Italian Shoes Read Online Free PDF Page B

radiators, checked that they were warming up, and went into the kitchen. Harriet seemed to be recovering her strength. But she was hollow-eyed. Her face was constantly on the alert, ready to parry pain that could strike at any moment.
    â€˜I’ll have a lie-down for a while,’ she said, and stood up.
    I opened the door for her. I’d closed it again even before she’d lain down. I felt a sudden urge to lock the door and throw the key away. One day Harriet would have been swallowed up by my anthill.
    I put on a jacket and went out.
    It was a fine day. The gusts of wind were becoming less violent. I listened for Jansson’s hydrocopter. Was that a chainsaw I could hear in the distance? Perhaps getting fuel for a fire?
    I walked down to the jetty and into the boathouse. A rowing boat was hanging there, suspended from ropes and pulleys, reminiscent of a gigantic fish that had been beached. There was a smell of tar in the boathouse. It was ages since I’d stopped using tar on the boats andfishing equipment out here in the archipelago, but I still have a few tins that I open now and then, just for the smell. It gives me a sense of tranquility – more than anything else is capable of.
    I tried to recall the details of our farewell that wasn’t a proper farewell, that spring evening thirty-seven years ago. We’d walked over Strömbron Bridge, strolled along the quay at Skeppsbro, and then continued to Slussen. What had we spoken about? Harriet had talked about her day in the shoe shop. She loved telling me about her customers. She could even turn a pair of galoshes and a tin of shoe polish for old leather boots into an adventure. Memories of events and conversations came back to me. It was as if an archive that had been closed for ever had suddenly been opened up.
    I sat on the bench on the jetty for a while before returning to the house. I peeped into the living room. Harriet was asleep, and had curled up like a little child. I felt a lump in my throat. That’s how she had always slept. I walked up the hill behind the house and gazed out over the white bay. It felt as if it was only now that I realised what I’d done on that occasion so long ago. I’d never dared to ask myself how Harriet had reacted to what had happened. When had it dawned on her that I would never be coming back? I had extreme difficulty in imagining the pain she must have felt when she knew that I had abandoned her.
    When I got back to the house, Harriet had woken up. She was sitting on the kitchen sofa, waiting for me. My ancient cat was lying on her knee.
    â€˜Did you get some sleep?’ I asked. ‘Did the ants leave you in peace?’
    â€˜I like the smell of the anthill.’
    â€˜If the cat is pestering you we can throw her out.’
    â€˜Do you think I look as if I’m being pestered?’
    I asked if she was hungry, and began preparing a meal. I had a hare in the freezer that Jansson had shot. But it would take too long to thaw out. Harriet sat on the sofa, watching me. I fried some cutlets and boiled some potatoes. We spoke hardly at all, and I was so nervous that I burned my hand on the frying pan. Why didn’t she say anything? Why had she come?
    We ate in silence. I cleared the table and made coffee. My grandfather and grandmother always used to boil their coffee grains and water in a saucepan – there was no such thing as filter coffee in those days. I make my coffee like they used to do, and always count to seventeen once it starts boiling. Then it turns out exactly as I like it. I took out a couple of cups, put some cat food in a dish, and sat down on my chair. It was dark outside already. All the time, I was waiting for Harriet to explain why she had come. I asked if she wanted a refill. She slid her cup forward. The dog started scratching at the door. I let him in, gave him some food, then shut him in the hall with the walker.
    â€˜Did you ever think we would meet