Drowned Read online

  Copyright © 2010 Therese Bohman

  Originally published in Swedish as Den drunknade by Norstedts in 2010.

  Published in English by arrangement with Nordin Agency, Sweden.

  Translation copyright © 2011 Marlaine Delargy

  The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the

  Swedish Arts Council.

  Poetry excerpts on this page and this page from “Ophelia” by Arthur Rimbaud, translation derived from the English translation by Oliver Bernard in Collected Poems (New York: Penguin Classics, 1997). Copyright © Oliver Bernard, 1962, 1997. Poetry excerpt on this page from “Song” [When I Am Dead, My Dearest] by Christina Rossetti, first published in 1862. Poetry excerpts on this page and this page from “Dolores” by Algernon Charles Swinburne, first published in 1866.

  Production Editor: Yvonne E. Cárdenas

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from Other Press LLC, except in the case of brief quotations in reviews for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. For information write to Other Press LLC, 2 Park Avenue, 24th Floor, New York, NY 10016. Or visit our Web site: www.otherpress.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

  Bohman, Therese, 1978–

  [Den drunknade. English]

  Drowned / by Therese Bohman; translated by Marlaine Delargy.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-59051-525-9

  1. Sisters—Fiction. 2. Family secrets—Fiction. 3. Triangles

  (Interpersonal relations)—Fiction. 4. Sweden—Fiction.

  I. Delargy, Marlaine. II. Title.

  PT9877.12.O48D7813 2012

  839.73′8—dc23

  2011049352

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Part Two

  The self-same force which drives up myriad shoots through clinging mud,

  spins threads through tender stems and in a flower’s bud,

  brews sumptuous, scented oils, weaves petals’ gossamer glow—

  lives in our very being, deep, deep down below.

  —OLA HANSSON, Notturno

  Part One

  The train is exactly on time as it pulls into the platform. My whole body feels listless as I stand up and get my bag down from the luggage rack above the window. There’s something wrong with my seat, with the mechanism that’s supposed to stop the backrest when you’ve reclined it into the position you want. I’ve been pushed backwards every time the train has accelerated, and several times during the journey I have woken up and discovered that I am practically lying down. I don’t like reclining seats too far back, the feeling of them disappearing behind me always makes me think of a visit to the dentist.

  I haul my suitcase off the rack at the end of the carriage as the train stops and the doors glide open. The heat hits me like a wall, the air is oppressive, not much cooler than the air inside the train, and the sunlight is so bright that it hurts my eyes, I have to blink several times. I feel like I’ve just woken up, my ears are still buzzing from hurtling through a tunnel, I feel as if I’ve been on a plane rather than a train. I don’t like traveling, even if trains are better than planes, less brutal. You have time to get used to the idea that you’re on the way to a different place.

  I squint my eyes and see Stella a short distance away down the platform, she is on time too, of course. When she sees me she smiles with her whole face, waves, and hurries toward me. My hands are sticky from the heat and the sweets I ate on the train, but of course she doesn’t shake my hand, she puts her arms around me and pulls me close and I hug her back. The scent of her is familiar, she smells the same as always. Cool.

  “How was your journey?” she says. She sounds happy.

  “Fine. It just took a long time, that’s all.”

  She nods, points toward the small newsstand on the station concourse.

  “The car is just around the corner. Do you need any help with your luggage?”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  She already has her own bag to carry, a brown leather purse that looks expensive. Her entire look is expensive; she’s wearing a beige skirt and a chalk-white blouse, she looks clean and crisp, as if her clothes have been hung out to dry in the wind coming off the sea, starched by the salt in the air so they didn’t even need ironing. Small pearl studs gleam in her ears. I feel dusty, and the sweets have left a stale taste in my mouth. I would like to brush my teeth.

  “I told Gabriel to start on dinner,” she says as we walk toward the car, the wheels of my suitcase trundling over the cracks in the paving stones outside the station, a few gulls circling high above. “Are you hungry?”

  I actually feel slightly nauseous, but it wouldn’t be very polite to say so. Instead I nod and she smiles at me, jangling the car keys in her hand.

  We drive along past fields of corn. The sun is still beating down mercilessly in spite of the fact that it is nearly evening, the sky is an almost unreal shade of blue, like a vast dome over the open landscape. Stella has put on a pair of dark oversized sunglasses. Mine are in my suitcase, so I have to carry on squinting. She presses a button on the car’s sound system, it’s New Order—In the end you will submit, it’s got to hurt a little bit. Stella drums her index fingers on the steering wheel, glances at me and smiles, I smile back. We have time to listen to several more tracks before we arrive. Stella turns off the main road onto a smaller one, then onto a gravel road pitted with potholes. Dust swirls up behind us and pebbles clatter against the undercarriage of the car, it sounds like a hailstorm. There are still fields of crops on either side, weeds growing in the ditches, thistles gray with dust.

