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

The performance had been a great success, it was a beautiful evening, and the cognac was spreading its warmth through his stiff body. He ought to be enjoying it all.

But it was often like this. After a successful publicity stunt with all guns blazing, the emptiness afterwards was all the greater. Besides which, Marita had disappeared again, and Simon had already drunk one glass more than he usually did. He didn’t want to go the same way as so many of his colleagues, tumbling down into a sea of booze, never to surface again. But on this particular evening he thought he’d earned it.

I suppose this is how it starts, thought Simon, refilling his glass.

He was less concerned about Marita in her capacity as his wife than in her capacity as his assistant. The shows in Nåten were due to begin in three days. If she didn’t turn up he would have to scrap some of the best numbers: the mind-reading and the hat box. It wouldstill be all right, but he really wanted to put on a good show in this particular venue.

Simon took a deep draught of his cognac and sighed. This wasn’t the way he had expected his life to be. It worked, but that was about all. Happiness had got lost somewhere along the way. He allowed his gaze to rest on the water, which looked as soft as silk in the colours of the summer’s evening. Far away a gull cried.

Oh yes, happiness exists. Just not right here.

Behind him he heard the slap of footsteps and a faint rattling noise. He turned in his chair with some difficulty and saw Johan pushing a wheelbarrow towards him through the grass. He was wearing only a pair of swimming trunks and a voluminous shirt covered in damp patches, and his hair was soaking wet.

‘Johan?’ said Simon. ‘What have you got there?’

Johan grinned and pushed the wheelbarrow forward. It contained all the chains and padlocks Simon had left on the seabed. He tipped them out at Simon’s feet.

‘I thought it was a bit of a waste.’

Simon laughed. He would have liked to stroke Johan’s hair, but for one thing he couldn’t manage to get to his feet at this particular moment, and for another he wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do. Instead he simply nodded and said, ‘It would have been. Thank you. Sit down if you like.’

Johan sat down on the other garden chair and let out a great puff of air.

‘However did you manage?’ asked Simon. ‘They must have been heavy.’

‘They were,’ said Johan. ‘I couldn’t lift them, so I had to fasten them to a hook and drag them ashore, one by one.’

That was what Simon himself usually did, and what he had intended to do this time. However, he had no intention of telling Johan this, and he was grateful to be spared the job.

‘Not bad,’ said Simon.

‘No,’ said Johan, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt.‘And then there’s this. It was in the sack.’

He handed a thin, wedge-shaped piece of metal to Simon, giving him a conspiratorial look. Simon raised his eyebrows and pushed it into his own breast pocket.

Johan leaned back in his chair and said, ‘I still don’t understand how you do it.’

‘Do you want to know?’

Johan sat bolt upright. ‘Yes!’

Simon nodded. ‘OK, go and fetch a bottle of Pommac from the fridge. My wallet is on the kitchen table; help yourself to five kronor for bringing back the chains. Then come back and I’ll tell you.’

Johan shot out of his chair and raced inside. After thirty seconds he was back. Simon couldn’t understand why he’d said that. The words had just flown out of his mouth. He never usually revealed his secrets. It must be the cognac, the atmosphere. And after all, Johan already knew the only part that really involved cheating.

So he told him. When he had finished the Pommac bottle was empty and the bay had darkened to a deep blue carpet, with the flashing light from Gåvasten lighthouse drawing thin scratches through it. A bat flitted around them, hunting for moths.

Johan let out a fizzy belch and said, ‘I still think it sounds pretty dangerous.’

‘Yes,’ said Simon. ‘But if you just…’ He was struck by a thought, and raised a warning finger. ‘You’re not to go trying this yourself, Johan!’

‘I won’t.’

‘Promise?’ Simon extended his thumb towards Johan. ‘Thumbs?’

Johan smiled and rubbed his thumb against Simon’s. Then he inspected it as if to check if there might be a binding agreement somewhere in his thumbprint, and said, ‘I think Mum’s a little bit in love with you.’

‘What makes you think that?’

Johan shrugged. ‘I just do. She goes all peculiar.’

Simon emptied his brandy glass and refrained from pouringhimself a refill. That was enough, a pleasant warmth suffused his whole body. He held up the glass, looking at the light from Gåvasten as it was refracted through the remains of the liquid around the rim, and said, ‘Well, there are lots of reasons why people go peculiar.’

‘I suppose there are, but…this is a particular kind of peculiar.’

Simon narrowed his eyes at Johan. ‘You seem very well-informed about this kind of thing.’

‘I know my mum.’

They sat in silence for a while. The only sound was the flapping of the bat’s wings as it darted here and there, swooping after something only it could perceive. When the engine of a boat started up down in the harbour, the atmosphere was broken and Simon said, ‘Can you help me up? I’m still a bit stiff. It’ll be better tomorrow.’

Johan stood up and held out his hand to help Simon out of his chair. They stood facing one another. For a couple of seconds a mutual approval flowed between them. Then Simon patted Johan on the shoulder and said, ‘Thanks again for your help. See you tomorrow.’

Johan nodded, took the wheelbarrow and left. Simon watched him go. When he had disappeared into the darkness beneath