Читать книгу Fog Island - Mariette Lindstein - Страница 12

6

Her light-heartedness remained.

The constant worry in the back of her head was gone. She’d heard of people who didn’t even know they had a headache until it went away, and that was exactly what this felt like. This is my real self, she thought. A week on this program and I feel like a new person.

What’s more, she had become aware of an exciting mystique that affected the whole island but especially the manor. When she gazed up at the main building, she felt a jolt of excitement in her belly. She was already looking forward to her return.

On her last day, she rented a bicycle and pedalled around the island. She had gotten a ride to the village and left her luggage in a locker near the ferry. She spent the morning sunning herself on the beach and enjoying the scents brought out by the sun: the smell of tar from the fishing shacks and the pungent odour of the seaweed bobbing at the shore. She ate lunch at an outdoor café on a pier. The restaurant was packed with tourists. It really was high summer now.

There were so many people in the village that the narrow cobblestone streets were crowded. Most of the buildings were clustered around the square, where the ferry docked, but the village had climbed up the cliffs and some cottages rested high above the sea. She wondered what it would be like to live up there in the fall, when the storms drew in over the island.

There was a small souvenir shop on the square, and she went in to look for something for Wilma and her parents. Suddenly, Ellen Vingås appeared, tan and wearing a colourful summer dress that showed off the better part of her large bust.

‘Sofia, it’s so nice to run into you!’

‘Same to you. It’s my last day here.’

‘Mine too. So how did it go?’

‘Oh, it was great. I’m coming back. I’m going to help out with the library.’

She didn’t want to say that she would be joining the staff. That would seem too hasty, and she didn’t want the famous singer to think she was so easily taken in.

‘How did the theses go?’ she asked Vingås.

‘Well, I liked number one and number three. I didn’t get four; nothing much happened when I did it. But overall I think it went well.’

‘Funny. It was the other way around for me. I liked number four best.’

‘Imagine that. But now I’m headed home, back to the daily grind. We’ll see if this good feeling lasts. It sure as hell did make a dent in the old finances!’ she said with a shrill laugh.

A couple of women who were inspecting some porcelain shot her a look of alarm.

She dug through her large handbag and pulled out a small card, which she handed to Sofia. ‘My card — let me know if you happen to be in Stockholm sometime and I’ll get you some opera tickets.’

Sofia watched as Vingås left the shop, her hips swaying. She really wanted to meet her again.

At last she found a set of mugs with island motifs for her parents, and a little brochure of nature photography for Wilma.

She decided to bike to the north end of the island. It was as if the lookout point were calling her to it one last time.

The wind was coming from the east for a change and waves crashed persistently against the cliffs to her right. The wind whipped at her hair and whined in the spokes. Gulls sailed freely on the breeze.

She parked the bike at the end of the road and began to cross the heath toward the lookout point. When she gazed out at the sea, she saw someone standing on Devil’s Rock and looking down at the water. She squinted, trying to make out the figure, but the cliff was too far away. The figure climbed down and vanished from sight, but didn’t show up on the heath. She approached the rock, but there was no one in sight on the cliffs. She toyed with the thought that she had seen the old Count searching for his Countess in the depths. Yet all she could see from the edge of the cliff was the clear, dark water that seemed never to end; at least, the bottom wasn’t visible.

She sat down on the cliff and dangled her legs over the edge. You could almost see the curve of the earth at the horizon. From here you can see the beginning and end of the world, she thought. You can see all the way to eternity.

She wanted to visit the cottage one last time, so she left the bike at the edge of the road and set off through the forest.

As soon as she stepped inside, everything seemed different. The rag rug in the entryway was mussed and there was a key ring on the kitchen table. The bedroom door was open and there was someone in the bed. Her first impulse was to turn around and go. But curiosity got the better of her and she sneaked over to the bedroom.

Stretched out on the bedspread, deep in sleep with his mouth open, lay a young man in a grey suit. At first she wanted to wake him up, but that would be embarrassing for both of them. Just as she was about to sneak back out, he opened his eyes.

‘Busted,’ he mumbled, sitting up in the bed and rubbing his eyes.

He had bright, lively eyes. His chin jutted out a bit and his whole face, aside from the very top of his forehead, was covered in freckles. His hair was red, shaggy, and uncombed. Despite his large mane, his head seemed too small for his torso, which was broad and muscular. When he stood up she realized how tall he was — he had to be six foot three, a giant compared to her five-two.