  The gravel road ends at a small parking space in front of a yellow wooden house. It’s a beautiful place, with a glassed-in balcony above the large veranda. The garden is full of mature fruit trees, farther away I can see flower beds and rows of vegetables. A black cat is lying on the steps but is woken by the sound of the car engine and slowly ambles away. Stella jumps energetically out of the car, I still feel drowsy.

  “Come on, I’ll show you around!”

  “I just need to go to the bathroom.”

  She looks annoyed for a moment, then seems to realize that this is a perfectly reasonable request. She opens the trunk and lifts out my case, which lands on the gravel with a heavy thud. She smiles at me.

  “Have you brought the entire contents of the library with you?”

  I’m smiling too.

  “I’ll give you a hand.”

  Together we carry the bags across the parking area and along a narrow path with sparsely laid-out paving stones, up the steps to the front door and in through a bamboo curtain, the rattling sound makes me think of a xylophone. Inside, the house is warm and smells of wood, dry and slightly stuffy in a way that is not unpleasant but feels quite homely, like a summer cottage. The hallway is dark but the kitchen is large and light, and the man who is Gabriel is standing by the sink rinsing bright-green sugar snap peas in an old colander. He is tall and dark.

  “Gabriel, this is Marina.”

  His handshake is firm and his hands are big. His smile is also big as he says it’s good to meet me at last, he stares at me for a moment, gazing into my
eyes until I have to look away. Then they start talking about the food, he says he couldn’t get hold of what he wanted for the salad, the store is useless.

  Stella looks at me and nods toward the door.

  “There’s a bathroom in the hall.”

  I take my purse with me and when I look in the mirror above the washbasin I think I should have tidied myself up before I got off the train. I look pale, and my forehead is shiny. My hair is flat and looks dry and brittle, perhaps because of the air-conditioning on the train. I have a pee, then quickly touch up my makeup before running my hands through my hair to try to get some volume into it.

  Gabriel is still busy with the salad when I get back to the kitchen, he is slicing radishes very thinly.

  “Your sister’s gone to get changed,” he says.

  I nod. “Can I do anything?”

  “No, it’s almost ready. Besides which, this is your welcome dinner … so all you have to do is feel welcome.”

  He smiles.

  “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”

  Suddenly I realize I’m thirsty. I should have cleaned my teeth, my mouth still feels sweet and sticky.

  “That would be lovely.”

  “A glass of wine?”

  “I’d prefer water, I think I’m getting a headache.”

  Gabriel looks concerned.

  “Do you often get headaches?”

  “No … not really.”

  “Stella does,” he says. “I wondered if it was something that runs in the family.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He opens one of the kitchen cupboards and rummages around until he finds a box of painkillers, which he holds up to show me.

  “Would you like one of these?”

  I nod. “Yes please.”

  He runs me a glass of water and passes me the box. The water is so cold it’s almost difficult to hold the glass. I push one tablet through the silver foil. It makes a muted rustling sound, which I like, I’ve liked it ever since I was a little girl. The coldness of the water produces a stabbing sensation in my head, a moment of unpleasantness before I feel as if my mind is sharpening. I empty the glass in long gulps, the water tastes different out here, pure, slightly metallic.

  “The water’s delicious.”

  “It’s from our own spring,” says Gabriel. He tips the peas out of the colander into a large porcelain bowl. Stella appears in the doorway, she has changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. She still looks elegant, even though she’s now barefoot.

  “How’s it going?” she says.

  “Fine,” says Gabriel. “I’m just going to put the cheese in the oven, then dinner will be ready.”

  We eat on the veranda. Stella has set the table beautifully with linen napkins that look old, and a large bunch of flowers in an old porcelain jug with a crackled glaze. Lupins, daisies, red clover. The clover is wilting slightly. It’s just going over, but still has that intense, chilly redness.

  “Trifolium pratense,” Stella murmurs as she adjusts a drooping flower head.

  “Bloody know-it-all.” Gabriel smiles, his voice is kind, as if he’s proud of her really. Stella knows the Latin names of all the plants, sometimes she doesn’t even seem to be aware that she’s saying them.

  It’s a little cooler now. Gabriel has made a starter of goat cheese on white bread and a salad decorated with marigolds. They taste peppery, and are delicious with honey drizzled over the cheese. As soon as I swallow the first bite I realize how hungry I am. I have to make a real effort not to gobble my food. Gabriel watches me as I pop a piece of cheese in my mouth and I immediately feel embarrassed, convinced that he will think I’m greedy.

  “That was absolutely delicious,” I say when I have finished chewing.

  He nods.

  “Good,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, as if he already knew it was delicious and I have given the correct answer. At the same time he always seems to be on the verge of smiling, that’s what I think as I listen to his conversation with Stella; he varies between sounding firm and smiling broadly at something she has said. It’s difficult to tell when he’s really serious and when he’s just pretending.

  “So how’s university going?” says Stella, turning to me.

  “Okay,” I mumble.

  I had hoped to avoid the question, but at the same time I knew it was inevitable. Stella raises her eyebrows.

