The Secret Life of Mr Roos Page 5

  He drove north to the Rocksta roundabout, the same old road he had been taking for twenty-eight years, but instead of going straight on, he turned left, to the west, and this insignificant little novelty made him shout ‘Whoopee!’ out of the half-open window. He just couldn’t contain himself, the sense of well-being was simply overflowing from inside him.

  He regained his self-control and checked the time. It was exactly half past eight, as it always was when turned off the Rocksta roundabout. But the traffic was lighter here on the 172, he noted; considerably lighter than it usually was on Svartövägen. Most of the traffic here was on its way into the town, too, only the odd vehicle was heading away from it.

  Like him. Heading away.

  At Flatfors he came out by Lake Kymmen and a few kilometres later, in Rimmingebäck village, he stopped for petrol at the Statoil filling station. He bought a few supplies, too; a plastic-wrapped beetroot and meatball sandwich, a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water and a bar of chocolate. He had his usual packed lunch in his bag of course, but you never knew. Perhaps the bracing effect of being outdoors all day would give him more of an appetite than normal.

  Before setting off again, he got out the maps. The one he kept in the car and two he had printed off the Internet. Some of these places ought not to be too difficult to find. The first was called Rosskvarn and was right out by the banks of the Kymmen – on the north side, about fifteen kilometres from town, if he’d estimated correctly. Rather open country perhaps, and he assumed there would be neighbours.

  He was pretty sure his second destination, called Lograna in the estate agents’ description, would be of more interest, but he’d still decided to swing by Rosskvarn first and take a look.

  He had time, after all.

  He had all the time in the world, did Ante Valdemar Roos. And as he started his car for the second time on this historic morning, he caught sight of his face in the badly adjusted rear-view mirror and found that he was smiling.

  No one, he thought, not a single goddamn soul in the whole world, knows where I am.

  And somewhere in the region of his larynx, where all strong feelings take their nourishment and find expression, he felt the vibration of something that must have been happiness.

  His hunch proved to be more or less right.

  Rosskvarn was a house located on a long incline down to the lake, which was about a hundred metres away and visible through a sparse curtain of broadleaf trees. A flock of sheep was grazing nearby and a sharp sound that could have been a moped cut through the surroundings. Or perhaps it was a saw blade. There was nothing wrong with the house itself, thought Valdemar as he drove slowly past, but it was right on the road and there were at least three other properties in view. He didn’t even get out of the car but just drove on by, and a few minutes later he was back out on the main road.

  He looked at the clock. Only ten past nine. He decided to go straight on to Lograna. It was another twenty to twenty-five kilometres’ drive away, first on the 172 and then, just before Vreten, taking the 808 north towards Dalby. He had forgotten to reset the meter when he left home, but on the map he had estimated the total distance to be thirty-five to forty kilometres from central Kymlinge.

  A bit further than I’d like, he thought, but of course it wasn’t the distance that mattered. No, it was the location that was all-important, as he’d said to Espen Lund. Hadn’t he? Be that as it may, thought Valdemar, I’m prepared to buy any old hovel as long as it’s in a place where I’ll be left in peace.

  It struck him that there was an assurance to his thoughts this morning that he wasn’t really used to. A kind of power. But considering the circumstances it was probably not that surprising or worrying. Money talks, as someone had hissed out of the corner of his mouth in a gangster comedy he and Alice had watched on TV a few days before. Right at the start of the film; he didn’t recall anything of the subsequent plot.

  There were only two poor-quality pictures of Lograna on the website, one of the interior, the other taken outside, and they hadn’t told him much. The description just said ‘summer cottage’; the asking price was only 375,000, barely half of what they wanted for Rosskvarn. He presumed it was because there was no lake nearby.

  No more than twenty minutes later, just after the knot of houses at Rimmersdal, he reached the Dalby turning and the road narrowed, but at least it was made-up. He started to fancy a coffee and realized it was nearly time for the daily coffee break at Wrigman’s. Quarter to ten. It was not surprising he had developed an internal clock after all these years.

