'Yes.'
'I have the mystery of life in my hand. I turn the handle and decide the speed of people's movements. With the camera we can expose secrets that even the eye cannot see. A galloping horse has all four hooves in the air at the same time, that's something the camera has been able to establish. We can see more than the eye does. But we also control what we allow others to see.'
He picked up the camera and looked from Sara Fredrika to Tobiasson-Svartman. He smiled.
'I don't really know how I got mixed up in all this,' he said. 'I was a photographer to start with, with my own little studio. Then Hultman happened to hear about me, and now I'm standing here on a rock with a cine camera and some crazy idea about a tableau the Nail Master has decided should be called The Devil on Holiday by the Sea. But it has sharpened my eyes, I have to admit that.'
'How do you mean?'
The man put his head on one side, a shadow fell over his smile.
'Well, for example, I can see that you are not a fisherman. I don't know who you are nor what you do. But a fisherman? Never.'
He set off tentatively towards the water, carrying his equipment. Tobiasson-Svartman had the impression that the stand was part of a cross the cameraman was having to bear.
The man stopped and turned round.
'Maybe you would be a good story for a film? An escaped criminal, somebody running away from his debts. How should I know?'
He did not wait for an answer. The first rowing boat was already on its way back to the yacht. The women in white were laughing, there was a clinking of bottles.
Tobiasson-Svartman went back to Sara Fredrika.
'What kind of people were they? Those women hiding their eyes under their hats? I didn't like them. And tails are for animals, not for people.'
'It was just make-believe. A devil jumping around, that's all.'
'What were they doing here?'
They had started to walk back to the cottage. He was holding on to her, making sure she did not slip.
'Just think of them as driftwood. Something that happened to have been washed ashore here. Then the wind turned and they drifted away again. Driftwood that wasn't even fit for firewood.'
'Tails are for animals,' she said again. 'Tails are not for people.'
CHAPTER 172
In the afternoon he went to the highest point of the skerry, telescope in hand. The Goeben had left. He scanned the horizon but could find no sign of it.
The cameraman had seen right through him. He tried to work out if that implied danger.
He could not see any.
CHAPTER 173
One night she woke him up out of a dream.
Kristina Tacker had been standing in front of him, she had been saying something, but he had not been able to work out what it was.
He gave a start and sat up.
'I think the baby is on its way. It's moving, it's tensing its body.'
'But there's a long time to go yet.'
'I have no control over that.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'Stay awake. I've been on my own for long enough in my life.'
'I'm here, even if I'm asleep.'
'What do I know about your dreams?'
It's just like the man with the camera, he thought. She sees straight through me. But she does not know.
'I rarely dream,' he said. 'My sleep is empty, it's black, it doesn't even have any colours. I sometimes think I've been dreaming about flowers, but they are always grey. I've only ever dreamed about dead flowers, never about living ones.'
They stayed awake until dawn. The oyster-catchers were calling to one another, the gulls, the terns.
At about six they decided that he would sail to Kråkmarö and fetch the midwife. Even if the baby was not ready to pop out, they ought to make sure that everything was prepared.
He set sail in the easterly wind, three or four metres per second.
A thought struck him. Perhaps he should seize the moment and make a run for it, head north or south, or even east towards Gotland, and the Gulf of Riga beyond.
But he set sail in a westerly direction, to the midwife. The dinghy sped through the water, Halsskär faded into the horizon behind him.
The August day was like a buoy, he thought. Clean and white in the sunlight.
The sea was carrying him to his destiny.
CHAPTER 174
Angel was her name, the midwife.
