Part 14 (2/2)

Tomas had gone on an inter-rail trip. That had been arranged long ago. They had said goodbye that morning, but Barbro had said nothing about leaving.

He told himself he ought not to give way to forebodings and believe that he knew. So he went upstairs and opened the bedroom door, not bothering to be careful. The room was light and empty.

When he got back from his district surgery that afternoon, the house greeted him with silence and light. At that time they would normally have had tea. He grabbed a beer and spread liver pate on some bread. He was going to tackle the decorating. It was quite light until eleven at night now. He thought she'd probably phone, but he wasn't exactly counting on it. When he finally heard the telephone, it took him some time to climb down off the trestle and go into the hall. But she didn't give up. The phone went on ringing until he picked up the receiver. She was ringing from a public phone, but she didn't say where.

'I'll be away for a while,' she said. 'I must think this over. You can understand that.'

Think this over, but she didn't say what. He was angry, though he had no right to be. That morning he had been woken by the alarm clock after a couple of hours' sleep. Then he had been furious and felt at the same time a deep, pure longing for her. But once he was properly awake and had got up, he no longer had any pure feelings. He felt shame more than anything else.

Their conversation had been brief. But she promised to keep in touch. She sounded friendly. No doubt she too had a sore conscience. On the Sunday evening, he had asked her why she wasn't saying anything.

'What about?'

'You're packing but you won't talk to me.'

'What is there to say?'

She had looked hostile. He hadn't dared go on, but he thought she was right; he knew what she meant. You never say anything yourself.

When the telephone call was over, he took another beer out of the fridge and went and sat down on the tall trestle. With his back to his handiwork, he gazed straight out into the pale-green wreaths of birch leaves. I could go to ostersund now, he thought. Without having to lie. Park outside the Sulky. Straight there, no involved detours. Stay the night and drive to work at about five. It could be done.

You never say anything. No. What should he have said?

We've always lived like this. You've said what had to be said, Barbro. You've been articulate. Not in a facile way, either. You've really thought things through. Emotionally. Politically. Or near enough.

Meanwhile this had happened. But what the h.e.l.l should I have said? What would I have called it?

Like this, Barbro. I'm in ostersund. It's January and stinking cold. Council meeting on the distribution of resources. But I'm sitting there thinking I'll never get the car started without an engine heater. And sure enough, I can't. By then it's late. We've been to Chez Adam and had dinner. So I phone home to tell you I'm staying. I phone from a hotel called the Sulky. Can't be bothered with a tow that late at night, and the car's horribly iced up.

It's a warm little hotel. The jockeys from the trotting races usually stay there. There are photographs of them and their harnesses on the walls. She's left up the Christmas decorations, too.

Barbro, my dear. You should have seen them. Red and green paper garlands. Turquoise, orange, red, silver and gold gla.s.s b.a.l.l.s. Gnomes. Nasty malformed little monsters in red stocking caps all flopping in the same direction. German.

I liked them. They looked like the gnomes we always had on the table at Christmas when I was a child. And those were sure to have been German. The sweets were German too. Everything was fairly Germanic in those days.

Her name is Frances. I didn't think much about her to start with. Handsome woman, anyhow. Dark, with an American Indian profile. She had been married to a gambler. Sometimes he had owned horses, sometimes only shares in them. He lost and that was the end for them. I've heard she even had to go out cleaning at the hospital. The house went, of course. He had cars most of the time and he was occasionally flush.

He died while he was on the way up. She knew it was temporary and he would soon have lost again. But then he went and had that coronary. A jockey once told me that when he was in hospital, he stammered out slurred instructions to her on how to lay the bets for him. She nodded and wrote them all down. The jockey saw her doing it. But she never carried them out, for when he died, she still had the money. She bought the hotel it was called the Three Lilies then. It was dreadfully shabby, but she restored it.

That was where I got a room. Sheer chance. Do you believe in chance? I suppose you do. Nowadays it's commonplace to believe in chance.

I go to bed in this nice warm little hotel. I am tired but not drunk or anything.

Perhaps it can be said like this. One thing at a time.

When I'm about to fall asleep, I see I've forgotten to pull down the blind. The street light is s.h.i.+ning straight on to my face, but I can't be bothered to get up again. I let it be. I can hear cars going past all the time. There's a set of traffic lights outside. Sometimes a bus engine can be heard ticking over loudly.

So no peace. Nothing like that. No special atmosphere or premonition. Nothing.

I'm just lying there. I'm tired and can feel my blood pressure on a down. You know about my low blood pressure. But that doesn't explain anything. I've always had it. Even collapsed in the bathroom once. Remember, when I broke my gla.s.ses?

Hang on.

I'm lying there with my eyes closed, I think. Then it comes. Like a light from inside. Like, like . . . anyhow, like a feeling of light. Not in my eyes. In my body. As if it's expanding with light. It's all round me. There's nothing else but light. I am in the middle. I know everything. Not in words. Blissful.

Well, that's a word.

I don't know what words to use. Perhaps that's why I've said nothing. I'm lying in the middle of everything that exists and there is nothing to explain and nothing to achieve. Only this prolonged feeling of bliss. It lasted quite a long time. An o.r.g.a.s.m, but more powerful. Like continous waves, one after another in the light within me and around me.

It retreats. I begin to see the room again, the window and the street light. I fall asleep like a child and sleep as soundly as you normally do only when you're small. Not until the next morning do I begin to marvel at it.

