is?'
His father pursed his lips. 'About ninety kilos. That'll keep us busy for a while.'
Anders went ashore and fetched the rinsing net and the boxes. Meanwhile his father swung out the beam, hoisted up the net and started to shake it. The herring flew out of the net into the bottom of the boat. A few landed in the water, but still there wasn't a single gull there to snap them up. However, a couple of crows had arrived at the bottom of the jetty. They stood there moving their feet up and down, unsure how to behave now they didn't have to compete with the gulls.
Anders jumped into the boat with the rinsing net and threw a couple of herring to the crows. They swallowed them whole, croaked excitedly, and after a couple of minutes three more crows had arrived.
The herring whirled around Anders' head and it was all he could do to pour them into the rinsing net, sluice them in the sea and tip them into the boxes. It was more difficult than usual because the herring were still stiff, and kept slipping out of his hands. When he looked up from his work after filling one box, he saw a couple of gulls bobbing on the water just off the jetty.
When he bent down to his task again he heard the sound of flapping, and a splash next to the boat. The gulls had started to help themselves to the fish that had sunk to the bottom, and everything was back to normal.
It took his father a good hour to shake out all the fish, and then they worked together rinsing them and tipping them into boxes. When they had finished they each sat down on a capstan and contemplated the pile of five full twenty-kilo boxes on the jetty.
Anders took off his cap and scratched his sweaty scalp. Are we going to be able to sell this much?'
His father pulled a face. 'I doubt it. I'll have to take a box with me to work, and…well, I suppose we can smoke whatever's left over.'
Anders nodded gloomily, but inside he was jubilant. Although selling herring could be a bit slow, buckling was snapped up in no time on those rare occasions when his father decided to fire up the smoker. The tourists went mad for buckling, and his father's considered opinion was that they regarded it as quaint.
Anders took the wheelbarrow and went down to the steamboat jetty to fetch some ice from the store that was run by the village committee since the fishing industry had come to an end. When he got back, his father had carried the boxes ashore and hung the net up to dry. They packed the boxes with ice and placed a thick tarpaulin over the whole lot.
Anders went down to the shore and rubbed his hands with sand to get rid of the fish scales, then he squatted down on a rock for a while and warmed his face in the sun, which had now climbed high above the pine trees on North Point.
When they got home, Anders went to bed to sleep for a couple of hours more. To him, this was the best part of their fishing days. Lying there in the fiery yellow light pressing against the blind as his hands thawed out under the covers, sleepily listening to the cries of the gulls from the sea. If he didn't fall asleep straight away he would lie there for a while, satisfied with a job well done, picking individual scales off his hands. Then he would drop off as the summer day came to life around him.
Weight
Anders had been so far away in his memories that he didn't realise why the engine had been cut, why the boat was slowing down when they were only halfway to the inlet. The net wasn't here, right in the middle of the bay.
Then he noticed that the deck he was lying on was made of fibre- glass, and that he was so big there wasn't really room for him. He was a grown man, his father was dead and everything that had happened later that day had nothing to do with the task in hand.
The engine died and silence fell. Simon was sitting in the prow looking around. There wasn't a boat in sight, no eyes that might spy on them. Anders stepped back into the present, although he wished he could have stayed in the past. The black sacks at Simon's feet were real, and demanded an act of which he would never have believed himself capable.
He gathered up the chain and hauled it forward, letting it coil down on top of the black bundle. Simon smiled sadly. 'Do you know where that chain comes from?'
'Is it the one you used when you…?'
'Mmm. It's been in the sea before.' Simon nodded to himself, and neither of them spoke for a while. Simon stroked the plastic covering Elin's head.
'She's dead. Nothing we do now will make any difference. To her. She drowned. Somebody drowned her. And now she's going into the sea. There's nothing strange about that. It isn't wrong. We just have to do it. Because we need to go on living.' Simon looked Anders in the eye. 'Don't you agree?'
Anders nodded mechanically. That wasn't really the problem. The problem was actually starting to touch the dead body, feeling muscles and bones through the black plastic without knowing for certain… that she was really dead.
'What's the plastic for?' asked Anders.
'I don't know,' said Simon. 'I thought…it would be better.'
'It isn't.'
'No.'
Anders understood the thought behind it, the idea of hiding what they were doing from themselves. And yet it was a relief when they pulled off the sacks and had Elin's corpse at their feet. Her skin had lost all its lustre, and the colour had faded from her wide-open eyes. It was a horrible sight, and yet it was better.
As Simon bent down and grabbed hold of the chain, he caught sight of the scars on her face and body, glowing white in the morning light. 'What are these? Scars?'
'I'll tell you all about it,' said Anders. 'But not now.'
They worked together to lift the body, turn it, wrap the chain around and secure it with a couple of locking pawls. However tightly they pulled the chain, there was no response from Elin's skin, no reddening or swelling. Her eyes stared up at the sky without blinking, and Simon was caught in her empty gaze.
'Who was she?' he asked.
That was the question that needed to be asked, the final question. Unfortunately, Anders didn't know the answer.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I think she was someone who…was looking for approval. Someone who tried, in a lot of…roundabout ways…to get the whole world to think she was wonderful. But…'
The memory of Elin's smile when Henrik and Bjorn were being humiliated by the boathouse flashed through his mind, and Anders lowered his head.
'In that case, we will remember someone who wanted to be wonderful,' said Simon, taking hold of the chain around her thighs and stomach.
They heaved Elin over the rail. Her legs hooked over the edge and she hung there for a few seconds with her head and upper body in the water. Then Simon gently lifted her feet. The body came free and slipped into the water with a faint splash.
Anders leaned over and watched her sink. A few air bubbles escaped from her mouth and rose to the surface like transparent beads. Her hair floated outwards and hid her face as she was dragged down into the depths. After a few seconds she had sunk so far that she was nothing more than a blurred, pale patch in the great darkness. Anders kept on staring until he was no longer sure he could see her, until she was replaced by the shifting pattern of the light on the surface of the water.
The black water. He was so dreadfully tired, he could sleep for a year. He leaned his head against the rail,
