Just like Anders and many others on Domarö, Holger came from a family of pilots. Through a series of clever acquisitions, marriages and other manoeuvres, the Persson family eventually ended up owning the entire north-eastern part of Domarö, an area covering some thirty hectares, measured from the shoreline inland, and comprising forest, meadows and arable fields.
This was what Holger's father had to look after when he came of age at the beginning of the 1930s. Summer visitors had begun to come, and like many others on the island he had a couple of boathouses done up and extended so that he could rent them out.
To cut a long story short, however, there were debts in the family, and Holger's father had an unfortunate tendency to hit the bottle when things were not going well. One summer he got to know a broker from Stockholm. Generous amounts of alcohol were proffered, and fraternal toasts shared. There was even talk of Holger's father becoming a member of the Order of the Knights Templar, the legendary masonic lodge headed by Carl von Schewen.
Well. Somehow the whole thing ended up with Holger's father selling Kattudden to the broker. A piece of land measuring about fifteen hectares where no trees grew and the grazing was poor. He got a price that was rather more than he would have expected if he'd sold the land to another islander.
But of course the broker was not interested in either grazing or forestry. Within a couple of years he had divided Kattudden into thirty separate plots, which he then sold to prospective summer visitors. Each plot went for a sum approximately half what he had paid for the whole piece of land.
When Holger's father realised what had happened, how thoroughly deceived he had been by the broker, the bottle was waiting to console him. At this point Holger was seven years old, and was forced to watch as his father drank himself into a morass of self-pity, while the Stockholmers happily erected their 'summer cottage' kit homes on land that had belonged to his family for generations.
A couple of years later his father took his shotgun out into the forest they still owned, and didn't come back.
Different versions of this story are told on many of the islands in the archipelago, but this was the Persson family's version, and it is undeniably one of the uglier tales. These transactions have given rise to a great deal of bitterness everywhere, and Holger was the most bitter of all.
His basic thesis was simple: Stockholmers were the root of all evil; some were guiltier than the rest, and the biggest villains of them all were Evert Taube and Astrid Lindgren.
Holger never tired of explaining his thesis to anyone who was prepared to listen: the archipelago had been a living community with a hard-working population, until Evert Taube came along and romanticised the whole thing, with his 'Rönnerdahl' and 'Calle Schewen's Waltz'. The real Carl von Schewen had become something of a recluse in his old age, thanks to all the curious Stockholmers who took a trip out to his jetty or lay there spying on him through telescopes from their boats to see if Calle might be busy building a haystack or dancing with the rose of Roslagen.
But this was merely a boring detail under the circumstances. The worst thing was that Taube's romantic portrayal opened the eyes of the Stockholmers to the archipelago, where people wore flowers in their hair, danced to the sound of the accordion and enjoyed a little drink in a picturesque manner. Those who could afford it bought themselves a summer cottage. The plots were bought up, and the archipelago became depopulated.
Just as the worst of the frenzy was dying down and the residents of the archipelago began to think they might be able to relax, the killer blow came with Astrid Lindgren's book Life on Seacrow Island, and the subsequent TV series. Now it wasn't only the rich who had to have a summer cottage. Brokers bought up everything they could get hold of in order to build small houses which they could sell or rent out by the week or month. Everybody wanted to go to the archipelago, to have exactly the right knack for starting up an outboard motor, and to find a pet seal of their very own.
The young people of the archipelago got to know the summer visitors, and began to long for the nightclubs and cinemas of the capital. Houses and farms were left with no one to inherit them, and of course the brokers popped up again, buying everything in sight until the archipelago resembled a corpse that came to life for a couple of months in the summer, then sank back into its silent grave.
This was the gist of Holger's thesis, and he would usually end with some detailed fantasy concerning what he would like to do to Evert and Astrid if they were still alive. These were terrible things involving both lead weights and petrol, and he would brook no contradictions.
The archipelago had been romanticised to death. That was Holger's considered opinion.
Anna-Greta
A wall of yellowing lilacs hid Anna-Greta's house from view. The only thing visible above the hedge was the metal roof of the tower, covered in verdigris. When Anders was a child he used to think it was a real tower, the kind you found in castles where knights lived, and he was frustrated because he could never find the way to it, and no one would show him.
Later he had realised that the pointed tower was purely decorative and the window on the gable was painted on. A hundred and fifty bygone years slumbered in that wind-battered wooden panel, and the impression of a haunted house lost in its own memories would have been complete, had it not been for the woman who opened the front door and came running down the garden path.
Anna-Greta was wearing jeans and a check shirt. On her feet she had rubber boots. Her long, white hair was woven into a plait that thudded against her back as she rushed up to Anders and threw her arms around him.
'Oh, Anders!' She hugged him, she shook him. 'It's so good to see you!'