  Not in the least surprising. I’ve ruined my life in that thermos shithole, thought Valdemar Roos. Hope it’s not too late to repair myself.

  He almost missed his next turning, but that wasn’t particularly surprising either. It came straight after a right-hand bend – with dense spruce forest growing unthinned on both sides – a little track with a peeling, rusting sign that said Rödmossen. He turned into it and stopped the car while he checked the map and route instructions. He was right: this was the way, along what was now a dirt road, and so narrow that he’d need to think carefully if he met any oncoming traffic. After about 700 metres he would come to another road off to the left, just after a little field. No sign, just a narrow forest track, and a further 500 metres or so. That was where he would find it. Lograna.

  Ideal, thought Valdemar. This seems absolutely bloody ideal.

  He met no other vehicles and had no need to look for passing points on the 700 metres to the next crossroads, and now he came to think of it, he’d seen no other cars for a long time. Ten or fifteen minutes, surely? To think that Sweden could be so empty, even though they weren’t in the wastes of Norrland.

  And so full of forest. He remembered Storm Gudrun, which had swept in a few years before and inflicted such losses on the forest owners. Round here, most of the trees seemed to have emerged unscathed, but then they were rather further north than the most badly affected areas.

  The forest track along which he was now bumping cautiously was clearly not much used. A flourishing strip of grass ran down the middle; he could hear the rasp and whisper of its coarse blades on the chassis of the car. First-rate forest on either side, he noted; there had been some felling in a few places, but only for thinning purposes, and there was a neat stack of logs at the side of the track. He drove past it and felt the excitement and anticipation ticking inside him.

  Round a rocky outcrop, and here it was a bit more open, here it would be possible to climb up and survey the landscape, he thought. Then a long right-hand bend, slightly downhill, followed by a final little jink to the left.

  There it was.

  I’ll take it, he thought, before he had even switched off the engine and got out of the car.

  For the first half hour he just sat there and looked. Listened, breathed in the scents. Folded his hands and felt his senses rousing. The pyrophyte seeds within him began to peck open their casings.

  He was sitting on a chopping block. It was low and axe-scarred and stood beside a small outbuilding that had a considerable amount of wood stacked along by its wall.

  He had a cup of coffee and a few mouthfuls of mineral water, and slowly munched his way through the meatball sandwich.

  After a while he started crying. It was something he had definitely not done for twenty years and at first he tried to fight it, blowing his nose resolutely into his fist and wiping his eyes dry on the arm of his shirt.

  But then he let the tears flow.

  Well here’s me, crying, he thought, and for a long time that was the only thought his head had room for.

  Well here’s me, crying.

  Then he remembered something he had read in a book many years ago; it wasn’t one of his usual novels, convoluted or otherwise, but a book of travel writing. He couldn’t recall the author’s name, but it was definitely a British writer and the subject was the Aborigines, the indigenous population of Australia. The book said they saw life as a long journey on foot, and that
when they felt the end was near, it was crucial to find their way to the place they were going to die. The predestined place.

  Song Lines, wasn’t it called, or something like that?

  Lograna, he thought. How strange to find my way here now and not before.

  It wasn’t large. Just an insignificant cottage with stone-built foundations and a tiled roof. It looked pretty much like all the other cottages in the country. The wood was painted the traditional red ochre, with white corners, rather knocked and scuffed in places. A living area and a kitchen, presumably, possibly a little room off the kitchen as well. To one side, the south as far as he could judge, a field of about the same size as the house plot had once been cultivated, but it was choked with birch and aspen saplings that had grown to head height. On the three other sides, and beyond the field, it was all forest. Mostly spruce and pine, but also a few birches and possibly some other kind of broadleaf tree. Right on the edge of the plot, on the northern side, there was an earth cellar.

  And then there was the ramshackle little outbuilding by which he was perched, with the compost toilet at one end. That was the lot.

