up if you can. But the girl was lethargic, no longer present.
The baby lived only four days. Then there was nothing more to do.
She wrapped him in a linen towel. Sven came with a box which had been used for shoes.
The child was too small and was born too early.
He never said what he had done with the box.
Chapter NINETEEN
His parents were standing at the window when he arrived. He glimpsed them behind the curtains, how they pulled back so that he would not see them. He was irritated; he couldn’t help it.
He had bought tulips in the subway as well as a box of candy,
His mother took off his coat.
“Go in to your pappa; the food will be ready in a minute.” It smelled wonderful throughout the whole house. She had made roulades; she knew that was his favorite dish. And large boiled potatoes. And peas and jelly.
His father dished up a portion.
“How are things going with you?” he asked. “Is there a lot going on at the hotel?”
“It’s been a bit busy.”
“But you are still just working the night shift?”
“Yes, but the night shift can be fairly difficult.”
“I don’t get it. Aren’t the guests asleep then?”
“But Kjell, you’d understand if you thought about it for a second,” his mother said and giggled.
“No, goddammit, I don’t.”
His mother looked at him and made a face.
“If there are a lot of guests… maybe even foreigners,” Hans Peter said, “then there’s a lot to do with their passports and such. And then you have to help them with information, and maybe call a taxi for them; sometimes they get lost.” “All right, so there’s more involved.”
“Take some more roulades,” said his mother.
“Thanks, Mamma, this was great. You really know what I like.”
She smiled tightly.
After dinner he helped her with the dishes. His father sat in front of the TV, something about skiing.
“He has become so touchy and brusque,” his mother mumbled while she rinsed off a plate.
“Uh-huh.”
“Nothing is ever good enough. I try and try.”
“Is he healthy and all that?”
“Healthy? I think so. I haven’t noticed anything wrong.”
“What about you, Mamma? How are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you doing all right?”
“Of course I am, healthy as can be. Well, sometimes I get a little dizzy, but that happens with age.”
She went to the cupboard and took down a can of coffee.
“I’ve made him a
“You’re always spoiling him.”
She suddenly threw her hands in front of her face and burst into tears.
“But, Mamma, what’s wrong?”
He tried to put an arm around her, but she pulled herself away.
“Mamma… are you thinking of Margareta?”
“Yes,” she hiccupped.
That’s the way it usually went. The memories became stronger around birthdays and holidays. She was always trying to talk about anything but that, but it was always there, ready to break out.
He didn’t know what to say.
His mother stood there for a moment, turned toward the cupboard.
“Would you like me to make the coffee?” he asked. She shook herself a little and turned on the faucet.
He felt impatient. He drank the coffee and took two helpings of cake. Every time he visited his parents, he stuffed himself with way too much food.
“Shall we have something with our coffee?” his father muttered.
“Kjell, we’ve had something with the coffee already. I made a
“I mean something else than
He smiled at Hans Peter, somewhat slyly.
“Or what do you say, H. P.? But maybe you’re working tonight?”
“Yes, I am,” he said hastily, “but I can have a little glass, anyway.”
His father kept his liquor in an old cabinet with paintings of pumpkins on its doors and sides, which he had won at an auction. He found a bottle of whisky. He was wearing his old sweater with leather pads on the elbows. How long had he had it? His whole life?
“I won’t have any,” his mother said.
“Would you like something else? Some sherry?”
“Thank you, that’d be fine.”
“Where are the glasses?”
“Where they’ve always been.”
Hans Peter got up.
“I’ll get them. I know where they are.”
He wanted to leave. He was experiencing an unusual feeling, almost expectation, longing. The air here at home was suffocating him; he was having a great deal of trouble sitting still in the living room sofa.
After half a glass of whisky, his father became talkative. He started giving a lecture on golden parachutes, his own pet peeve.
“The newspapers are always talking about high directors who are fired because they can’t do their jobs properly, but the strange thing is, they get fired with a hefty reward, millions of crowns for the rest of their lives. Isn’t that crazy? I’ve done my job well for all those years and ruined my back to boot, just doing my job, and I don’t get a damned million for that. What is a worker’s back worth? Not one damn bit. But those high directors, they get to lounge around in their fine chairs and drive around in their fine, fancy automobiles.”
“Kjell, we’ve heard that already; we know that.”
“And even though I’ve paid my dues to the union, but even the union can’t…”
Hans Peter knew that the only thing to do was to nod along, so he did. He remained sitting for another hour, and then he got up and looked at the clock.
“Well, I’ve got to get rolling if I’m going to make it to work,” he said. “Thanks so much for dinner. And many happy returns!”
He held out his hand to his father. His father took it and squeezed a bit. He made a grimace, as if he were about to say something. Then he cleared his throat and put his hands into the large pockets of his sweater.
“Take care of yourself, H. P.,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
His mother came up to him and gave him a light hug. She was one foot shorter than he was. He looked at her. Her hair was thinning; he could discern her white scalp. He hugged her a bit tighter.
Hans Peter took the commuter train to T-Centralen, the central station, and walked from there to the hotel. It had stopped raining; he was longing for air.
In the entryway of the hotel, Ariadne was busy with the aquarium. She was running late today. She said that her girl was sick and she had to wait for her husband to return. She stood bent over the aquarium; she was wearing blue close-fitting jeans.
He took out the register and thumbed through it absentmindedly.
