Travelling Light Read online

  He looked and said, “Remarkable. This hat belongs to my cousin. He was living here six months ago. Where did you find it?”

  “On the plane.”

  “Of course. He gets to fly sometimes. He’s a civil servant. Come in, it’s cold this evening. It was kind of you to go to so much trouble so late at night.”

  The room was a small one. In the light from the single table lamp I got a general impression of pleasant homely untidiness: books, newspapers and piles of papers all over the place. It was very cold.

  He asked me where I was from and did I know the city… Oh, of course, just passing through. But it was unusual for people to break their journey here. Unless they had business here, of course. Would I care for a cup of tea?

  I watched him lift the kettle from the stove and take out cups. All his movements were very calm. Occasionally he looked at me and smiled. It was so peaceful to be able to sit with him and drink tea and quietly wait for the name of my hotel to pop up. I was dreadfully tired. After his first polite questions, he said nothing more, but it was a pleasant silence.

  In the end I remarked on the fact that he had so many books. And on how it was difficult these days to get your hands on the books you wanted.

  “Yes. It is very difficult. People keep track of what’s being published and, when it comes out, somehow they know, they sniff it out. And go and queue for it. I’m very proud of my library.”

  “You’re a writer, perhaps?”

  “Not really. Just articles, in a way.”

  “And what kind of books particularly interest you?”

  He smiled again and said, “Everything.”

  I said that I myself, on a modest scale, had published a bit on the subject of, how should I put it, the changes that affect us as we get older. I wondered if I could send him a couple of books.

  “Please do. They might reach me. The post isn’t always reliable.”

  Then it was time for me to go. It was terribly late. My suitcase was waiting by the door. A taxi, of course. But I couldn’t see a telephone. He watched me looking round the room and said, “No, I have no phone. But I can go out and try and find you a taxi. It’s not so difficult, but it may take some time.” He got up. When he reached the door I called out, “One moment… I’m extremely sorry, this is really embarrassing.” In my shame I tried to be funny. “A propos the changes caused by ageing… I, if anyone, should be able to explain how a person can forget the name of the hotel where he’s booked a room.”

  My host did not seem amused, nor did he attempt to make light of it. He stood and thought for a while, then explained that, since it was impossible to find hotel rooms in the city, it would be best if I spent the night with him. Somehow it seemed unnecessary to raise polite objections. He explained that sometimes as many as half a dozen people spent the night in his apartment. He pulled out a sleeping bag and promised to wake me in good time for my flight. I was to have his bed; I accepted.

  There was a knock on the door. Luckily I had not yet started undressing. It was a young woman with dark hair. She glanced at me almost without interest, walked past him to the window, carefully drew aside the curtain and looked out. They began talking together, very rapidly. Even though I couldn’t understand, I grasped that something serious had happened. He started walking back and forth across the room, opening drawers, taking out papers, glancing through them quickly before shoving them into a paper bag. He was clearly in a hurry, but his movements remained as calm as ever. Finally he turned to me and said, “I’m afraid I have to go. But please stay and sleep in peace; my friend will come and wake you in good time for your flight. Don’t forget to send me the books; I’d be very happy to get them.”

  I just nodded. I didn’t want to delay him. When they had gone I listened carefully and heard them go down the stairs, heard the front door close. I continued listening. By now they must have crossed the square and made it into the streets beyond. I lay down on the bed but couldn’t fall asleep.

  About half an hour later, there was a pounding on the door. Someone shouted God knows what, and I got up and let them in. By now I was so tired I noticed only a number of uniforms filling the room. I had to show my passport and my tickets. They stripped everything they could out of the drawers and cupboards, while a single thought repeated itself in my head: he got away, my friend got away.

  In the morning the young woman came and woke me in good time. She had found a taxi and came with me to the airport. She got very angry with the driver – I think because he was demanding dollars. I hadn’t even learned to say thank you, but I believe she understood.

  As I say, I often repeat myself, but this story has never been told before. At least, I don’t think so.