She squeezed him so hard that for a moment Anders thought she was actually going to lift him off the ground, the way she used to do when he was little. He didn't dare respond with the same force—she was eighty-two, after all—so he stroked her back and said, 'Hello Gran.'
Anna-Greta suddenly let go and stared closely at his face for five seconds. Only then did she appear to notice Simon. She tilted her head to one side. Simon leaned over and kissed her cheek. Anna-Greta nodded as if to indicate that he had behaved correctly, and grabbed Anders' hand.
'Come on. The coffee's ready.'
She led Anders towards the house, and Simon lumbered after them. It wasn't that his gait had actually altered, but next to Anna-Greta most people looked as if they were lumbering, regardless of age.
It was as if she lived only on clear, salty air, and when the day came for her to pass away, she would probably do exactly that. Just take a step to one side. Dissolve into a north-westerly wind as it whirled around the lighthouse at North Point, then out across the sea.
The table was laid in the parlour: anchovy sandwiches with egg, delicate biscuits and cinnamon whirls. The hunger which Anders had refused to acknowledge suddenly caught up with him. Simon pretended to be offended, and said to Anders, 'I see, we're in the parlour because you're here. I have to sit in the kitchen. When I'm invited.'
Anna-Greta stopped and raised her eyebrows. 'Is that a complaint?'
'No, no,' said Simon. 'I'm just saying there seems to be some sort of preferential treatment going on here.'
'If you stayed away for almost three years, I'd probably set the table in the parlour for you as well when you came back.'
Simon scratched his chin. 'Well, perhaps I'd better do that, then.'
'In that case I'll walk straight into the sea and drown myself, as you well know. Sit down.'
Anders' father had once said that Simon and Anna-Greta were like an old comedy double act. They had their set routines, polished over the years; by this stage they knew them so well they were no longer routines, but rather a basis for improvisation. You recognised the theme, but the words were different every time.
Anna-Greta watched Anders as he gobbled two sandwiches. She pushed the plate towards him.
'I don't suppose you've got any food down there in the cottage.'
Anders paused
with his hand half way to the plate.
'I'm sorry, I...'Anna-Greta snorted.
'Nonsense. That's not what I meant. You help yourself. But we need to sort out some kind of arrangement.'
'Wood,' said Simon. 'Have you got any wood?'
The problem was discussed, and it was decided that Anders would take home a bag of provisions, that he and Simon would go shopping the following day, and that Anders' boat needed to be put in the water as soon as possible. He could help himself to wood if he ran short.
Anders excused himself and went out on to the porch for a smoke. He sat down on a stool, lit a cigarette and looked at Anna-Greta's plum tree, weighed down with overripe fruit. He thought about Holger and about Holger's wife, about the sea, which seemed to demand its dues at irregular intervals, about the anchor in the churchyard in Nåten, Maja.
It still seems strange... that there wasn't... that no one...
When he went back inside, the table had been cleared and the coffee pot topped up. Simon and Anna-Greta were sitting at the table leaning towards each other, their heads close together. Anders stood quietly, watching them.
That's what love looks like. It can happen. Two people can find one another, and then work together to sustain that amorphous, incomprehensible third party that has arisen between them. Love becomes an entity unto itself: the thing that determines how life is to be lived.
How does that happen?
Anders sat down on his chair, heavy and damp. Simon and Anna- Greta moved apart.
'It's nice to get a bit of fresh air, isn't it?' said Anna-Greta.
Anders nodded. Anna-Greta had never actually nagged him about smoking, but the barbs were many and varied.
'I was thinking about something,' said Anders. 'About Holger. The fact that he thought it was me.'
Anna-Greta pursed her lips. 'If you ask Holger, he'll tell you it's the Stockholmers' fault that there's no more cod.'
'Yes. But it wasn't that. It was more this business with...this business with Maja.'
Simon and Anna-Greta looked at him without moving a muscle. The atmosphere dropped like a stone, but Anders went on, 'It seems strange that.. .when I think about it now.. .that nobody suspected me. Or Cecilia. I mean, that's the obvious thing, isn't it? Two parents, one child. The child disappears without a trace. It's obvious the parents are guilty.'
Simon and Anna-Greta exchanged glances. Anna-Greta reached across the table and rubbed Anders' knuckles. 'You mustn't think like that.'
'That's not what I mean. I know, you know that's what happened. She disappeared. I still don't understand how that was possible. But why...'
Anders held up his hands as if he were trying to grab hold of a ball that wasn't there, something he just couldn't grasp. He saw it all again. The faces, the tone of voice, the questions and the condolences. And nowhere.. .nowhere...
'Why didn't, why doesn't one single person suspect me? Why does everybody seem to regard it as...something natural?'
Simon rested his head on one hand and frowned. He too seemed to have realised this was strange. Anna-Greta looked at Anders with an expression that was impossible to interpret. She said, 'I imagine they have some respect for other people's grief.'