‘Benjamin Frisk,’ he said, putting out his hand. His shirtsleeve slid up, revealing an arm covered in red fuzz. He tried in vain to smooth his wrinkled blazer with the other hand.

She had a few cutting remarks on the tip of her tongue, but she refrained since she didn’t want to contribute to his embarrassment.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked instead.

He smiled, showing a big gap between his front teeth.

‘Shit! I can’t believe you found me like this. Well, maybe you’ve heard that we’re renovating the staff quarters. I’m in charge of shipping and purchasing and stuff, so I’m really busy. I hardly get any sleep.’

‘So you steal a nap here and there?’

‘Yes, that’s about it.’

‘My name is Sofia.’

‘I know who you are. I’ve been spying on you; I’ve seen you come to the cottage and I noticed you in the guest dining room. I was hoping we would run into each other. But not like this.’

‘So how come I’ve never seen you?’

‘I guess I’ve kept my distance. Until now. But have a seat, by all means.’

He pointed at the kitchen table as if he owned the place.

‘I want to know more about this cottage,’ she said once they had sat down. ‘Do you know who owns it, and why it’s always empty?’

‘An old lady owns it. She comes in the summer. That’s all I know.’

‘There’s something special about it. Like, I was drawn here.’

‘It’s in a funny spot. In the middle of the woods.’

They didn’t speak for a moment as they looked at each other. A lone ray of sunlight cut through the gap in the curtains and set fire to the dust, which whirled up to the ceiling like a tiny tornado. There was so much life in his eyes. When she gazed into them she felt a pleasant sort of rush, a stream of warmth trickling through her body.

‘Don’t they miss you when you disappear?’

‘Nah, an hour here and there doesn’t matter. It’s so chaotic down on the first floor.’

‘I have to run to catch the ferry.’

‘When are you coming back?’

‘I have no idea, but it will be soon — I’m going to work in the library.’

‘I know that too. Rumours spread fast in our little group. Can’t you take the morning ferry instead? I know every nook and cranny of this island; I can show you around and —’

‘Not today. But maybe when I come back.’

She glanced at her watch. It was almost four-thirty.

‘Shit! I have to hurry!’ she said, dashing through the front door.

She ran into the woods and toward the heath, but she turned around one last time before she disappeared into the trees.

He was standing on the lawn and gazing after her.

Benjamin Frisk, she thought. Another reason to come back.

She pedalled frantically all the way to the village.

The sun glittered off everything: the asphalt, the bike, the sea, and the cliffs.

We search for the book and find the cape instead.

We sit in the hot, stuffy attic, poring through books that smell like sun-warmed dust and mothballs. Sometimes they fall apart when we pick them up.

‘What are we looking for?’ she asks.

‘A book of family history. It’s supposed to be bound in leather and I’m sure it’s handwritten.’

‘How do you know it’s here?’

‘Mom saw it once. When she was cleaning. She put it up here with the other books.’

She is impatient. She gets up and starts snooping through the attic, getting farther and farther away from me.

Then I hear her voice, far off in the darkness.

‘Fredrik, look at this!’

At first I can’t see her, so I have to stop looking through the books to get up. The interruption infuriates me, but then I see what she’s holding up. A hanger with a big, black velvet cape, hood and all. I recognize it immediately.

‘That belonged to the Countess! The one who killed herself,’ I say.

‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw it in a picture. She’s on a horse, wearing it.’

‘Oh my god, it’s beautiful!’ she says.

‘Put it on!’ I order her.

‘What?’

‘I said, put it on. But take off your clothes first. You have to be naked underneath.’

‘No way. Why?’

‘Just do as I say!’

She obeys, pulling off her skirt and sweater. I shoot a meaningful look at her panties, so she takes those off too. She stands there naked on the attic floor, grinning. Then she sweeps the cape around herself with a dramatic flourish.

Her hair falls across the black velvet like gold.

‘Open the cape and show yourself,’ I say.

She does as I order. The effect is magnificent.

‘Awesome! You have to wear it tonight in the barn,’ I say.

Her only response is a nod, but I can tell that she likes the thought.

I take in the vision of her again. And that’s when the idea comes to me.

Like a lightning bolt out of the blue.