  The Woman Who Borrowed Memories

  THE STAIRWELL WITH ITS STAINED-GLASS windows was as dark and cold as it had been fifteen years earlier. Some of the plaster ornamentation had fallen off the ceiling. And like fifteen years ago, Mrs Lundblad was busy scrubbing the stairs. She looked up at the sound of the door and exclaimed in delight, “Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Miss Stella! Abroad for so long! And just like the old days – trench coat and no hat!”

  Stella ran up the stairs and stopped almost shyly in front of Mrs Lundblad; they had known each other well, but had never been in the habit of hugging or shaking hands.

  “Nothing’s changed here!” said Stella. “Dear Mrs Lundblad, how’s your family? Charlotta? Edvin?”

  Mrs Lundblad pushed aside her bucket and said that Charlotta was still enjoying Stella’s bicycle, although these days only in the country; they now rented a little summer cottage. And Edvin had a good job with an insurance company.

  “And Mr Lundblad?”

  “Passed away six years ago,” said Mrs Lundblad. “Peacefully; he didn’t suffer much. I see you have flowers with you, Miss. I expect they’re for her, upstairs in your old studio. Have you time for a cigarette?” She sat down on the stairs. “I see we both still smoke the same brand. And now you’ve gone and got famous for your paintings! We’ve read all about it in the paper, so congratulations from the whole family. Are your pictures still the same?”

  Stella laughed. “Oh no! They’re so big these days, they wouldn’t even fit through the door up there! As big as this!” She stretched out her arms.

  A blast of loud dance music suddenly filled the stairwell and was almost instantly switched off again. Stella recognised it: “Evening Blues”. That used to be our tune, she thought, Sebastian’s and mine. So she’s still got my old 78s…

  “She does that all the time,” said Mrs Lundblad, tossing her cigarette butt into her pail. “Five years older than you, Miss, and still living her life as if it’s a nonstop party; not that anyone ever comes to see her. The place is empty. Not like when you used to live up there! All those artists running up the stairs – it was fun. They’d work all day and come here in the evening and play and sing and you’d make them all spaghetti. Remember, Miss? And she’d hang around trying to be like the rest of you?” Mrs Lundblad lowered her voice. “And then you let her stay there for ages when she couldn’t pay her rent, for heaven’s sake, and then you won that scholarship and went abroad and she just took the whole place. Fifteen years! No, no, don’t say a word. I know what I know. Any idea, Miss, what we used to call the studio? The swallows’ nest! But all the swallows flew away. And it’s like that old saying: when the swallows go, it’s because the home’s no longer a happy one. And one swallow doesn’t make a summer. Now, enough’s enough. I’m not saying another word. I’ll just get on with these stairs. Oh, and they’ve put in a new lift at the back. Would you like to try it?”

  “Maybe not today. Tell me, Mrs Lundblad, did I really use to run up all these stairs?”

  “Yes, Miss, you surely did. But time passes.”

  There were lots of unfamiliar names on the doors of the flats.

  Well of course I ran. Maybe just because I liked to run. I couldn’t help it.

  The studio door had been repainted but t
he knocker with its little brass lion was the same, a present from Sebastian. Wanda called from inside, “Who is it? Is that you, Stella?”

  “Yes it’s me. It’s Stella.”

  A moment passed before the door opened.

  “Darling, how wonderful,” cried Wanda. “You’re finally here, imagine! It takes a bit of time to open the door, but you know how it is these days: one can’t be too careful… Safety chain, police lock, everything… But there’s no choice, there’s just no choice – they steal! One has to be careful day and night; they come in vans and take everything and just drive off… They clean you out, you know, just leave the place empty! But not here! This door’s locked and bolted. But come in and have a look around! Flowers – how nice of you…” She set the flowers aside still wrapped and inspected Stella intently with the same pale, fixed gaze, unchanged in a somewhat heavier face. And the same insistent voice. The walls were still whitewashed, but everything else in the very small room was new and different: an excess of furniture, lamps, ornaments, draperies… It was much too warm. Stella took off her coat. The room was shrunken and frightening. As if trees had been cut and a thicket of undergrowth had taken their place.