'But what about Holger?' said Anders. 'His wife drowns and Simon told me that lots of people suspected him straight away. Despite the fact that it's sort of...natural, somehow. Drowning. It happens. But Maja...I mean, the police asked questions, of course. But nobody here. Nobody.'
Simon finished his coffee and put his cup down very gently, as if he didn't want to break the silence. A gust of wind sent a flurry of aspen leaves whirling past the window.
'It is rather strange,' said Simon. 'When you put it like that.'
Anna-Greta passed the coffee pot to Anders, pressing him to have another cup. 'I expect it depends on who's involved,' she said. 'Everybody here has known you since you were little. And everybody knows you wouldn't do such a thing. Unlike Holger.'
Anders poured himself half a cup. He wasn't convinced, he still thought it was hard to understand. But he said, 'Yes. Perhaps.'
They talked about other things. About possible repairs at the Shack, what they would do if Anders' outboard motor proved unwilling to start, about village gossip. Anders had no desire to get up and go home. There was nothing waiting for him but a cold house.
When there was a lull in the conversation he leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach and looked at Simon and Anna-Greta.
'How did you two actually get together? How did you meet?'
The question provoked a simultaneous grin from Simon and Anna-Greta. They looked at each other, and Simon shook his head. 'It's a long story.'
'Is there anything that needs doing?' asked Anders. Neither Simon nor Anna-Greta could come up with anything urgent. 'So won't you tell me the story then?'
Anna-Greta looked out of the window. The wind was getting up. The sky was overcast and breakers had appeared on the grey water. A couple of raindrops hit the glass. She rubbed a hand over her forehead and asked, 'How much do you know about your grandfather?
'
Love in the archipelago
The story of the story
On the island of Domarö there are two very special bottles of schnapps. One is down in Nathan Lindgren's old boathouse, and will no doubt remain there until his relatives finally get around to sorting through his belongings. The other is in the possession of Evert Karlsson.
Evert is almost ninety, and has kept that bottle for nearly sixty years now. No one knows what the cheap schnapps inside might taste like, and no one is going to find out either, not as long as Evert is alive. He has no intention of removing the cork. The bottle and its contents are much too good a story for that.
That's why Evert has kept it: just so that when some stranger comes along who hasn't heard the story before, he can take the bottle out of the cupboard and say, 'Have you heard about the time when Anna- Greta smuggled schnapps in on the customs boat? You haven't? Well, it was like this...'
And he tells the story as he strokes the bottle with his fingertips. It's the best story he knows and, even better, it's absolutely true. When he has finished he passes the bottle around, with strict instructions to hold it carefully and not to drop it.
People look at the clear liquid behind the glass, and nothing about it indicates that it came ashore under such remarkable circumstances. But this very liquid was part of the story that made Anna-Greta notorious throughout the entire archipelago. It is, as Evert says, the original schnapps.
Then he puts the bottle back in the cupboard, and there it stays, waiting for the next occasion when it will be brought out and the story will be told once more.
The smuggler king's daughter
Things didn't turn out the way Anna-Greta had expected at all. Erik seemed to have exhausted himself finishing the house and getting married. Once that was done he had no strength left over to set any new goals.
The summer went reasonably well, while the original flame of passion was still burning, but towards autumn Anna-Greta began to ask herself if Erik really had been in love with her. Perhaps it was just a project, like the house. Build house, install wife. Job done.
Hitler had invaded Poland in August, and there was feverish activity in the archipelago. The coastline was to be fortified, and the navy's destroyers and transport ships were shuttling between Nåten and the islands around Stora Korset, which was the last outpost facing the Aland Sea. Two gun emplacements and a number of defence posts were to be built, and several young men on Domarö were involved in the preparatory work: using explosives to make cable trenches, building walls and putting up fences. The Russian attitude to Finland had hardened, and there was a great deal of uncertainty.
Erik had used all his savings to build the house, and the newly- weds limped along on Anna-Greta's earnings as a seamstress, Erik's casual employment at the sawmill in Nåten and contributions from their parents. It grieved Erik to have to accept money from hi
s father, and when it came to Anna-Greta's father.. .well, Erik came straight out with it one evening after Anna-Greta had come home with yet more money from him, 'That money comes from criminal activity, you know.'
Anna-Greta was not slow to respond. 'Better criminal activity than no activity at all.'
As the autumn progressed a chill grew between them, and when Erik's old schoolmate Björn joined the teams building defences on the outer islands, Erik went with him. Anna-Greta didn't hear a word from him for the first two weeks in October.
She went down to the jetty every time a boat came in, watched the soldiers streaming up to the shop or to their work on the building going on around the harbour, but no one knew anything about those who were working on the outermost islands. Instead she was harangued at length about the poor food, the terrible clothes, the misery in the barracks out on the islands.