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

‘Am I invited?’ Arne fills his glass over-enthusiastically, splashing red wine onto the cloth. ‘To the Walpurgis Night dinner?’

David shuffles uncomfortably, exchanges a glance with his mother, who comes to his rescue.

‘David didn’t think it would be your kind of thing, Arne.’

‘Not my kind of thing? A dinner with good food and expensive wines?’ He points unsteadily at David. ‘Tell the truth – you’re afraid I’ll show you up in front of all your fine friends.’

David shuffles again. Ingrid opens her mouth, but Arne silences her with a gesture. His eyelids are heavy, his face red and puffy.

‘No, let the boy answer for himself. Why am I not invited? After everything I’ve done for you? It’s thanks to me that the two of you and that poverty-stricken little Pole ended up with such successful lives.’

He wags his index finger at David, then at Nettan.

‘If Uncle Arne hadn’t stepped in and sorted things out that night . . .’

‘Shut the fuck up, Arne!’

‘What?’ Arne jerks back as if he’s been punched in the face.

‘Shut the fuck up, you stupid bastard!’ Bertil’s voice is rough, the look in his eyes ice-cold.

Arne blinks a couple of times, stares blankly at Bertil, then his sister.

‘I was just having a little joke with the boy, Bertil. You know I’d never . . .’

He clears his throat, looks away. Bertil is still staring at him. Ingrid places a hand on her husband’s arm.

‘Of course you’re welcome at the dinner, Arne,’ she says. ‘Our family sticks together, isn’t that right?’

She smiles at Bertil, squeezes his arm. After a couple of seconds his expression softens.

‘Of course, of course,’ he murmurs.

*

They have coffee and cognac in the library. Bertil shows Nettan his bridge trophy; she pretends to admire it, just as Thea did. Thea is trying to stop studying the other woman, but Nettan touched on a sore point earlier.

Is she really intending to stay here with David forever, give up travelling for good?

And what did Nettan mean when she told her to be careful?

Arne still looks cowed. He glances at Bertil from time to time, clearly embarrassed. Thea is about to go over and talk to him when David slips an arm around her waist.

‘Feeling better?’

‘Definitely.’

‘Good . . .’ David sounds as if he doesn’t believe her. ‘Sorry about that business with Arne. You have to take whatever he says with a pinch of salt. He’s a bit too fond of . . .’ David pretends to drink from an invisible glass.

‘Well, your dad certainly put him in his place,’ she says.

David laughs. ‘Yes, Dad’s always kept an eye on Arne. He was the one who got him into the police back in the day, otherwise God knows what would have happened to him.’

‘What do you mean?’

David shrugs. ‘He used to get into trouble when he was a teenager, but Dad sorted him out. He’s always been something of a father figure to Arne.’

Thea glances at Arne. He’d come rushing over to the lodge the other morning, treated Bertil with a kind of respectful reverence that can be seen in his anxious glances this evening. He’d probably do anything for Bertil, just as Ronny would for their own father.

Dad wants you to come home. Right now.

50

‘You’re right, Margaux. It’s time for me to talk about my own ghosts. About the ones I’ve left behind. About the person I once was.

‘Jenny Boman. That was my name.

‘At a different time. In a different life.’

Mum is so thin lying there in the bed, her cheekbones look as if they could pierce holes in her skin, which is almost transparent. The little hair she has left almost disappears into the pillow.

They’ve been sitting with her for half an hour, maybe more, and Dad is getting restless. Even though he is in cancer’s innermost room, he is desperate for a cigarette. One heel waggles up and down, his fingers drum on his thigh. Mum is sleeping. Her eyelids flicker like a butterfly’s wings. Her breathing is shallow.

Dad looks at his watch for at least the third time. Gets to his feet.

‘We need to go. There’s something I have to do on the way home.’

There’s always something he has to do, but no one is allowed to ask what it is. He tosses the car key to Ronny.

‘Fetch the car and I’ll see you out the front. I’m just going for a smoke.’

Ronny nods, kisses Mum gently on the cheek before he leaves the room.

Dad’s hand on her shoulder. ‘It’ll be OK, Jenny. You can always try again.’

She knows he’s trying to console her, and yet she can’t take in what he’s saying. Her head is empty. Her belly hurts.

Miscarriage. A bloody fragment in her knickers a few mornings ago. A child she didn’t even realise she was expecting.

‘I’m sure it’ll work out next time,’ Dad whispers, his breath smelling of cigarette smoke. ‘You and Jocke have your whole lives in front of you. He’s a good lad. Reliable.’

She knows what he means by that. What Jocke must have done to deserve that accolade. Dad heads for the door.

‘Are you coming, Jenny?’

‘In a minute.’

He nods, disappears into the corridor.

She goes over to her mother. Bends down and kisses her cheek. The tears are not far away. She really wants to push aside all the tubes and crawl into the bed. Be six or seven years old again, be comforted. For a moment she is on the way to becoming a child again, and Mummy is no longer dying, but young and healthy.

Then Mum opens her eyes and Jenny is back in the moment. Mum’s expression is clear, full of sorrow. She takes Jenny’s hand, squeezes it, pulls her close. Her fingers are cold and warm at the same time.

‘The life insurance,’ Mum whispers. ‘Take the money, Jenny. Get away from here. Forget about us!’

*

It is still dark in the bedroom when Thea opens her eyes. The only point of light is the faint glow of the nightlight by the door. It is just after