  “But make yourself comfortable,” Wanda said. “What can I get you? Vermouth? Or wine? Like I used to serve in the old days, red wine and spaghetti! Always red wine and spaghetti! So you’ve finally come back. How many years has it been – no, we won’t count them. Anyway, now you’re here. And all those cards I wrote, and you just disappeared; the great artist vanishes into a great silence. That’s life!”

  “But I did write to you,” Stella put in. “For a long time. But when I heard nothing from you…”

  “Stella, dear, don’t worry about it, don’t even think about it, let’s just forget it. Now you’re here again. What do you think of my little lair? Small and unpretentious, but pleasant, don’t you think? Lots of atmosphere.”

  “Very nice. Such nice furniture.” Stella closed her eyes and tried to remember the studio the way it had been – workbench here, easel there, lots of wooden boxes… And a bare window overlooking the courtyard.

  “Are you maybe a bit tired?” said Wanda. “You look exhausted. Around the eyes. Now you can rest a little and take it easy after the big wide world.”

  Stella said, “I was just trying to remember the studio. We were so happy here. Imagine, seven years of our youth! Wanda, how long do you think we get to be young?”

  Wanda answered quite sharply, “You were young for too long. Starry-Eyes. Yes, that’s what we called you, Starry-Eyes. Nice, isn’t it? So naive, you believed everything anyone told you. Everything.”

  Stella stood up and went to the window. She pulled the drapes aside and looked out over the grey, very ordinary, still fascinating courtyard with all its windows and remembered: I stood here with Sebastian. We looked out beyond the roofs, out over the harbour, out over the sea, out over the whole world that we were going to own, battle our way through and conquer. This very window! She turned to face Wanda. “You said I believed whatever people told me. But there was so much to believe in, wasn’t there? And it was well worth it, don’t you think?”

  Dusk was falling and Wanda switched on the lights behind their silk shades. She said, “You had fun in this room, didn’t you? You had fun for seven years, right up to the last party, my farewell party. Do you remember?”

  “Do I remember! Great speeches, we were so profound! It was June, I think, with the sun coming up at two in the morning. And I stood on the table and shouted, ‘Skoal to the sun!’ And there was a Russian sitting under the table singing. Where did he come from?”

  “The Russian? I think he was one of those people we always included because we felt sorry for them. And there were a lot of those, way too many! But I always let them come. ‘Bring them along,’ I’d say. ‘The more the merrier.’ That’s my principle. If you’re having a party, then do it in style! We got twenty-two people in here, twenty-two. I counted. One of the best parties I’ve ever given for my friends.”

  “What do you mean?” Stella said. “It was my party!”

  “Yes, yes, of course, if you like. I gave a farewell party for you, so of course, in a sense, it was your party. Then off you went on the morning train.”

  Yes, the morning train, Stella thought. Sebastian came with me to the train. A lovely summer morning… He promised he’d follow as soon as he’d sorted out his travel grant, as soon as I’d found us a studio, or a room, or a cheap hotel, anywhere we could work… He hardly ever had a fixed address, so I was to send the address to Wanda… Bye-bye, darling, take care of yourself! And the train whistled and rushed out into the world.

  “Now, don’t go upsetting yourself about my party, Stella. Though surely you haven’t forgotten that I was the one who lived here. This was my home. Be honest, it was my place, wasn’t it? Of course it was.” Wanda laid her hand over Stella’s and went on in a friendly voice. “Memory plays funny tricks. But don’t worry about it; it’s totally natural. You’re every bit as welcome now as you were then. You were such a great help; you helped in so many ways, peeling onions and carrying out the garbage… And we included you in everything, our poor little Starry-Eyes… Wait a second, there’s the lift…”

  The sound of the lift was very loud.

