The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [47]
Right here, a very long time ago on a warm summer’s day, was where her father and mother had stood. For once very close to each other, perhaps even hand in hand for a moment, in the no-man’s-land between her father’s domain—the house—and her mother’s, which was the garden.
The terrace door had been completely open. There was a great deal of traffic between the bushes and the trees, where small birds flew around with food in their beaks. The day before she had found a dead baby bird by the mock-orange bush and buried it behind the compost.
Laura had been sitting at the foot of the apple tree playing with a new gift. Happy voices had come from the house. The toy was uninteresting. It was the voices that meant something. She had fled out into the garden but not so far that she couldn’t hear the exhilarated guests’ avid conversation and the volleys of laughter that echoed like frightening bursts of thunder.
Her parents looked at her and smiled. Ulrik Hindersten was dressed in a dark suit and her mother wore a green dress with white lace around the neck. Laura thought they looked like a bride and groom.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” her mother said.
They went back in and Laura tried to understand why they had walked out onto the terrace together, so close to each other and apparently enjoying each other’s company.
Laura stared out over the garden and could see herself sitting under the apple tree. That was the day everything started. The previous conflicts between her and her father were nothing but outpost skirmishes compared to the drawn-out war that came after, a war that went on for over twenty years.
She finally opened the door and stepped over the bags in the dining room. The heavy chairs and table, the candelabra on the massive tabletop had been there that time. She sat down, letting her gaze go from chair to chair and called to mind, as her father must also have done many times, the different guests and their placement at the table. She even recalled the scent of perfume and food and the young student’s sweat.
All books and folders were gone, the curtains pulled back, and the light created a whole new room. On the table there was a white linen tablecloth and it was laid with the china that was usually stored in the oak sideboard.
Laura was called in but remained standing in the doorway. Mrs. Simonsson, who Laura saw for the last time at her mother’s funeral, was bringing out dishes and tureens. She wore a little apron and a white cap. Laura couldn’t help but laugh.
The adults were already seated. An older man whom Laura recognized from her father’s workplace was the one who talked most frequently and loudly. The women on both sides of him listened attentively.
Ulrik Hindersten asked for their attention and said he hoped the food would please them. He concluded his brief remarks by saying a few words in Latin—Laura thought they came from Livius, an author from whose work Ulrik Hindersten would often read aloud in the evenings. Many people around the table laughed.
It was the twentieth of July, Petrarch’s birthday, a day that was always celebrated in this house. But this time it was a twofold celebration. Over the summer a rumor had started and stubbornly grown stronger: that this fall the long-awaited recognition of Ulrik Hindersten’s scholarly contribution would finally be forthcoming. He was going to be appointed to the professorial chair.
Many of his colleagues were assembled at the table but also several acquaintances from the neighborhood, not the most immediate neighbors but two couples who lived farther down the street. There was also a literature expert from Stockholm among the guests and some older men who spoke Italian.
It was a real party. There was an abundance of food, made by Mrs. Simonsson from Tobo, one of the few of Alice Hindersten’s childhood friends with whom she was still in contact. Mrs. Simonsson would come two, three times a year and clean the house. Always before Christmas, but also in the spring and in September. Sometimes her husband came along, a quiet man who Laura