Table of Contents
Originally published in Swedish in 2008 as Sommardoden by Natur och Kultur
English translation © Neil Smith 2012
The right of Mons Kallentoft to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Prologue
In the final room
I’m not going to kill you, my summer angel.
I’m only going to let you be reborn.
You’ll become innocent again. All the dirt of history will vanish, time will deceive itself and everything that was good will reign in alone.
Or else I really will kill you, have killed you, so that love can arise again.
I tried not to kill, but that made rebirth impossible: the substance remained, clinging obstinately to material, and everything shameful vibrated within you and me like a hot black worm.
Pupated evil. Shredded time.
I tried in various ways, feeling my way, but I couldn’t get there.
I scrubbed, washed and cleaned.
You, my summer angels. You saw snow-coloured tentacles, tearing spiders’ legs, and rabbits’ claws.
I watched over you, gathered you in and took you.
I’m there now.
He’s sitting on the sofa.
His gut is open and rippling black snakes are sliding out onto the floor.
Can you see him?
Now he can’t hurt anyone any more, so say that you want to, say that you dare to come back. No oak floorboards will ever creak again, no alcohol fumes will ever make the air glow with anxiety.
The world is burning this summer.
The trees are transformed into withered black sculptures, monuments to our failures and our inability to love one another, to understand that we are one another.
We are the same, fire and me. Destroying so that life can arise again.
Someone has captured vipers, thrown them into an open oil-drum, poured on some petrol and set light to it.
The mute creatures crawl as they burn, making vain attempts to escape the pain.
Stop crawling, little girl.
I drove past the burning forest just an hour or so ago. I heard you beating against the inside of the car, ready to come out, come back, pure and free from anyone else’s guilt.
She thought she knew something about me.
So foolish.
But don’t be scared. The person you still need to be.
This is how it is: no one can live in fear, only in trust. Death is the penalty for anyone who deprives another person of the ability to trust.
That sort of trust is a close neighbour of love, which means that it’s a close neighbour of death and the white spiders’ legs. We needed you in spite of what you did, in spite of that. You owned our world. We couldn’t escape even though it was the only thing we wanted, and we went to you sometimes because we had no choice. It has haunted me, this enforced seeking after darkness. I know now that I will never be able to choose anything except wishing myself harm.
But when you are reborn, that curse will be lifted.
So it will all be over soon.
Everything will be clear, pure.
White and light.
You will feel nothing within you, just as we once did.
You are shaking and twisting on the floor.
But don’t be scared.
Only love will be reborn. Innocence.
And then we will cycle together along the bank of the canal, in a summer that lasts for ever.
PART ONE
Love reborn
1
What’s that rumbling, rolling sound?
Something trying to escape?
It’s the sound of rain coming. Thunder. Finally, a drop of water upon the earth.
But Malin Fors knows better. The heat of this summer is devoid of mercy, has made up its mind to dry all the life out of the ground, and rain will be a long time coming.
Through the noise of the lingering customers, Malin can hear the pub’s air-conditioning unit rumble like thunder, shuddering, protesting at having to work such long, demanding shifts, that there doesn’t seem to be any end to the overtime this summer. The entire contraption seems on the point of collapse, its joints clattering, saying: ‘Enough, enough, enough. You’ll just have to put up with the heat or slake your thirst with beer. Not even a machine can go on indefinitely.’
Is it time to go home?
She is sitting alone at the bar. Wednesday has turned into Thursday and it is just after half past one. The Pull & Bear stays open all summer and the dozen or so customers occupying the tables have fled the draining heat of the tables outside and taken refuge in the blissful cool indoors.
Bottles on shelves in front of mirrors.
Tequila. Cask-matured. Shall I order a single? A double?
Condensation on glasses of freshly poured beer. The smell of sweat and rancid old spilled alcohol is clearly noticeable in the smoke-free air.
She sees her face in the mirrors around her in the bar, from countless angles as it is reflected and then reflected again in the mirror in front of her and the one behind her, above the green leather sofa.
