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  STRANGE BIRD

  STRANGE

  BIRD

  ANNA JANSSON

  www.stockholmtext.com

  First Published in the United States in 2013 by

  Stockholm Text

  Stockholm, Sweden

  [email protected]

  www.stockholmtext.com

  Copyright © Anna Jansson 2012, by agreement with Grand Agency

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  TRANSLATION BY Paul Norlén

  COVER DESIGN BY Ermir Peci

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  ISBN 978-91-87173-96-7

  Chapter 1

  Ruben Nilsson stepped into the summer twilight to tap his pipe out against the railing of the porch. If he had known how few hours he had left to live, perhaps his priorities would have been different. The wind had died down, the trees cast long shadows across the well-tended lawn, and he stood there feeling melancholy. Perhaps it was the scent that made him think of Angela, the sweet scent of mock orange that came in bursts with the evening breeze. The blossoms hung in large clusters over the stone wall, shining strangely white in the dim light. When Ruben reached for the branch, petals fell like snowflakes across the ground. Too late. The mock orange must have just been in full bloom. He had not noticed; in fact, the scent was a bit stale, the leaves already wrinkled with age and brown at the edges. He was too late, just like when he loved Angela Stern but couldn’t find the right words. It still hurt to think about it.

  At the Midsummer party at the Jakobssons’ house in Eksta, she had sat down beside him, straightened his shirt collar, and slipped her arm under his as they left the table.

  They strolled in the garden in a silence that felt increasingly awkward. He was walking arm-in-arm under the lindens with the most beautiful woman on the island of Gotland, but all he could think of to say was that the price of wool didn’t look too good but the potatoes were doing fine. She listened patiently and then pointed toward the bower. He would never forget the look she gave him right then. Hidden from the others in the green grotto of leaves, he took her in his arms. There had been an understanding between them all evening—glances that could not be mistaken, her light touch when she approached him. The scent of wild strawberries was intoxicating. The thin fabric of her dress stretched across her breasts and over the soft rounding of her hips—it embarrassed him and made him mute and very aware of the reactions in his own body. Not long ago they were children; she was a girl he played with. Angela with her angelic hair like spun gold in a cloud over her shoulders, the blue-green eyes and slightly protruding upper lip he was compelled to kiss. In the leafy grotto he summoned up his courage and did it. It was a somewhat unsuccessful kiss, their teeth scraping together, and they both pulled back in embarrassment. He tried again more carefully and noticed that she softened. Her hands caressed his back, slowly gliding along his muscles and in under his shirt. He felt a light shudder throughout his body as her nails lightly scratched his skin and her breathing became more rapid. His hand felt its way into her panties and she caught it in mid-motion and held it in hers.

  “How much do you love me, Ruben?” She looked him right in the eyes without turning away, waiting for him to say the impossible password. How much do you want me? How much do you love me? And he answered by pressing his throbbing member against her stomach. She recoiled and he guided her hand where he wanted, so that she would feel his hardness and understand how much he wanted her, how much he longed for and thought about her. Stop! Her body turned rigid. He tried to touch her but she turned aside. The smile on her face was gone. When he still did not say anything, she pushed him away and ran over to the others. He caught up with her, tried to embrace her from behind. Say something you stupid idiot; whisper the words she wants to hear. But the words never came, not then and barely even now, fifty years later, when he thought about what he should have said to change the course of history. How much do you love me? How do you answer that? Can love be weighed and measured? She’d torn out of his grasp with a fury he could not understand and did not look at him the rest of that Midsummer night. And then—it was too late.

  Ruben turned his pale blue eyes toward the evening sky, tears running down his face. These days he often felt paralyzed. As a child you cry because you’re sad or you’ve hurt yourself; when you’re old you cry because you’re moved when you hear “In the Good Old Summertime” or recall a long-ago love. He adjusted the crotch of his pants and smiled to himself. The body remembers too.

  High above the dovecote a flock of pigeons was circling. Ruben stood quietly and watched as they landed on the sheet metal roof, cooing and strutting back and forth before they went in for the night. He knew them by appearance and name. General von Schneider, Mr. Pomoroy, Sir Toby, Mr. Winterbottom, Panic, Cocoa, and Sven Dufva crowded and pecked at each other as they went through the opening to see their females and chicks and then get supper. Always the same routine.

  Farthest out on the roof ridge sat a new pigeon who must have followed the flock home. A sturdy, light brown speckled bird with a white head. Probably a male. He would have to take a closer look at it. Ruben crouched through the low door to the out-building and slipped up the creaking wooden stairs to the dovecote in the loft and over to the sack of hemp seed. Goodies that ought to entice the new pigeon. He adjusted the opening and the grate so the birds could go into the dovecote but not out, and waited in the darkness while the setting sun painted the sky and sea reddish orange in a glowing river of light.