It's hard for me to leave that warm little overfurnished hotel. The explanation seems to be there and I wonder whether to ask Frances. I would like to ask rather cautiously if anyone else had seen anything in that room, a light or something.

But I hadn't really seen anything. Not with my eyes. So it's pointless asking her. During the following weeks I read up about experiences of that kind, but that leads nowhere. I ought to have been hungry and exhausted, according to all the medical books. But I wasn't. I had eaten a substantial dinner and I was tired, nothing more. In the other kind of books, which I had trouble getting hold of at first, because it's an alien field to me, there's an abundance of words. Words like 'bliss', for instance. There are too many. But I'll stick to bliss.

I get tired of reading. Haven't time, either. It's so self-referential. Like the jargon of politics or economics. Or medicine for that matter. It's the first time I notice the way writing is built up round feelings. Words are used as a kind of climbing frame to reach an emotional climax. At a pinch, writers fabricate feelings and force them to a climax. Even in expositions of council finances. I get sick of it.

I circle round the hotel, both in my mind and quite literally when I'm in ostersund. Some time in March, I stay the night there again and ask to have the same room. She sees nothing strange about that. Most of her customers are regulars and she thinks I want to be one of them. I sit watching television in the hall in the evening. You can get coffee out of a thermos jug and she has put out ginger biscuits and crisp rolls.

I like it there. You would probably say it's tasteless because for you aesthetics are a matter of coordination. Those pale blue, mid-blue and grey shades of our living room. The light-coloured wood of the furniture. Bentwood. Metal rods. I think they're beautiful, too. The collection of gla.s.s in the window. The great tapestry you gave me for my fortieth birthday, showing a mountainside.

Frances never seems to have discovered any central perspective. She sees one thing at a time. Things lie about like islands. And when you see them, they are fun or great or whatever. Never actually indifferent. Not to her, anyway. She's been given lots of horses as presents, in china and wood, even stuffed ones with woolly manes. She puts bright-orange winter cherry into a pottery vase flaring in every possible colour and says that her grandmother always had it in that vase and on that very shelf below the mirror. Everything here means something to her.

Sometimes there's a rich, sweet smell in the stairwell and the hall. That's means she's making a sponge cake for the jockeys sitting gloomily around. If things have gone well, they go out to celebrate. They're not allowed to drink in the hall.

I stay overnight there occasionally and I still think a lot about what happened. But I no longer think I'll ever understand what it was. It's enough for me to be allowed to go there occasionally, allowed to sleep in that room. I never pull down the blind. Perhaps I'm waiting, after all, but nothing further happens.

Of course, I've become a kind of house doctor. Frances is healthy, sleeps well and needs only a little antihistamine in the spring when everything is in flower. But the jockeys have all kinds of needs. They're interested in amphetamines, but that's out of the question. I may give them the occasional slimming pill, but only when testing out a drug. If I started prescribing it, heaven knows where I would end up. Sleeping draughts, of course, and a good deal of Librium and Valium. But in justifiable amounts. I'm certainly not the b.l.o.o.d.y pill doctor they say I am.

Then there was Christmas Day three years ago. We both had our mothers staying. Things were slightly tense, but still cordial. You took coffee and candles round on a tray and sang, 'Good morning, good morning, both master and mistress,' and then you all went off to church. The early service had been just too early. I set about fixing the mulled wine, spiking it a bit, planning to give the ladies some before lunch to keep things cordial a little longer. Then Frances phoned.

A guest had died. He was in bed in his room and he was dead, she said. She thought he had taken his own life. There were several empty medicine bottles on the bedside table, one of them prescribed by me.

I told her to keep calm and wait, and I would phone the police and the hospital for her. But she said no, she wanted me to come. I explained I couldn't do that. Maybe he could be saved. We must get hold of an ambulance quickly.

Not until I was in the car and heading for ostersund did it occur to me that Frances and I had become close. I had confidence in her. I was quite sure he was beyond saving. She's practical. I shouldn't have done this. But I had confidence in her judgement.

He had gone to his room on the 23rd and hung up the please do not disturb notice. When she found it still there on Christmas morning, she thought he had forgotten it, so she knocked on the door. She was going to take him early-morning coffee. There were six guests at the hotel, of whom this one and two others were regulars. It was Frances's turn to keep the hotel open over Christmas. One hotel always stays open and the others refer guests to it.

The room was cold and smelt bad. He really was dead, and he had been dead a long time. A thin body. Fine pyjamas. Everything appeared to have been carefully prepared. He had wished to do it tidily, but he had a.s.sembled drugs that guaranteed no pleasant sleep. He had vomited and in the end had not been capable of leaning out of bed to rid himself of his vomit. His skin was whitish grey. The bedclothes and mattress were soaked with urine.

It was a long time since I had seen a corpse that had been around for a while. I remembered my first bodies at the School of Anatomy in Uppsala and was furious Frances had had to see this, as if she had been abused. Not by him, not by this pale, troubled little gambler professional or semi who had crept in here in his brand-new pyjamas on the evening before Christmas Eve. He knew nothing about death.

On the table by the bed were jars that had contained various antidepressants. I felt uneasy when I saw the label with my prescription on one of them, but I was also glad it was only one.

Frances had a request. She had already had a plan when she phoned me. Racing people are superst.i.tious, she said, worse than anyone else. I'll never get my regulars back after this. That'll be the end. The trainers, the owners, the big gamblers and the nervous little semiprofessionals. The jockeys they're the worst. None of them will come and stay here again. He was nice but he didn't know what he was doing when he did this here. I suppose people think mostly about themselves at such a time.

<script>