Chapter 57
Everything was unfamiliar somehow, as if it weren’t Sander himself but some other person who had once been here, grown up here, lived here.
At the same time: the smells rising from the road and the bushes, the trees and the ground, everything he could see was already inside him, somewhere, deep down.
The mourners moved on foot down the gravel path, scattered groups dressed in dark clothing. It took some time to get to the village hall; it was a few kilometers away. They sweated in the heat.
It was picturesque, the hall, resplendent in classic red siding with white trim and windows that had been fashioned by real carpenters a long time ago.
Inside, savory sandwich cakes and sweet princess cakes waited on a long table, tastefully decorated.
Folks wondered who had arranged it all, but no one asked. A fan hummed in one corner.
The congregation entered in small groups, all these people who hadn’t gathered under the same roof for so long.
They chatted and enjoyed coffee and treats.
Isidor moved slowly from table to table.
He stopped next to Filip, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking softly to him before moving on to kneel laboriously in front of Lillemor.
He took her hand between his own and patted it gently.
Soon they were all together, the boys from Skavboke—or what was left of them.
The glances they exchanged said more than an outsider would realize.
Sander got up to refill his coffee. He was just about to set the pot back down when someone next to him stuck out a cup and said, as if in an astonished greeting:
“Sander?”
Sander turned his head. “Oh, hello, Filip. It’s been ages. Milk?”
“No thanks, I take it black.”
“It’s nice to see you. I wasn’t really sure you’d be here.”
“I felt like I needed to come. For my own sake, mostly.”
“I can understand that.”
“I don’t know if you can. But thank you.” For a moment he was silent, as though there were more words to be said but maybe not to Sander. Then he added: “It’s always sad when someone dies. But I’m not exactly mourning him.”
“That makes sense,” Sander said. He was still holding the pot of coffee, like he was a server. “How are things?”
“Oh, under control, I suppose. Just working, soldiering on.”
“Where are you living these days?”
“In Frans Ljunggren’s old house. I bought it from him a year or so before he died.”
“When did Frans die?”
“Last winter. It was his heart.”
Frans too, Sander thought. Old man ?stholm, Sten, Linda, Karl-Henrik, Mikael, Killian. So many people gone.
“Sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, but it was his time. He was over ninety, after all.”
Frans had left most of his belongings in the house after the sale, Filip told him. Furniture, curtains, the tools and equipment in the garage, even the silverware in the kitchen drawers.
“But I ended up throwing those out,” he said. “They were all pretty rusted through.”
He’d gotten the household goods in exchange for a bottle of liquor he supplied to Frans, who planned to smuggle it into Patrikshill, the nursing home he had just moved into.
That got a chuckle out of Sander. He remembered the old mechanic and was about to recount a sudden memory of him when Filip put down his undrunk cup of coffee and looked at his phone.
“I’ve got work this afternoon. I have to get going. But it was nice to see you again.”
“It was,” Sander agreed, and returned to his table.
The others fell silent as he sat down.
“What happened to Filip?” Jakob asked.
“I guess he had to go to work.”
“Can’t have been easy for him. Coming here, I mean.”
“No,” Sander said. “I was thinking the same thing. What would I have done?”
If he’d been the one to lose a brother, if it had been his home, if he’d been convinced Killian’s father had destroyed it.
Jakob lowered his voice. “You know, I’ve actually spent a lot of time thinking about that.”
“What you would have done in Filip’s situation?”
“Yes. Or no, not really.” Jakob shook his head. “Fuck it.”
They sipped their coffee. Sander waited, but Jakob didn’t elaborate.
“He told me about the house, anyway,” Sander said. “Funny story.”
Jakob raised an eyebrow, and Sander recounted what Filip had said. When he was done, Jakob shook his head.
“It’s a wonder he’s still alive, Filip. You know, that Frans Ljunggren was always so sly.
He had quite a few demands for that bottle of liquor.
Nothing homemade, he said, it had to be real, boughten liquor, so of course that meant Filip had to go to Systemet to buy it.
And once Filip got himself clean, I don’t think he was as scared of anything else as he was Systemet.
As I’m sure you recall, Frans Ljunggren wasn’t what you’d call a generous soul.
He liked that house and wasn’t about to give it to just anyone.
So he wanted to see if Filip could go in the liquor store and buy Frans a bottle without falling off the wagon.
If he could do it, Frans would sell. I’m sure it wasn’t easy for the poor bastard, but Filip did what it took. ”
Sander’s phone buzzed. A text from Olivia, wondering how it had gone, if everything was okay at the house on Backav?gen, how much farther he had to drive.
She thought he was on his way back. He probably should have been.
It was high time to leave.
He tried to catch Felicia’s eye. She didn’t look up; she was sitting with her mother, Alice, and a man Sander didn’t recognize.
Sander left the village hall and went back to his car, and just like that he was gone again, almost as if he’d never returned.