stay on a patch of waste ground on the other side of the Motala River, over by Ljung, near the manor. But I don’t know about that. Or maybe what they said was true, that he was the son of the brother and sister at Ljung Manor, the ones everyone knew were together like that. That the gypsies were paid to raise him, and that’s why Cornerhouse-Kalle turned out the way he did.’
‘When was this?’
‘It was in the twenties, I think, that Kalle was born, or the early thirties. This area was different then. There was the factory. And the big farms and the estate. No more than that. Kalle was lost to the rest of us right from the start. You see, he was the blackest of black children. Not in his skin, but inside. As if the doubt had condemned him, as if uncertainty became a sorrow that drove him mad, a sorrow that sometimes made him lose his grip on time and place. They say it was him who set fire to the estate farm, but no one knows. When he was thirteen he could neither read nor write – the master had driven him out of the school in Ljung – and then the county sheriff got him for the first time, for stealing eggs from Farmer Tureman.’
‘Thirteen?’
‘Yes, Miss Fors, he must have been hungry. Perhaps the gypsies were fed up with him? Perhaps the smart folk at the manor had grown tired of paying? But what do I know? Things like that were impossible to find out, not as easy as nowadays.’
‘Things like?’
‘Paternity, maternity.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘Then Kalle disappeared, didn’t come back for many years. There were rumours that he’d gone to sea, was in prison, terrible things. Murder, rape, child abuse. No one really knew. But he hadn’t been to sea, or I would have known.’
‘How?’
‘I did my years in the merchant navy during the war. I know a sailor when I see one. And Cornerhouse-Kalle was no sailor.’
‘What was he, then?’
‘More than anything, he was a womaniser. And a drinker.’
‘When did he come back here?’
‘It must have been some time in the mid-fifties. For a while he worked as a mechanic in the factory garage, but that didn’t last long, then he got some short-term farm work. As long as he was sober, he did the work of two men, so they put up with him.’
‘Put up with what?’
‘With the women and the drink. There can’t have been many working women, maids or farmer’s wives who didn’t know Cornerhouse-Kalle. He was king of the dance floor at the People’s Park. What he couldn’t get into his head about numbers and letters, he made up for with his body. He had cloven hooves when he danced. He could turn on the charm like the devil. He took whatever he wanted.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Ah, that was probably his secret, Miss Fors. The secret that made him irresistible to women. He looked like a beast of prey in human form, he was physical appetite made flesh. Broad, coarse, dark, close-set eyes and a jaw that seemed chiselled from marble.’
Gottfrid Karlsson falls silent, as if to allow the image of coarse masculinity to sink in to young Miss Fors.
‘Men are no longer made like that, Miss Fors. Even if there are still a number of
‘Why “Cornerhouse”?’
Gottfrid puts his liver-spotted, withered hands on the chair’s armrests.
‘It must have been at the end of the fifties, or early sixties. I was working as a foreman at Cloetta then. Kalle had somehow come into a sum of money and bought a plot with an old red wooden cottage on it, down by Wester’s, just a few hundred metres from here, by the bend, next to the tunnel under the main road, on what today is called Anders vag. The tunnel didn’t exist then, and where the road is now used to be a meadow. I put in an offer on the house myself, so I know. It was a large amount of money in those days. There had been a robbery at a bank in Stockholm, and there were rumours that that was where Kalle’s money came from.
‘He had met a woman by then, Bengt’s mother, Elisabeth Teodorsson, a woman so rooted in the soil that she seemed utterly unshakable, as if she would outlive the earth itself. But of course that didn’t happen.’
Then the old man in front of her sighs and closes his eyes.
The flow of words seems to have stopped.
Perhaps the effort of digging through his memories has made him tired? Or has the story itself made him tired? Then his eyes open and the light in the foggy pupils is bright.
‘From the moment he bought the house he was known as Cornerhouse-Kalle. Before that everyone knew who Kalle was, but now he got an extra name. I think that house was the start of the end for him; he wasn’t made for what you might call ordered circumstances.’
‘And then Bengt was born?’
‘Yes, 1961, I remember, but by the time he was born Cornerhouse-Kalle was behind bars.’
Gottfrid Karlsson closes his eyes again.
‘Are you tired?’
‘No, not at all, Miss Fors. I haven’t finished what I have to tell you yet.’
On her way out Malin stops at the nurses’ office.
Sister Hermansson is sitting on the bench by the wall, writing up figures on some sort of diagram.
She looks up. ‘Well?’
‘Good,’ Malin says. ‘It was good.’
‘Did you learn anything new?’
‘In a way.’
‘All those courses Gottfrid Karlsson took at the university after he retired have made him rather peculiar. So he may well have put ideas in your head. I presume he told you about the courses?’
‘No,’ Malin replies, ‘actually he didn’t.’
‘Then I should keep quiet,’ Hermansson says, and returns to her diagrams.
Down in the entrance the old men in the wheelchairs have gone.
When Malin emerges out of the revolving door and the cold hits her, Gottfrid Karlsson’s final words come back to her, as she knows they will do, over and over again.
She was on her way out when he put his hand on her arm.
‘Be careful now, Miss Fors.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Just remember one thing, Miss Fors. It is always desire that kills.’
16
The plot where the house, the cornerhouse, once stood.
The atmosphere now: middle-class pomp, a perfectly average, dull house. When could this pink-painted wooden villa with its factory-produced playful carvings have been built? 1984? 1990? Something like that. Whoever bought the house from Ball-Bengt knew what they were doing; presumably they bought cheap, sat out the recession, tore the house down, built a new bog-standard villa and sold up.
Did you build someone’s life away?
No.
Because what is a house, other than property, and what does property do other than impose responsibility? Rent your house, own nothing. The mantra of the poor, the broad-minded.
Malin has got out of the car, letting air into its suffocating staleness. Behind the stiff crowns of the birch trees she can make out the pedestrian tunnel under the Linkoping road. A black hole where the hill on the far side becomes an impenetrable wall.
