The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [107]
Mårten had a soft spot for Alice. Perhaps mostly because she reminded him of her sister, but also because Alice always remembered his sons’ birthdays and namesdays, a Swedish tradition of celebrating the name assigned to each day throughout the calendar year.
“Will you have a cup of coffee? That thing’s not going anywhere,” Lars-Erik said and nodded his head at the tractor that he was in the middle of repairing.
The kitchen looked like before. The smell that came at Laura was also the same.
She wanted to talk, or rather, to hear her cousin’s voice.
“How is everything with Jan and Martin?” she asked.
“Oh, like always,” Lars-Erik said with a smile. “Janne is still up in Fors-mark and Martin has married, divorced, and remarried.”
He warmed to her question and spoke at length about his brothers. Since they had lost their mother so early they had become very close. Laura had never heard them quarrel or say a harsh word about each other.
Lars-Erik measured out the coffee and poured water in the cof-feemaker. Laura looked at his gnarled hands.
“And you? Are you married?”
Laura shook her head. She considered telling him about Stig but didn’t. Maybe Lars-Erik wouldn’t understand.
“What about Ulrik?”
“Do you know about what’s happened?”
“Well,” Lars-Erik said, “I did see in the paper that he’s missing.”
“He’s still gone,” Laura said.
He looked searchingly at her before he silently set out cups and plates.
“Perhaps I should have called,” he said finally, but they both knew it was an unnecessary comment.
He took out a loaf of bread, cut about half a dozen slices, set out butter, cheese, and a packet of smoked ham. Laura made sandwiches, they drank coffee, and talked about people they knew in common. To Laura’s surprise the conversation flowed well. But Lars-Erik was the most communicative, more open than his younger brothers. He had a streak of nonchalance that both irritated and attracted Laura. He smiled often, quick in his thinking and conversation, putting her at ease with a frankness that she wasn’t used to. She wished she had visited him much earlier.
In the office everyone talked past each other, used euphemisms and carefully chosen words that—behind their apparent innocence—could hurt. Not even praise could be taken at face value. Behind acknowledgements and fine words there could be jealousy and barbs.
Sometimes Lars-Erik paused before giving her an answer to her questions, became thoughtful and silent, replying briefly but with an unspoken signal that he would return to the topic later. It was a habit she knew so well from Alice.
“So, you don’t have a man?”
“No, it didn’t work out that way.”
“Not for me either. Rose-Marie lived here for a while, but then she got a job in town. She thought it got too far to keep driving back and forth.
“It can be lonely sometimes but I have the house,” he added.
She couldn’t bring herself to say that she was preparing to leave Sweden. It would feel wrong. Lars-Erik wouldn’t understand, he who couldn’t even imagine moving to Uppsala, but she couldn’t help asking if he didn’t sometimes long to go away.
“You are so like my mother,” he said. “Not just in your appearance but . . . everything,” he continued, and now there was a hesitation in his voice that had not been there before. “She was an anxious soul. My father said later that she had gypsy blood in her and of course she was dark, just as you are.”
“We have gypsy blood?”
“No, but that desire to travel, to get away.”
“I’ve lived in the same place for thirty-five years,” Laura said, feeling ill at ease.
“But are you happy?”
Laura looked at him, startled, then looked away, confused.
“I don’t mean to say . . .”
“I know what you mean.” Laura interrupted his attempt to try to cover over his unexpected question.
No, I am not happy and I never have been.
“Alice should have stayed here,” Lars-Erik said and looked at Laura with an expression as if he was testing