  “Okay?”

  I have to finish chewing before I can answer. The sugar snap peas are crunchy, I haven’t eaten them raw for such a long time, not for many years. We used to grow them in the kitchen garden at home when Stella and I were little, we were always so eager to pick them that we used to eat them up while the peas were no more than little granules in the pods. They suddenly feel stringy in my mouth. I swallow.

  “I’ve still got a few points left from the spring semester. I haven’t done my assignment yet.”

  Stella nods.

  “Presumably you have to do that before the start of the fall semester?”

  “Yes.”

  She nods again.

  Stella shows me around after dinner. The sun is just going down, the house is surrounded by fields of crops and the horizon is far away in every direction. The sky is immense and still blue, although it is almost a lavender color now. There are plants growing everywhere, in pots and beds, clambering over walls and trellises, spreading across the ground. Nasturtiums tumble from an old zinc tub, a tangled, sprawling mass with shoots apparently sprouting at random in all directions, desperately searching for something to cling to.

  The kitchen garden is over in the corner, full of herbs and vegetables, nervously trembling cosmos and the robust marigolds that were used to decorate the salad, and there are strawberries, just like we used to have in our kitchen garden back home. Stella and I used to run outside first thing in the morning during our summer holidays, barefoot and still in our nightdresses, to see if any strawberries had ripened since the previous evening. I can clearly remember that special feeling of an early summer morning, that freshly washed smell, the chilly dew on the lawn making the blades of grass stick to the soles of our feet. Stella lifts the leaves of a strawberry plant to show me the berries, which are tiny. The plants have been growing in the same spot for several years now, she explains, they will need to be moved next summer. There are no nutrients left in the soil.

  The garden is full of wildflowers, farther away I can see clover and lupins and daisies and bright-orange lilies called tiger lilies.

  “Old cottage garden flowers,” says Stella, although the house could hardly be described as a cottage. She shows me hollyhocks and mint and hops that were planted long ago, a hundred years ago, maybe more. The house used to be a farmhouse once upon a time, it has been rebuilt and extended since then, the land rented out, the barn torn down, the former henhouse converted into a toolshed. Next to the shed stands an old greenhouse. Behind it the grass is tall, and the garden ends in a stone wall, which is falling down. There are huge bluebells growing between the stones, Stella says there are snakes there, adders, she has seen them several times basking in the sun, she tells me to be careful.

  “Gabriel’s maternal grandparents used to live here,” she tells me. “He inherited the place five years ago. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I nod. We walk around the side of the house and Stella points up at the big glassed-in balcony.

  “That’s where he sits and works.”

  We go back inside, it’s quiet, dark in the kitchen too by now. Stella shows me where I’m staying, a little guest room on the ground floor, pleasant in an impersonal way. The wooden floor is painted white, and on a chest of drawers there is a bunch of the same flowers we had on the table earlier. On the bed there is a beautifully crocheted bedspread, perhaps Gabriel’s grandmother made it. A round, milk-white porcelain ceiling light spreads a warm glow.

  “I must go to bed,” Stella says. “I have to be at work early in the morning to prepare a plantin
g scheme. If I’m not there to keep an eye on things, they usually go wrong.”

  She makes a face, then smiles.

  “I’m glad you’re here at last,” she says in a more serious tone of voice.

  “Me too,” I say, noticing how my eyes are darting all over the place, glancing at Stella, then looking down at the floor. I fix my gaze on the pattern on an old rug, its colors faded.

  “I can finish work a bit earlier tomorrow,” she says. “We could do something together. Would you like to come into town?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning and we can sort something out,” she says, and I nod.

  “You ought to close the window when the light is on,” she adds. “Otherwise the mosquitoes come in.”

  I go over to the window and lift the catch, it grates and squeaks. Stella smiles.

  “Nothing works properly around here,” she says.

  “I think it’s lovely.”

  Through the window I can see the front garden, the fruit trees like big dark shapes in the twilight.

  “If you don’t want to go to bed yet, Gabriel’s bound to be up for a few hours.”

  She picks up a few crumpled scraps of a wilting red clover that have drifted down onto the chest of drawers and holds them in her hand.

  “I hope you sleep well,” she says, sounding both polite and slightly distant.

  “I’m sure I will,” I reply.

  She gives me a hug, then goes out onto the veranda to say goodnight to Gabriel. I sit on the bed for a while thinking that I ought to unpack my bags, but I feel tired, slightly drowsy from the food and wine. I open my suitcase and take out a thin cardigan instead and put it on. It’s not cold but it is cooler now, and when I step out onto the veranda it’s growing dark. Gabriel has lit an old paraffin lamp that is standing on the table, the smell reminds me of something, something from when I was a child. He’s sitting reading with a glass of wine beside him, he smiles when he sees me.

  “All right?” he says. “How’s the head?”

  “Better, thanks. I don’t think I’d had enough to drink, and then it was just so hot.”