  The birds were fighting over food. Von Schneider pecked Winterbottom on the head and got a wing in return. Anyone who thinks a dove is a believable symbol of peace is mistaken. Ruben had said so on many occasions. No bird is more aggressive and domineering than a dove, but they serve well as a symbol of love and fidelity. The best flyers are males whose females are sitting on eggs or have chicks. They give their all to get home quickly, something to keep in mind when you select homing pigeons for a competition. Ruben had already started to pick out the pigeons he would enter in the club’s race over the weekend. The pigeons would be released from Gotska Sandön early Saturday morning. Before that, the pigeon owners’ clocks would be calibrated so that they were synchronized according to official time. That way you avoided rancorous discussions afterward when the average time in kilometers per hour was being calculated. There were those who cheated, of course. Petter Cederroth had drilled a barely visible hole in the O on the manufacturer’s name in the glass. Then he used a pin to stop the clock at a point when he could record a winning time. To keep from being discovered, right before the clock opening he pushed the hands forward so the time would tally. Smart, if his wife hadn’t spilled the beans when she’d had a few drinks. Off-hand, Ruben could not think of anyone as communicative as Sonja Cederroth under the influence of alcohol.

  If this had concerned big money, like in the national competitions, and not just the “Silver Dove” traveling trophy, Cederroth would have been kicked out of the homing pigeon association. But the club hushed it up. He was usually so darned nice, and good at brewing Gotland ale too. That must be said in his defense.

  The newly arrived male pigeon l
ingered out on the roof and was in no hurry, even if he looked in with curiosity now and then. Ruben picked up the binoculars and studied him. A truly powerful bird, although a bit worn out after the flight. Marked with a metal ring around the foot. A foreigner—in Sweden, the pigeons have plastic rings. A flying tourist on a visit? He ought to be more hungry than suspicious and come in. It was annoying to have to fetch him from the sheet-metal roof.

  Ruben crept out onto the roof with a cage. The pigeon fluttered up in the air and then sat on the far end of the roof by the gutter and watched as the cage was set. A stick with a nylon line held up the hatch and inside the net cage were appetizing hemp seeds on top of the feed, like gravy on mashed potatoes. Come now! Come closer! Ruben crept back and stood motionless behind the wall with the nylon line tense in his hand. Come now! A little more. There now, you’re hungry after all. The pigeon looked at the cage with eyelids half-closed and smiled teasingly. Ruben thought it looked scornful as it twitched its neck. What kind of bird are you and where do you come from? It was exciting to think about how far the pigeon might have flown.

  Cederroth had bragged all spring that he had taken in a pigeon from Poland, but no one saw it before it flew away, and Jönsson said he’d had a bird from Denmark last summer and recently one from Skåne. There now. Go in now. No. The pigeon turned abruptly in front of the cage and marched like a straight-backed general in the opposite direction. Then turned completely around at the gutter. Now he was coming back. Ruben was prepared. He held his breath. Not a sound was allowed to frighten the bird. The pigeon took the decisive steps; he could no longer resist the goodies. The hatch closed. Yes, there it was.

  Ruben carried the cage with the pigeon across the roof and did not open it until he was in the dovecote. It was truly a splendid bird, even if its plumage was somewhat battered after the long journey. Ruben spread out the wings, one by one, in his hand and studied them carefully. Two quills were missing on the right and on the left one quill was short but growing. To see the marking on the ring more closely he had to put on his glasses. He found them on the wooden molding above the transport cages, wiped off the white dust, and inspected the ring. The letters looked Russian. This was really interesting. Ruben gave the pigeons clean water and fed them a corn mixture. Then he went into the house to call Cederroth. But he was at his brother’s in Martebo and was not expected home until late that evening, said Sonja.

  A glance at the free ICA store calendar made Ruben realize that it was already the end of June. He sank down on a chair and looked out the window at the sunset’s magnificent play of color as the red disk slowly slipped down into the sea. He found it to be a great blessing and solace for the soul to live where he could see the sun go down into the sea. He got up to pour a cup of coffee and cut a slice of rye bread, which he layered with Falu sausage—two thick pieces on a sturdy base of butter, no plastic balls of artificial margarine for him. The sea was breathtakingly beautiful to look at this evening. It almost made him devout and tenderhearted—full of thoughts about what exists beyond time.

  He thought of the word reconciliation and he thought about Angela. Is there a more beautiful word than reconciliation? Making peace with what has happened, not forgetting it or belittling it, but remembering it without pain. Being reconciled to the fact that it didn’t turn out the way you’d thought and hoped for in your heart. Getting to the point where you can reconcile yourself with your fate.

  It was Angela’s father who had started raising pigeons. When he got tired of them and started playing golf instead, Ruben and his little brother Erik took over the pigeons and moved the operation to their place on Södra Kustvägen in Klinte. But Erik lost interest, too, and acquired a motorcycle instead. And then everything went wrong.

  Chapter 2

  In the first light of dawn Angela came walking across the sea toward him. The train of her thin dress merged with the foam on the waves and her long hair was spun by morning light. In her emerald eyes, the sea was glistening. She was holding a white dove in her hands and released it up toward the sky. Come. She extended her arms toward him. Come along now. Her smile was just as alluring as he remembered it from that fateful Midsummer Eve. Come, you too can walk on water. But he turned his back to the sea and no longer saw her. And she came like darkness, like a storm over land. The trees bent down. The clumps of reeds were pressed against the ground; the birds fell silent and lightning crackled like fireworks between the clouds. But he refused to listen to her, closed his eyes and covered his ears. Then she came as a scent. How do you defend yourself against a scent that recreates memories?