She was not baptised Angel, of course: in the registers and on her midwifery certificate she was called Angela Wester. But everybody said Angel. That's what her mother had wanted to call her, she had had a dream about it the night before she gave birth. But the vicar refused. He pointed to the parish register and maintained that nobody was allowed to be called Angel, it would be little short of blasphemy. Her father, the ship's master Fredrik Wester, did not believe in gods but in compasses, and suggested with a growl that they should call the girl Angel even so. The vicar could not dictate what happened out in the archipelago. And so she became Angel. She never had any brothers or sisters, nor did she find a husband as she was cross-eyed and could hardly be called pretty. When her parents died she sold the house in the village and the little cargo boat that was half submerged in the creek, and moved into a crofter's cottage. She had trained as a midwife in Norrköping, and devoted her life to other people's children. She smiled a lot, had a beautiful voice, and was not afraid of mending the roof of her cottage herself if necessary. She could be ill-humoured and would sometimes set out on her own in her sailing dinghy, and everybody in the village would worry in case she never came back again. But she always did come back, and would sail her boat into the creek under cover of darkness when her depression had blown away.
Most of all, Angel was a good midwife. She was good at extracting babies that had got stuck. She had magic hands. There were a lot of midwives and old ladies who knew how to do the job of a midwife. They were all good, of course, but Angel was deft. Like a seamstress or a hunter or a gardener who could make things grow in hollows in the rock with hardly any soil. She had been so successful in many cases considered to be hopeless, that a doctor from Stockholm had once visited Kråkmarö in order to interview her, and although she was getting on for seventy and there were younger midwives to turn to, most people asked for her.
He moored the boat in the creek and walked up the hill to the village. The villagers were out in the fields and pointed the way. He knocked on Angel's door and she answered immediately. He had never set eyes on her before, but even so, it was as if he knew her. He went into her low-ceilinged kitchen and said where he had come from. She smiled.
'Sara Fredrika's baby,' she said. 'I assume it's yours as well?'
He could not bring himself to reply, and she did not worry about it.
'Children would no doubt like to choose their parents,' she said. 'Maybe they do, did we but know it. But there's some time to go yet for Sara Fredrika. What's the matter with her?'
He tried to explain, saying what Sara Fredrika had told him to say. Spasmodic tension, difficulties in moving, pains in her pelvis.
Angel asked a few questions.
'Has she had a fall?'
'No.'
'And you haven't hit her?'
'Why on earth would I want to do that?'
'Because men hit their women when things go wrong. Does she have a fever? Has she been carrying heavy things?'
'She spends most of her time resting.'
'And when you left things had got a bit better?'
'Yes.'
"Then you must go back to her. Sara Fredrika hasn't had much happiness in this life. I'm not sure that you have brought her any either. But you must look after her well. Then you might be able to become the man she needs.'
'She wants me to take her away from there.'
'Why should she stay there on that barren rock, after all the terrible things she's had to go through? It's eating her up, that inhospitable skerry is scraping her to the bone.'
She went with him down the hill to the sailing dinghy.
'You haven't even said what you're called. Don't you have a name?'
'I'm Lars.'
'I don't care where you come from. Rumour says that you're in the navy. But there's something else that's more important than that. You are wearing Nils Persson's clothes. You are reconciled to the fact that there was somebody else before you.'
'What shall I tell her?'
"That it's not time yet. And that I shall come, as long as you fetch me.'
He got into the boat and she untied the painter. There was no wind in the creek, so he prepared the oars.
'Stay until the baby's been born. Then you should take her away. The youngster won't survive out there. So many young children have died on that barren skerry over the years, too many to keep count of.'
He started rowing.
'Tell her I'll come,' she shouted. 'We'll get the baby born and it will survive all right, as long as you all get away from there.'
He kept on rowing until he found some wind. Then he raised the sail and headed for the open sea.
He felt ashamed when he thought about how close he had come to running away. He would have stolen her boat like a pirate, and abandoned her. Now he was sailing as fast as possible so that she would not start to think that he had headed out to sea after all.
He was in a hurry. And the sea was still carrying him to his destiny.
CHAPTER 175
August was drawing to a close, it was unusually windy, persistent westerly winds. An autumnal thunderstorm passed over them, and a stroke of lightning felled a tree on Armnö.
He speculated that memory and forgetting shared the same key. Perhaps anger shared the same door? Kristina Tacker and the baby drifted away. But where was he himself?
The longest distance I have had to relate to is the distance to myself. No matter where I stand, the compass inside me pulls me in different directions. All my life I have crept around trying to avoid bumping into myself. I have no idea who I am, and I do not want to know either.
