 |
| Lesser Ury, Hochbahnhof Bülowstraße, 1922 |
Below is a brief prose fragment from a story I conceived this summer.
He woke up and sat up in bed. His pulse was racing, throbbing in his ears like drumbeats. For a moment, he just sat there, clutching the blanket and staring ahead. He did nothing but try to calm his breathing. The shadows behind the blinds from the tree branches outside. He didn't really know who he was. But eventually, he rose heavily and looked at the alarm clock. Half past two. He swore. He knew exactly who he was. As often happens when he woke up this way, he became wide awake. He put on his bathrobe and sat down at the computer. Sometimes, reading something on the Internet helped. But his heart continued to pound hard, and the computer's blue light gave him a headache. The Swedish-Danish wars in the 15th century and the bark beetles' spread in northern Uppland didn't help either, so he pulled up the blinds. It was still dark outside the window. The light had changed, the long summer nights of the summer solstice had turned into the darkness of July nights. He looked outside and saw the sea mist in the faint light from the veranda lamp that he left on at night. Could he force down yogurt and cheese sandwiches? As he descended the stairs, he decided that black coffee would be enough.
Just as he had thought that, he stopped on the bottom step and stared. The dark living room was not empty. A woman with dark hair sat in one of the armchairs, reading a book in front of the fireplace. Good Lord, he thought, and then again, Good Lord, and he held his breath, trying to understand if he was seeing correctly or if he had gone mad. As if she were a wild animal he didn't want to scare, he stood completely still. There was a concerned furrow on her forehead as she concentrated on the book. An irritated look on her face when her hair fell in front of her eyes. She adjusted her hair and spotted him. A faint smile as their eyes met, and he knew it wasn't an illusion or a dream. A great joy made him start walking. So, was it all just a nightmare? He thought and took big strides down the stairs. Have you been up all night? He was about to say when the image dissolved the next moment. The living room became completely dark.
High up, the Big Dipper. Barely visible through the night fog. He often longed for space. An absolutely quiet place where matter moved around without purpose or goal. Like an absurdist theater. The night that enveloped the landscape. He shivered as he jogged along the path that led from his house to the sea. Past the meadows and down to the beach. The ground was rocky, trampled limestone soil, mostly meadows where stonecrop grew in the calcareous soil. Not much else. The meadows were overgrazed. Their first summer had been the best. The farmer who owned the land had not used the meadows. Instead, there had been wild meadows. Flycatchers and nightingales in the tall grass. When the domestic animals took over, they ate everything that wasn't toxic or spiky. His breath misted as he walked. He passed a sleeping sheep. Gave the animal a mean look.
The latest water samples had looked good. Too good. No traces at all of iodine-135 or strontium. Completely drinkable water, he had noted the day before, and at the same time thought that they would probably believe that either his testing kit or, more likely, his psyche had something wrong with it. Probably, they were right as well. Soon enough, a whole bunch of new test kits would arrive in the mail, and if they also showed drinkable water, they would soon send an inspector from Stockholm. The thought raised his pulse in anger. Maybe they didn't think he could handle his job. Earlier in the day, he had lain face down over the green moss and stared suspiciously into a well shaft. The test kit loaded and ready with water beside him, and for the first time since he came to this posting, it had shown a green color in the result box with the word "Drinkable." A long row of chemical formulas transferred to the phone app showed exactly what the water contained. Nothing strange. At least nothing deadly. The dewy meadow grass had tickled his face as he looked down at the rushing water below. He had wanted to lower a sampling cup into the rushing water and drink it himself, just to prove to himself that he wasn't seeing things. Then he had thought about the fields out here with all the animal skeletons. The remnants of an animal life that had been here before the incident. Clearly a mistake. The only drinkable water on the island was rainwater, a few streams, and desalinated seawater. After the incident, around 120 islanders shared the island with livestock, and they all had purified water in special purification facilities that removed the radioactivity. Birds, to the amazement of biologists, had quickly learned to avoid all the poisoned waterways after an initial wave of death. Perhaps they were smarter than previously thought, the general consensus had been.
He had gone home for several new test kits and driven around to all the deep wells. The same result. Clean groundwater with no traces of radioactivity throughout Gotland. Practically impossible for many years. A mosquito bit him on the leg. He swore and slapped himself on the head.
"You'd think you'd be rid of that shit, at least," he muttered, with the remains of the insect's blood and legs in his hair.
Salt and seaweed in the scent. He felt the sea before he heard it. The waves were fierce. Down at the sea, the beach received the fading storm. It crashed with seaweed and broken seashells as he stepped over the cobblestones. He headed towards the sea stacks at the water's edge. When he rounded one of the large rocks, she was standing there as if waiting for him. He jumped in the air in fear and felt quite foolish when she stood there calmly, looking at him. His heart skipped several beats in a row.
"You're out for a late walk," she said.
"More like early," he replied. "You shouldn't be here."
"Why not, Aron Erikson?"
He pondered the question. "I'm not used to meeting ghosts."
"So that's how you see me, then?"
"No, not really." He shook his head. Instead of trying to explain, he began to walk along the shore. Without a word, she walked with him. Parts of a bookshelf on the beach. He stopped and glanced at it.
"Do you think it could be good firewood?"
She shook her head. "Far too much paint. It will produce poisonous smoke if you try to burn it in the fireplace. Do you not remember what happened when you tried to use those chair legs?"
"Yes," he said reluctantly.
He started walking again. Over the cobblestones and toward the small hill. She struggled to keep up with the terrain and was soon ten meters behind him.
"Why can't you wait?" she finally shouted. He stopped.
"Sorry," he replied stiffly when she caught up to him. She was out of breath.
"What's wrong with you, anyway?" she said irritably. "If it's so terrible that I'm here, I can leave."
"No!" he exclaimed. "Stay. I'm sorry."
He closed his eyes as he said it and decided that if she was still there afterward, he was either truly insane or the world was something entirely different from what he believed. After five seconds, he opened his eyes and saw her skeptical expression. She shrugged her shoulders, and he gently placed a hand on her waist. Her warm, firm body under the fabric. He felt dizzy. Good Lord, he thought.
Kommentarer