  “Third floor,” said Wanda. “Funny how often it goes to the third floor. Yes, all the things we did back then, and now here you sit in your old spot, between Ingegerd and Tommi and me on the sofa, with Bennu opposite. Sebastian used to sit in the window. You all talked and talked about art – all you cared about was your work. And how many of you became famous, can you tell me that?”

  “It’s so easy to lose track of how your friends got on,” Stella said.

  “You don’t know? Did none of them ever write to you? But Stella, sweetheart!”

  Stella lit a cigarette. “I sent you my address and asked you to pass it on to my friends.”

  “Did you? Hang on, your cigarette’s not lit. Here, this is a good lighter. You should start using a lighter; your hands have started to shake, just a little, just a tiny bit, nothing to worry about. Whatever. Well, Sebastian became quite famous, in a way. But you know how it is with great men; they forget the people who believed in them when they were a bit less great. Aren’t you going to finish your wine?”

  Stella said, “Do you know how he is? Do you know where he is?”

  They heard the lift again and sat quietly.

  “Fourth floor,” remarked Wanda. “Time to put on the spaghetti, I think. Al burro. With Parmesan these days! You like Parmesan?”

  “Yes, thanks. Are you still at the council offices?”

  “Certainly am, and looking forward to my pension like everyone else. I’m departmental manager now.”

  “Really? What do you do with the rest of your time? Same hobby? Still doing your gymnastics in the evenings?”

  “In the evenings? You’re mad. One doesn’t dare go out on the streets after six o’clock in this city!” Wanda went to the little kitchen in the corner to put the water on to boil. She set the table.

  “Would you like to see Jaska’s photographs?”

  It was a beautiful album full of bad photographs of a tight crowd of laughing young people – at a fancy-dress party, at the beach in a strong wind, on their way somewhere carrying easels – charming snapshots of no interest whatsoever except to those who were there at the time.

  Stella said, “This was at Hanaholmen. I was standing beside Sebastian in my white dress. You can still see a bit of that dress.”

  Wanda looked and said, “That wasn’t you, that was someone else. Light got in, so I had to cut off one corner. Do you use ketchup?”

  “No, I don’t. Do you know where Sebastian is now?”

  “I might. But the thing is, dear, it’s a secret. I promised not to give the address to anyone. Say what you like about me, I’m loyal to my friends. And anyway, it wasn’t Hanaholmen, it was Äggskär. And you weren’t even there that time. Memory
’s funny, isn’t it? Some things just disappear and others you never forget. Are memories important to you? Be frank, think about it. Those days when everything was so easy for you. This room. You’d like to go back, wouldn’t you?”

  “Not any more,” said Stella. “I think the water’s boiling.”

  But the water wasn’t boiling; the gas tokens had run out.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Wanda. “Forgive me. I could go down and borrow some from Mrs Lundblad, but she’s so unpleasant…”

  “Never mind. She’s probably busy with the stairs.”

  “You saw her? What did she say?”

  “Well, we talked a bit about this and that.”

  “But what did she say about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. She didn’t say a thing. It’s really hot in here, Wanda. Do you think we could open the window for a bit?”

  The spring evening came into the room, cool and liberating.

  “This window,” said Wanda. “I remember you standing here laughing, you and Sebastian. You were laughing at the rest of us, weren’t you? What was so funny? Who were you laughing at?”

  Wanda’s voice, flat, insistent and inescapable, was suddenly too much for Stella, and she lost her temper. “We weren’t laughing at anyone! Or we were laughing at all of you, at everything! Because we were happy! We looked at each other and laughed; it was fun. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “But why are you so angry?” said Wanda, distressed.

  “I’m tired. You talk too much.”

  “Do I? Silly me, so thoughtless. And I can see you’re not feeling well. You’ve changed so much. Is something wrong? You can tell me. Stella. Come and sit here on the sofa. Did those photos upset you? They’re just innocent old memories for safekeeping.”

  “You’re right – they’re innocent. This studio was innocent in those days too. It was a place where everything was friendly and straightforward. We worked and we trusted each other, because everything was open and above board. I think about this place when I’m having trouble getting to sleep.”