  When Ruben woke up he realized he had been crying. He felt a longing for Angela all over his body; he felt it as an ache in his belly. Angela. Angela. How can regret suddenly become so strong? In his dream she was holding a white dove.

  He could still remember how her hands with their short, blunt thumbs had held the injured pigeon that the hawk attacked, back in a different time when everything was still possible. It was one of the first times they met.

  Her small hands stroked the pigeon’s back. “You poor thing. We’ll take care of you.”

  While Angela tried to feed the pigeon porridge and made a bed for it in the softest nest, Ruben loaded his shotgun and waited for the hawk, which was circling high above the dovecote. His finger rested on the trigger, waiting until the bird of prey settled in the pine tree next to the outbuilding. Then he fired. The hawk fell dead to the ground. In triumph he carried the bird by its legs and threw it onto the kitchen table so that Angela could see that the guilty party had been punished. He did not expect her to start crying. But she did.

  “How could you? How could you just shoot it?”

  He stood there in the kitchen with his arms hanging by his side, unable to say a word in his defense. The only sound was the buzzing of a fly caught in the sticky strip of tape hanging from the kitchen lamp, and it droned on until his head was empty of thoughts.

  Ruben went to the library as soon as it opened. Once he was back home, he had his morning coffee while he listened to the weather report. Then he went out to the dovecote to take a look at the new pigeon. The bird had seemed tired and worn out after the flight. Its eyes were a little dull. Not surprising given how far it had flown. But with its powerful physique, the pigeon should have been in good form today. As a breeding pigeon it was a really fine specimen. Cederroth would be green with envy. The pigeon had come all the way from Biaroza in Belarus, imagine that. The librarian had helped Ruben search on the Internet to find a list of country codes and designations of homing pigeon clubs in various countries, and finally found where the pigeon belonged. A Belarusian. He had reported it as found. If no owner got in touch he could keep it. He was hoping for that.

  With these thoughts Ruben Nilsson went up the stairs to his dovecote, and came out again even more thoughtful. The foreign bird was lying dead on the stone floor below the window. In the overcast daylight the pigeon’s plumage looked almost gray. It was not injured, as far as he could see. The other birds might have attacked him in competition for food and females. But there were no such signs. When he picked up the limp body he saw the heap of pigeon droppings on the floor, loose. Perhaps it had eaten something bad. Or was it sick? He caressed its wings thoughtfully. It was truly a beautiful, well-built pigeon.

  At first Ruben thought he would bury the White Russian next to the garden wall, where he had made a bird cemetery and interred other bird bodies one by one, but it felt like a nuisance to go for the spade in the outbuilding. The aches in his hips were worse than usual. He could just as well bury it later; there was no rush. On his way into the house he caught sight of his neighbor Berit Hoas, who was hanging laundry behind her house. It was a source of constant conflict that Ruben’s pigeons circled over her sheets, dropping calling cards on the clean laundry. As if he could stop them. Pigeons drop their load as they climb toward the sky. It’s a law of nature. She could just as well hang her darned laundry in front of the house instead, but she d
idn’t want to. What would people say? Yes, what would they say? So you’re keeping yourself clean? If they have so little to worry about they could at least grant her that, he thought. Berit was of a different opinion.

  “Are you home already?” he asked to be polite.

  “Yes, the children have had their breakfast and I don’t need to fix the noon meal because they’re taking a sack lunch. They’re playing a match against Dalhem today. My goodness. This soccer camp goes on for three weeks and then I’ll be off. I’m thinking about visiting my sister on Fårö. The job doesn’t pay all that much, but it’s fun—they’re hungry and appreciate the food. By the way, I have some creamed morels that I took out of the freezer. Last year’s. I need to clear things out to make room for this year’s mushrooms, so it will be good to finish them up. You’re welcome to come over for a bite if it suits you. If you hadn’t planned anything else, I mean.”

  “Thank you. I was going to fry up a piece of sausage, but that can wait till tomorrow. Give me a call when it’s time.”

  Ruben limped over to the tool shed to get a spade, but as he was standing with his hand on the catch he changed his mind. Cederroth would never believe him if he didn’t see the pigeon with his own eyes. It was almost better if it stayed in the galvanized tub on the ground floor of the outbuilding until Petter had time to stop by. He was out driving his taxi a lot, that Petter Cederroth. Although maybe with a wife like his it was safest to flee the house so his ears didn’t wear out.

  Instead of burying the pigeon, Ruben rode his bicycle down toward the harbor to see about getting a couple of smoked flounders. At the newsstand he stopped and read the headlines on the placard. “Tips for Better Vacation Sex.” Ruben laughed. If the plague or civil war had broken out in Sweden the headline couldn’t have been bigger. Swedes had to be told the most basic things, such as how to perpetuate the species, when animals like rabbits with a much smaller brain manage all on their own. Vacation sex sounded like some kind of hunting season requiring a permit. Do it this way.