The Darkest Room by Johan Theorin Read Free Book Online Page A

my first cargo ship.”
    “How often did you see each other?”
    “Well, whenever I was home from sea, a couple of times a year. Around Christmas and sometime in the summer. Ragnar usually came down to us in town.”
    “Were there celebrations then?”
    “Yes, especially at Christmas.”
    “What was it like?”
    “Crowded but good fun. Lots of food. Herring and potatoes and ham and pig’s trotters and dumplings. And of course Ragnar always brought plenty of eel with him, both smoked and pickled, and lots of cod soaked in lye …”
    The more Gerlof talked, the more he relaxed. And so did Tilda.
    They carried on talking for another half hour or so. But after a long story about a windmill fire in Stenvik, Gerlof raised a hand and waved feebly. Tilda realized he was tired, and quickly switched off the tape recorder.
    “Fantastic,” she said. “It’s amazing how much you remember, Gerlof.”
    “The old family stories are still in my head, I’ve heardthem so many times. Telling stories like this is good for the memory.” He looked at the tape recorder. “Do you think it got anything?”
    “Of course.”
    She rewound the tape and pressed Play. Gerlof’s recorded voice was quiet and slightly grumpy and repetitive, but it could be heard clearly.
    “Good,” he said. “That’ll be something for those researchers into ordinary people’s lives to listen to.”
    “It’s mostly for me,” said Tilda. “I wasn’t even born when Grandfather died, and Dad was no good at telling stories about the family. So I’m curious.”
    “That comes with the years, as you acquire more and more of a past to look back on,” said Gerlof. “You start to get interested in where you came from, I’ve noticed that with my daughters too …How old are you now?”
    “Twenty-seven.”
    “And you’re going to be working here on Öland?”
    “I am. I’ve finished all my training.”
    “How long for?”
    “We’ll see. Until next summer, at any rate.”
    “That’s nice. It’s always good when young people come here and find work. And you’re living here in Marnäs?”
    “I’ve got a one-bedroom place just by the square. You can see south along the coast …I can almost see Grandfather’s cottage.”
    “It’s owned by another family now,” said Gerlof, “but we can go down there and take a look at it. And at my cottage in Stenvik, of course.”
    Tilda left the Marnäs home just after half past four, with the tape recorder in her rucksack.
    When she had fastened her jacket and set off on the road toward the small center of Marnäs, a young lad drove past her on a pale blue puttering scooter heading in the oppositedirection. She shook her head at him to show what she thought of scooters driving fast, but she didn’t catch his eye. Twenty seconds later he was long gone.
    Once upon a time Tilda had thought that fifteen-year-old boys on scooters were the coolest thing in the world. Nowadays they were more like mosquitoes, she thought—small and irritating.
    She adjusted her rucksack and carried on toward Marnäs. She was intending to call in at work for a while, even though she didn’t officially start until the following day, and then go back to her little apartment and carry on unpacking. And ring Martin.
    The puttering of the scooter behind her hadn’t completely died out, and now it was getting louder again. The young rider had turned around somewhere over by the church and was on his way back into town.
    This time he had to pass Tilda on the sidewalk. He slowed down slightly, but revved the engine menacingly and tried to swing past her. She looked him in the eye and positioned herself directly in his way. The scooter stopped.
    “What?” yelled the boy over the noise of the engine.
    “You’re not allowed to ride a scooter on the sidewalk,” said Tilda just as loudly. “It’s illegal.”
    “Yeah, right.” The boy nodded. “But you can drive faster along here.”
    “You can also run over