  He wondered how long it had been on the market. It didn’t look as though it had been lived in for many years, that was certain. There was a cable running from the road into the brick chimney, so he assumed there was electricity. Or perhaps it was an old telephone line, he couldn’t tell. A pump in the middle of the garden indicated that this was the source of water. There was no mains water supply.

  A deep-drilled well? That was an expression he had heard. Hope the water’s drinkable, he thought, noting that his tears had dried up and he was already busy making plans.

  He was gripped by a sudden fear. Just think if someone else had already gone and bought it. Just think if he was too late. He leapt to his feet and fished his mobile out of his pocket, only to find there was no reception.

  Bound to be patchy out here. Calm down, he told himself. Who but someone like me is going to want to own a place like this?

  Someone like me? There aren’t that many of us.

  But still, maybe one or two. Best not count on it yet.

  He made a careful circuit of the house, peering in as best he could. He tried the door, too, but it was locked. There were only four windows, and three of those had their blinds pulled down – but the blind in the fourth one had clearly not stayed down. By pressing his face to the glass and shading his eyes with his hand, he could make out a few things inside.

  A table with a crocheted cloth, and three chairs.

  A chest of drawers.

  A bed.

  A picture and a mirror on the wall, and a doorway out to what must be the kitchen.

  A chimney breast with a fireplace. The place didn’t look so awfully shabby after all. And none of the window panes were broken. The roof tiles seemed to be in reasonable condition, too, though perhaps one or two of them could do with replacing.

  He went over to the pump. He pumped the handle up and down a couple of times. There came a screech and a growl and a wheeze from down in the depths; the thing very likely hadn’t been touched for a long time and he knew pumps liked to take their time.

  Though he had no idea where he had come by this knowledge.

  Pumps that liked to take their time?

  He lingered in the long grass, surveying the scene again, looking in all directions. He closed his eyes and listened as intently as he could.

  The faint soughing of the forest was the only sound. Almost like the sea, but far, far away.

  The scent of grass and earth. And of something that must simply be forest. A sort of general forest smell. All at once the sun broke through, he opened his eyes and was forced to squint. He went back to the outbuilding and found he could open the door. It only had a basic hook and eye latch. Inside it was crammed with old junk and there was a smell of damp and mould. He came across an old folding chair, which he put up by the wall outside.

  He turned his face to the sun.

  Shut his eyes again and heard his father’s voice through the years.

  Never any better than this.

  An hour later he was standing on top of the little rocky outcrop he had passed on the road. It was a good vantage point and he could see in all directions, not huge distances, but still. There wasn’t a single building for as far as the eye could see. Lograna was sheltered from sight by a little ridge; open fields were only visible in the distance if he looked north, and they must have been a good two kilometres away. As for the rest, it was forest and more forest.

  And just as he had hoped, his mobile worked up here. He rang directory enquiries and asked to be put through to Lindgren, Larsson & Lund.

  It was Lindgren who answered, and told him Lund was out with clients.

  He asked for the mobile number and rang it at once. Espen Lund eventually answered.

  ‘Lund. I’m a bit tied up.’

  ‘Valdemar here,’ said Valdemar, sitting down on a tree stump. ‘I want to buy Lograna.’

  ‘Sorry my friend,’ said Espen. ‘We sold it this morning.’

  Ante Valdemar Roos slumped forward and landed on his knees in a scrubby pile of twigs. He was aware of the blood rushing out of his head and his field of vision rapidly shrinking at the edges.

  ‘Not possible . . .’ he blurted. ‘Not—’

  ‘Only joking,’ said Espen. ‘You’re the first person to show an interest since last spring.’

  ‘Christ,’ gasped Valdemar, hauling himself back onto his tree stump. ‘But thanks.’

  ‘The problem is the old dear won’t bring the price down,’ Espen continued blithely. ‘You’re going to have to fork out three hundred and seventy five.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ said Valdemar. ‘No problem at all. When can we do the deal?’

