Harbor by John Lindqvist (no david read aloud TXT) 📗

It was because of the boat he hadn’t come back to Domarö for almost three years. Because of the boat and other memories like it, other traces of the past. Things that contemptuously continued to exist, despite the fact that they should no longer be here because the significance they’d held was gone.

He had expected this. He had steeled himself. He didn’t cry. He could see the red glow of the boat from the corner of his eye as hecarried on around the house on legs that were moving only because he told them to move. He turned the corner and found his way to the table in the garden, slumped down on the bench. He was finding it difficult to breathe, small hands were squeezing his windpipe and black dots danced before his eyes.

What the hell did I come here for?

When the worst of the cramps in his throat had passed, he got up and kicked away the stone by the gooseberry bush. A few woodlice scuttled over the plastic bag containing the door key. He waited until they had gone, then bent down and picked up the bag. As he straightened up he suddenly felt dizzy. He went over to the front door as if he were drunk, unlocked it, dragged himself to the bathroom and drank several gulps of rusty-tasting water straight from the tap. Breathed, took a few more gulps. The dizziness was still there.

The door from the hallway into the living room was open, and the light from the sea and sky cast a white lustre over the sofa under the window. He saw it through a tunnel, staggered over and collapsed on to it.

Time passed.

He lay on the sofa with his eyes open or his eyes closed, and realised he was freezing. But it was merely a fact, it was unimportant. He looked at the blank television screen, the soot-covered doors of the Roslagen stove.

He recognised everything, and everything was unfamiliar to him. He had thought there would be some sense of homecoming, a sense of returning to something that still belonged to him. There wasn’t. He felt like a burglar in someone else’s memories. All this belonged to a stranger, someone he had been a long time ago and no longer knew.

It had grown darker outside the window and the sea was lapping against the rocks. He crawled off the sofa and fetched a tin, which he filled with chimney-cleaning fluid; he placed it in the open hearth and lit it to get rid of the cold air in the chimney. Then he lit a fire andwent to open the bedroom door, to spread the warmth through the house. He stopped halfway.

The door.

The door was closed.

Someone had closed the door.

Anders stood still, breathing through his nose. Faster and faster, like an animal scenting danger. He stared at the door. It was an ordinary door. Pale pine, the cheapest kind. He had bought it himself from the sawmill in Nåten and spent a day taking out the old, crooked frame and fitting the new door. A perfectly ordinary door. But it was closed.

He was absolutely certain it had not been closed when he and Cecilia left here for the last time, exhausted, empty, all cried out.

Calm down. Simon has closed it.

But why would he have done that? There were no other signs that anyone had been in the house. Why would Simon have come in just to close the bedroom door?

So the door must have been closed when they left. He must have got it wrong.

But I haven’t.

He remembered all too clearly. How Cecilia had gone out to the car with the last thing, a case containing Maja’s summer clothes. How he had stood there looking back into the house for one last time before he closed and locked the front door. He had known he was saying goodbye, that none of the things they had imagined were ever going to happen, that he might never see this place again. The image had been seared into his brain.

And the door to the bedroom had been open.

He reached out for the handle. It was cold. His heart was pounding in his chest. Carefully he pushed down the handle and pulled. The door swung open. Despite the chill pouring out from the bedroom, he felt a drop of sweat trickle from his armpit.

Nothing.

There was nothing, of course. The beam of the lighthouse flashedacross the double bed opposite the door. Everything was as it should be. And yet he groped for the switch and put the light on before he went in.

The double bed was made, the white satin quilt cover shone and spread light across the pale blue wood-panelled walls, the cheap painting of a ship in danger on a stormy sea above the bed.

He walked over to the window. The lighthouse at North Point was flashing out across the bay. A single floodlight in the harbour illuminated the steamboat jetty and the boats bobbing by the jetties. There wasn’t a soul out there. In the brief intervals of darkness he could see short flashes from Gåvasten, the hated lighthouse at Gåvasten.

He could see the opposite wall reflected in the dark window pane. The wardrobe, Maja’s bed. It was unmade, the way they had left it. Neither he nor Cecilia could bring themselves to smooth out the quilt and eradicate the last traces of the child who used to lie there. Anders shuddered. The chaotic covers looked as if they might be hiding a body. He turned around.

A bed. An unmade bed. Nothing else. A small, unmade bed. The pillowcase with its picture of Bamse the Bear carrying a pile of jars of honey. She had had a subscription, and the comics had kept on coming. He had read them. Read them aloud, the way he used to, even though no one was listening.

He went and sat down on her bed, gazed around the room. He curled up. Curled up a little more. He had a