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“Take it,” he said. “I don’t want anything.”

He stared at a grotesque painting by Lindström. A distorted face in red and yellow with thick layers of paint. He hated it.

“We’ll sell this,” she said.

“But you love the paintings.”

She shook her head.

“We’ll sell them and start over. I want to. Do you remember what we talked about in the cottage at Kökar?”

Something in her voice made him look at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. Maybe it was because Jessica was also thinking about that summer. Afterward they seemed like the happiest weeks of his life.

“We can sail there,” she said.

She’s tricking me, he thought, but there was nothing of the calculating expression in her light face that he recognized so well from when she wanted to tempt him into an argument from which she would emerge the victor. There was no aggression, but also no submissive pleading. It was as if her features were smoothed out, milder. She suddenly resembled a young girl, unscathed by years of tiring fights.

“Do you really want that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why this turnaround? All this,” he said and held out his arm, “that was so important.”

“I have also been thinking,” was the only explanation she gave him.

He tried to evaluate her metamorphosis. Jessica was not the one who threw out claims without first having worked them out carefully. The fact that the old Jessica never bared herself in this way convinced him she was being genuine, and he was suddenly touched by her courage. He knew what it must have cost her in self-esteem and pride.

“I need a beer,” he said and went to the kitchen.

He took down the bottle opener that was hanging above the counter but dropped it into the sink. It hit a glass that broke. It was not a valuable glass but the sight of the shards made him cry. He leaned his forehead against the cupboard and tried to be clear about what was happening. Jessica’s suggestion of leaving the company and setting out on the boat was too big. Even his own wild plans seemed harmless in comparison with a life reorganization on that scale. What had she been thinking? It remained a riddle to him.

He picked up the opener and managed to get the bottle cap off, took a few sips, and then went back to the living room where Jessica was waiting in the same position as when he had left.

“Why?” he asked again.

“Because I love you,” she said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“And you tell me this now? First now, after years of coldness? You mentioned Åland but do you remember what that was like? How we made love and talked. Talked! About everything and nothing. Do you remember the old graveyard with the crosses that stood piled up against the wall? The scent of thyme from the sand dunes and tar from the church roof?”

“Of course,” Jessica said.

“How moved we were by the simple crosses and the inscriptions. You said something about that fisherman’s wife.”

She nodded. Stig couldn’t continue.

“Of course I remember,” she said. “That’s why I want to go back there. Maybe we’ll recapture that feeling and find our way back to those words.”

He looked dumbfounded at her. She was crying. He saw that she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stop the tears.

“Jessica,” he whispered, paralyzed by a mixture of guilt, bitterness, and tenderness.

Lindström’s grotesque face on the couch grimaced at him. The anxiety communicated by the picture became his own and suddenly it struck him that he never wanted to sell it.

Jessica advanced several steps. Stig fled to the bathroom.

Jessica had scrubbed it. It smelled of lemon. He stood in front of the mirror and for several minutes he studied his image. His anxiety felt like a pole thrust into his stomach. He knew he had to make a decision. A decision that would influence the rest of his life.

He took off his clothes. The overalls and the shirt landed in a heap at his feet. He pulled off his socks and his underpants.

“Who is Stig Franklin?” he asked the mirror.

He heard Jessica walk past, how she put