Harbor by John Lindqvist (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

She was sitting on the edge of his bed with her hand on his hip. ‘Good morning,’ she said. Simon nodded in response, and Anna-Greta lowered her voice, as if someone might hear.

‘How did it go? This morning?’

When Simon came ashore he had simply told Anna-Greta that he was too tired to talk about what had happened, then he had gone straight home and fallen asleep immediately.

He still didn’t want to talk about the morning’s outing, so he just said it had gone as well as it could, and asked what time it was.

‘Half-past eleven,’ replied Anna-Greta. ‘I didn’t know whether to wake you, but…I have a suggestion. You might not like it. In which case, feel free to refuse.’

‘What kind of suggestion?’

Simon thought he’d probably had enough surprises to last for some considerable time. Anna-Greta’s posture, the way she was picking at her cuticles, suggested she was about to ask a difficult question. Simon sighed and flopped back on the pillow; he was about to say that the answer to all suggestions at this particular moment was No, when Anna-Greta asked, ‘Do you still want to marry me?’

The no would have to wait a while. Simon gave the opposite answer, but added, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Do you want to marry me now?’

Simon blinked and looked around the room as if to check whether there was a priest hiding somewhere. There didn’t appear to be. He didn’t understand the question.

‘Now? What do you mean by now?’

‘As soon as possible.’

‘Is it…urgent?’

Anna-Greta rested her chin on one hand. There was sorrow in the look she gave Simon, her eyes fixed on his for a while until she said, ‘Perhaps it is. You never know. And I want to be married to you if… if anything happens.’

‘What do you mean?’

Anna-Greta traced the lifeline on her palm with her index finger, not looking at Simon as she replied, ‘You know I’m not particularly religious. But still. There’s something in all that. I want us to be…’ She took a deep breath and expanded her chest, as if she had to make aneffort to get the big words out, ‘…to be married in the sight of God. If anything should happen.’ She looked at Simon apologetically. ‘So there.’

‘OK,’ said Simon. ‘I understand. What’s the suggestion, then?’

Anna-Greta had made a number of calls that morning. In order to marry, it was necessary to have proof that there was no impediment to the marriage. That had to be obtained from the national registration office in Norrtälje. It would normally take a week or two to receive the papers, but it was possible to obtain them more quickly if it was urgent. The same day, in fact.

‘I said we’d booked the church for tomorrow,’ said Anna-Greta. ‘But that we’d forgotten this one detail.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘We’ll just make it if we catch the one o’clock boat.’

Simon had forgotten that he was going to say No, and started to take off his pyjama jacket. When he was halfway he stopped and let the jacket fall back down over his head. ‘And have you? Booked the church?’

Anna-Greta laughed. ‘No. I didn’t know if you’d think this was a good idea.’

She moved up so that Simon had room to get out of bed. He took off the jacket and stood up, using the bedpost for support. ‘I’m not so sure about good, but I understand the reasoning. Would it be possible to have a cup of coffee before…the wedding trip?’

Anna-Greta went into the kitchen to make the coffee. Simon leaned against the bedpost. He wobbled as the morning’s events hurled themselves at him from behind. He suddenly felt dizzy, and sat down on the bed again. With hands that felt unreal he took off his pyjama trousers and pulled on his underpants and socks. Then he came to a full stop. He held his hands up in front of his eyes.

These fingers of mine.

His entire life’s work had been built on what he could do—or what he used to be able to do—with these fingers. Thousands of hours in front of the mirror, polishing the tiniest movement to make it look natural, even though it was hiding something else. He had trained hisfingers to obedience, and had had them under control.

Earlier that morning those same fingers had wound his old chain around a dead person, those same hands had tipped a pair of feet over the rail and let a young woman disappear into the depths. To escape awkward questions. To avoid problems. These things his trained fingers had done.

The thought wouldn’t go away. As he got up from the bed and opened the wardrobe door, he was looking at his hands the whole time as if they were prostheses, alien things that had been screwed on to the ends of his arms while he was asleep.

He took out a pair of trousers, a shirt and a jacket. His best clothes. He put them on. Perhaps the disruption to his normal daily routine had done something to his head, but it really did seem as if his fingers were behaving as if they had a will of their own, and it was only with some difficulty that he could get them to do as he wished. Fasten his buttons, buckle his belt.

He stopped dead as he was fastening the top button of his shirt.

Is this what it feels like? To be possessed?

He looked at himself in the mirror on the wardrobe door. Not that he knew how it was supposed to feel, but he didn’t think that was what was going on here. It was more like the English expression: he was beside himself. One person carrying out the actions, another looking on, side by side.

He pushed back his long grey hair, pulled on his jacket and looked at himself in the mirror again.

Here I am.

He tried to recall the feeling that had come over him when a maple leaf had crossed his path. Without success. But