CHAPTER 176
Sara Fredrika could feel that her body was calm. She talked all the time about the journey they would make once the baby was delivered.
Sometimes the conversations became unbearable. The skerry began to be a heavy weight, a ballast in his pockets that made it more and more difficult for him to move. He thought about what Angel had said, about the inhospitable skerry scraping her to the bone.
CHAPTER 177
Every three or four days he would sit down to write a letter to Kristina Tacker. He had found a rock formation on the south side of the skerry that gave him both a bench to sit on and a rough desk to write on.
He described a voyage in a convoy of ships heading for Bornholm and the Polish coast. It had been a dangerous but necessary expedition. Now he was back in Swedish waters again, and by coincidence he had ended up in Östergötland, among the islands where he had already spent such a long time. He would soon be returning to Stockholm. His mission had been long and drawn out, but there was an end in sight, he wrote, an end, and then he would return home. He asked about Laura, how Kristina Tacker herself was, and not least her father. Had he recovered? Had they arrested whoever had carried out the attack?
But he also wrote about himself, tried to capture something of his own desperation without revealing the true facts. When I'm alone I sometimes get so close to myself that I understand who I am. But then you are not there, nobody else can see what I see, only me, and that is not enough.
He hesitated for a long time, wondering whether to leave out the last few lines. But in the end he left them in, felt that he dared do so.
He buried the letters under a piece of turf, wrapped inside a waterproof pouch. Towards the end of August he decided he would have to send at least one of the many letters. He had intended to give the letters to some fisherman or hunter who passed by the skerry, but none of them landed. He could see sailing dinghies in among the skerries sometimes, but none of them came close. One day he decided that it could not wait any longer. He told Sara Fredrika that he was going to go to church in Gryt on the last Sunday in August.
'I'm not much of a believer,' he said, 'but after a while I feel very empty inside.'
'If you're lucky you'll be able to sail there. If there's no wind you'll have a long way to row.'
They got up at dawn and she went with him to the inlet. He had his uniform wrapped inside his oilskin.
'You'll have a good wind,' she said. 'Easterly veering towards north, a church wind in both directions. Sing a hymn for me, listen to the gossip outside the church. I've no idea who's dead and who's still alive. Bring me some news, even if it's old news.'
He stopped once on the way, landing on one of the islands in Bussund. He changed into his uniform and scrubbed away a stain on one of the shoulders. As he sailed into Gryt accompanied by other boats with passengers on their way to church, he was wearing his naval cap. He could see that his companions were bemused, but some of them must know about him, he could not be completely unknown.
There was a man on Sara Fredrika's island, the father of the baby that was about to be born.
Remarkably enough, he felt something approaching pride when everybody looked at him.
CHAPTER 178
There had been a time when you could sail right up to the church from both the north and the south.
But the sound had silted up, and now you had to walk. There were a lot of people gathered outside the church. People seldom came from the outlying islands in winter.
Suddenly he came face to face with the farm labourers from Kättilö. They were not entirely sober.
'We haven't said a word,' Gösta said. 'Nothing has slipped out.'
'Let's keep it that way,' Tobiasson-Svartman said. 'And we mustn't make it too obvious that we know each other.'
He turned on his heel and walked away. The sexton told him that the man who looked after the post in Gryt was smoking his pipe by the church wall.
Tobiasson-Svartman gave him two letters. He asked for one to be posted right away, the other ten days later.
During the service he half listened to the Reverend Gustafsson's sermon about the devil who takes possession of our flesh, and the mercy of the Son of God.
Afterwards he wandered around, listening to the conversations. He had always been an eavesdropper, skilled at sucking in what other people were talking about. Most of the congregation were talking about who was ill and how bad the fishing had been.
When he started walking towards his boat a man in uniform came alongside him. He shook hands and introduced himself as the parish constable, Karl Albert Lund.
'There aren't many people round here wearing uniform,' said the constable. "That's why I thought I'd say hello.'
'Hans Jakobsson, Commander. I just happen to be passing by,' Tobiasson-Svartman said.
'Might I ask what it is that brings you here?'
'I can't tell you that. It has to do with the war.'