The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [72]
Ellinor had a knack with horses. Ann-Charlotte, her mother, had also done a lot of riding but without the same burning interest and conviction.Now she would ride occasionally when she came out to the stables, mostly to get away from Folke, Ellinor’s father, who was the one who paid for everything. He had bought the farm, paid for the fences and renovation of the stables. However, Carl-Henrik was the one who had bought Mirabelle, and he was grateful for that. Even if Folke got tired of sponsoring his daughter’s and father-in-law’s thing for horses, Mirabelle was there and Carl-Henrik was never going to let her go.
Sometimes he imagined that his son-in-law was jealous of him because he had the best contact with Ellinor. But other times he didn’t think Folke cared much for either his wife or his daughter.
He had felt something in his back as he dragged out the hard-pressed bales of hay. He had enjoyed an inactive lifestyle and he had to pay for that now. His joints were stiff and despite many years of riding he was not particularly strong. On the other hand Lindberg, who helped out every other day, was just as broken down, and he had been physically active his whole life: orienteering, the Vasa race, and swimming in Vansbro.
He decided to do the exercises that his chiropractor had recommended, and he laid down on his back on the floor. The movements were difficult at first but after a few minutes the stiffness started to give way and it felt much better.
It was strange to see the room from below. Lying on the floor changed the objects in the room and distorted the perspective. Once Lindberg had found him lying here and the old engineer had looked completely different. Not only because of the surprised expression on his face but also because of the altered proportions. Lindberg, who normally looked very timid, made an almost demonic impression. The highly ordinary nose appeared enormous; the mouth, which normally had a little smile, looked frighteningly cavernous; and the eyebrows stood out like black brushes on a wild animal, as Lindberg gaped at him on the floor.
Palmblad bent his knees and pressed them up against his stomach, rested, and then repeated the maneuver. He felt his spine crackle and his lower back relax.
Suddenly he heard the door at one end open. It gave off a characteristic creak. Palmblad sat up. If it was Lindberg he didn’t want to be found on the floor again. It was a bit like being caught with your pants down; he didn’t want to appear to Lindberg as an old weakling.
But it was strange. Lindberg had very established habits and never came in on Mondays. Carl-Henrik Palmblad stood up, brushed off his backside, and cracked the door. The corridor down the middle of the stables was still and deserted. No one was to be seen. He craned his neck. The door at the end of the stables was closed. One of the horses neighed. Another kicked a stall door so it rattled.
I was mistaken, he thought and went back into the room and picked up a bridle. The fact was that he was worried about his hearing. Many times he didn’t hear what Ellinor had said and had to ask her to repeat herself, but what was even more serious was that he heard things, voices and foreign sounds, that no one else perceived. He could be completely alone and still hear someone speaking. In the evenings he had a buzzing sound in his ears.
“Tinnitus,” Ann-Charlotte said when he complained of it, “it’s all the opera arias that have ruined your ears.”
He smiled to himself when he thought of his daughter. She had inherited his determined manner and his predilection for categorical statements. Now he had been tempered somewhat, and expressing himself so harshly and self-confidently no longer appealed to him. If his body had become stiffer, then his mind had softened in his old age. And that was among others thanks to Mirabelle, and Ellinor, of course.
He smiled even broader when he thought of his grandchild. She was coming