”

He opened the car door and got out. Julia stayed where she was for a few seconds, motionless at the wheel, then she got out of the car as well.

“Are you sure he’s at home?”

“Martin Malm is always at home,” said Gerlof.

A cold wind from the sound was blowing around them, and Gerlof glanced back over his shoulder at the water. Once again he wondered about Nils Kant — how he’d somehow got across this sound, almost fifty years earlier.