  ‘Keen as a randy tomcat,’ said Espen. ‘Can you come in tomorrow morning . . . no, you’ll be at work of course.’

  ‘I can take a couple of hours off,’ Valdemar assured him. ‘What time?’

  ‘I’d better have a word with the old dear first. But if you don’t hear from me, assume ten o’clock.’

  ‘I want . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s what we said about discretion.’

  Espen paused and coughed a couple of times. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said finally. ‘Lindgren and Larsson will both be out at that point. It’ll just be you, me and the little old lady.’

  ‘Great,’ said Valdemar. ‘What . . . what’s her name?’

  ‘Anita Lindblom, believe it or not,’ said Espen Lund. ‘Just like the singer. But it isn’t her; this one’s over eighty-five. She’s only got one arm, by the way. God knows why, but these things happen.’

  ‘Such is life,’ said Valdemar, referencing the title of the singer’s biggest hit.

  ‘Well put,’ said Espen.

  When the call was over, he checked his watch. Quarter to one. High time to get back to the cottage and have lunch.

  As he climbed back down towards the road, he felt as though his whole body was singing. Almost like Anita Lindblom.

  6

  In the late evening of 28 August, Freedom was ablaze.

  It was a little white-painted construction, something between a gazebo and a play house, over by a lilac hedge about ten metres from the edge of the lake. It really only consisted of a wooden floor and roof, held together by four thick wooden uprights, one at each corner. Two low benches facing each other and a simple table between them. The girls would sit out there and chat and smoke. Anna didn’t know where the name had come from; it was known as Freedom and that was that.

  All the girls at the centre smoked; drug abuse was pretty much unthinkable if you hadn’t started on tobacco first. Anna remembered how it had been at secondary school when the senior management decided to register all the pupils who smoked; they sent a letter home to the parents, pointing out that their kids could well be in the so-called risk zone. It created a hell of a fuss. Infringements on personal liberty, fasc
ist-style behaviour, unfounded accusations; some of the smokers were members of the Social Democrat Youth League and had been on courses about their democratic rights. It had led to a half-day school strike.

  But the poor principal had been right in a way, Anna had thought afterwards. Young people who didn’t start to smoke didn’t start using drugs, either.

  Though of course there were people who smoked without moving on to the harder stuff. Plenty of people, in fact most, to be strictly accurate.

  At any rate, smoking was allowed at Elvafors. Outside, and in the shelter of Freedom; attempting to get the girls off drugs and tobacco at the same time would have been a step too far. One thing at a time, first the major problems, then the minor ones, Sonja Svensson was in the habit of saying. She didn’t smoke herself, but a number of the staff did, and as far as Anna knew, none of them thought there was anything wrong with that.

  She didn’t think so herself, either, except for the cost of the habit. The home gave them weekly ‘pocket money’. Two hundred kronor; learning to handle their own finances was a fundamental requirement for getting their lives in order. All the girls, without exception, had debts: letters from debt-collecting agencies and piles of unpaid bills. In the first few weeks, Lena-Marie, a cousin of Sonja’s who had some form of training in economics – or at any rate had studied the subject for two years in upper secondary – had one-to-one sessions with everyone to try to sort out that particular messy corner of their messy lives. The eventual intention was for the girls themselves to contact those they owed money to, in order to set up some kind of repayment plan. It sounded breathtakingly difficult, Anna thought, and all the others thought so too.

  Anyway, more than half their pocket money went on cigarettes, that was just the way it was.

  But it wasn’t carelessness with cigarettes that burnt Freedom to the ground. On the contrary, by the next morning everyone knew someone had set it alight.

  It was Conny, Sonja’s husband and the only one of his sex who ever set foot in Elvafors, who found an empty petrol can behind a shed. The can had come from inside the shed, where an assortment of supplies for the home was stored: tools, bumper packs of toilet rolls and so on.