Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (hardest books to read txt) 📕

Or Margaux, at any rate, she adds to herself.

‘What colour is she?’ Erik asks.

‘Grey – both her coat and her eyes. Like a ghost. Emee means ghost in the Yoruba language, which is spoken in Nigeria.’

She stops herself, leaves out the fact that she and Margaux first met in Nigeria. Sixteen years ago now . . . She pushes aside the thought.

‘A street dog, you say? And she looks like a ghost.’ Erik leans forward, full of curiosity. ‘How did you get her into Sweden?’

Thea describes the import procedure, doesn’t say that it was David who flew down and took care of all the practicalities while she lay in a hospital in Cyprus. Or that she remembers very little of the time immediately after the bombing.

The story clearly interests Erik. His initial reserve has gone, and he chats away as if they’ve known each other for a long time.

‘How did you get on the other night?’ he asks. ‘Any damage from the storm?’

Thea tells him about the lightning strike and the power outage.

‘We once talked about getting both lightning rods and a reserve generator,’ Erik says. ‘But the count decided it was too expensive. Rudolf didn’t like spending money. We have both here on the farm; it would be too risky to do without. Most of our operations are mechanised nowadays – feeding, mucking out, the machinery. You can never be too careful.’

‘So shall we start the examination, Thea?’ Dr Andersson opens her bag and hands Thea the blood pressure cuff.

Thea wraps it around Erik’s arm; he needs no encouragement to keep the conversation going.

‘Have you and David settled into the coach house?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘That’s good. I’m looking forward to seeing what David does with the castle. How’s his father, by the way? I haven’t bumped into Bertil for a long time.’

‘He has good days and bad days,’ Thea answers truthfully. She thinks about how upset he’d become during dinner, and feels a pang of guilt at having caused it by bringing up Elita Svart.

‘Growing old is no picnic,’ Erik mutters. ‘Alzheimer’s, isn’t it?’

Thea doesn’t reply. David’s father isn’t her patient, but she still prefers not to discuss other people’s medical conditions.

‘God knows we’ve had our differences over the years, Bertil and I,’ Erik continues. ‘But I’ve always respected him. Everyone around here respects Bertil Nordin. He was on the executive committee of the Centre Party, and chaired both the sports club and the local community council for many years. He was re-elected over and over again. People trusted him. They knew he’d keep his word, and always had the village’s best interests at heart. And he was discreet – that was why the count asked him to help set up the Bokelund Foundation.’

Erik suddenly stops talking. Thea has experienced this before: all at once a patient is overwhelmed by their own unexpected chattiness, and falls silent. She leaves him in peace while she completes her examination. He doesn’t flinch when she pricks his finger to measure his blood sugar.

‘Does he talk a lot of rubbish?’ Erik asks when she’s finished. She can’t read his eyes behind those dark glasses, but once again she feels sure that he is watching her closely. ‘Bertil,’ he adds when she doesn’t respond. ‘Does he say stupid things? I’ve heard that people with Alzheimer’s often do that.’

Before Thea can say anything, the kitchen door opens and Per walks in, followed by an older man with a bushy red beard, wearing a baseball cap.

‘I saw the car and realised we had visitors. You must be our new doctor.’

Per smiles and holds out his hand, as though this is their first meeting. ‘Per Nyberg. This old fox is my father,’ he adds, patting Erik on the shoulder.

‘Thea Lind.’

The whole thing makes her feel kind of ridiculous, but as Per has started it, she has to play along.

‘David Nordin’s wife,’ Erik informs his son.

‘I knew that. I read about you on Facebook.’

Per holds onto her hand for a second too long, squeezes it gently before letting go. As before, she is struck by how soft his skin is. She glances at his left hand; no wedding ring, no telltale trace of one. Around his wrist he wears several braided leather bracelets, which briefly remind her of her father.

‘This is Little Stefan,’ Per says, gesturing towards his companion. He works for us. He’s in the middle of cutting the hedges up at the castle, so you’re bound to come across him again before long.’

Thea nods to the other man, who gives her a little wave.

‘So how’s it going with the restaurant?’ Per asks. ‘Dad and I are looking forward to the dinner.’

‘They’ve had a power outage,’ Erik says. ‘After the storm the other night.’

‘Oh dear. If you need help with anything, you only have to ask. David has my number.’ Per winks conspiratorially at Thea. ‘And Dad knows everything there is to know about the castle and its secrets. Where all the bodies are buried, so to speak.’

He fires off another smile which is definitely flirtatious.

‘Thanks – good to know,’ Thea says.

In spite of Erik’s dark glasses, she thinks the old man is glaring angrily at his son.

23

Walpurgis Night 1986

The dragonfly is my favourite insect. It starts life as an egg, then lives as a nymph at the bottom of the muddy pools deep in the bog. The nymph catches tadpoles and lives on them so that it can grow bigger and stronger. When it is strong enough, it crawls up out of the mud to begin its final metamorphosis. To become something better, more beautiful.

As soon as the legs and abdomen harden, it spreads its fine wings and drifts with the wind like a new, perfect creation, far away from the dampness and mud where it was born. Far away from everything that has held it down.

Do you understand where I’m going with this? Or are you still interested only in my death?

Arne walked out of the front door of