small river forked before it reached the sea. The large stretch of sand between the two arms of the river was packed hard, and the surface was smooth.
âHere,â he said, his eyes on the space. I could see what he meant. It was perfect. Well out of reach of the high tide. It wouldnât be permanent of course, but here it would last a long time.
âPerfect,â I said. And Ika gave me one of his rare half-smiles, fleeting and without eye contact. It was almost as if he were mocking me. I had come to treasure those taunting little smiles, so quick that they were easy to miss.
âLetâs mark it,â I said. There were some rocks further up the beach and I walked there and collected one. I placed it on one side of the flat surface of the sand. Ika shook his head and pointed a little further to the side.
âHere,â he said. I diligently moved the rock. We placed another three large rocks, one at each corner of the sandy canvas, and each time Ika directed me to the exact spot. When we were done he stood watching the space with his eyes screwed up. I stood beside him taking in the view too. And I was filled with a sense of excitement. Slowly, ideas began to take shape, and I could almost imagine what we were going to create.
âIt will be wonderful,â I said, trying to control my urge to hug him.
Ika nodded.
âIsnât it wonderful?â Mother says as she opens the door to the room. Marianne instinctively knows some response is required but she is so tired. So very tired.
âIt is your own room, Marianne,â Mother says. But she already has a room in Grandfatherâs house, doesnât she? She doesnât want this big room with its big bed and strange smell. But she doesnât want to cry, so she says nothing.
They have arrived in a taxi. There are houses everywhere â big houses so high you canât see the sky. Lots of cars, and lots of people. They live in a big house in Karlavägen. Number 63, on the fourth floor. They havenât walked up the stairs but have taken the elevator. She will have to remember all these things. But right now she is so tired.
When she has had a bath and changed her clothes, Mother takes her by the hand and leads her around the apartment. It is very big and the ceiling is very high. She doesnât want to be here alone, ever. When they stop by the window in the living room she can see cars moving along the street far below. She feels a pang in her stomach again.
âThis is our TV, Marianne,â Mother says, and points to a box on a table in the corner of the small room beyond the living room. âYou will enjoy this.â Marianne doesnât understand what she means but she asks no questions.
Just then there are steps in the hallway and a man appears in the doorway.
He is old. He looks older than Grandfather, though he is very nicely dressed. He has no hair and the light from the chandelier reflects on the pale skin at the top of his head.
âAha, this must be Marianne,â he says, looking down on her with his arms folded.
âMarianne, this is Hans,â her mother says. She pauses a little as if unsure how to continue. Then she says: âMy husband.â
Hans stretches out his hand but he doesnât move any closer. She has to walk up and take it. It is such a small hand, not at all like Grandfatherâs. It is soft and smooth and it holds her hand in a tight grip for too long. Because she doesnât know where to turn her gaze she stares at their joined hands. The nails on Hansâs hand are long and they shine in the light from the lamp. It looks like a womanâs hand, she thinks. She can smell his perfume. And when he finally bends forwards and opens his mouth she catches another strong, sweet smell. She would like to turn away but she canât do that. Her stomach tightens and she holds her breath.
âLetâs hope weâll be very happy together,â he says.
âHere,â he said, his eyes on the space. I could see what he meant. It was perfect. Well out of reach of the high tide. It wouldnât be permanent of course, but here it would last a long time.
âPerfect,â I said. And Ika gave me one of his rare half-smiles, fleeting and without eye contact. It was almost as if he were mocking me. I had come to treasure those taunting little smiles, so quick that they were easy to miss.
âLetâs mark it,â I said. There were some rocks further up the beach and I walked there and collected one. I placed it on one side of the flat surface of the sand. Ika shook his head and pointed a little further to the side.
âHere,â he said. I diligently moved the rock. We placed another three large rocks, one at each corner of the sandy canvas, and each time Ika directed me to the exact spot. When we were done he stood watching the space with his eyes screwed up. I stood beside him taking in the view too. And I was filled with a sense of excitement. Slowly, ideas began to take shape, and I could almost imagine what we were going to create.
âIt will be wonderful,â I said, trying to control my urge to hug him.
Ika nodded.
âIsnât it wonderful?â Mother says as she opens the door to the room. Marianne instinctively knows some response is required but she is so tired. So very tired.
âIt is your own room, Marianne,â Mother says. But she already has a room in Grandfatherâs house, doesnât she? She doesnât want this big room with its big bed and strange smell. But she doesnât want to cry, so she says nothing.
They have arrived in a taxi. There are houses everywhere â big houses so high you canât see the sky. Lots of cars, and lots of people. They live in a big house in Karlavägen. Number 63, on the fourth floor. They havenât walked up the stairs but have taken the elevator. She will have to remember all these things. But right now she is so tired.
When she has had a bath and changed her clothes, Mother takes her by the hand and leads her around the apartment. It is very big and the ceiling is very high. She doesnât want to be here alone, ever. When they stop by the window in the living room she can see cars moving along the street far below. She feels a pang in her stomach again.
âThis is our TV, Marianne,â Mother says, and points to a box on a table in the corner of the small room beyond the living room. âYou will enjoy this.â Marianne doesnât understand what she means but she asks no questions.
Just then there are steps in the hallway and a man appears in the doorway.
He is old. He looks older than Grandfather, though he is very nicely dressed. He has no hair and the light from the chandelier reflects on the pale skin at the top of his head.
âAha, this must be Marianne,â he says, looking down on her with his arms folded.
âMarianne, this is Hans,â her mother says. She pauses a little as if unsure how to continue. Then she says: âMy husband.â
Hans stretches out his hand but he doesnât move any closer. She has to walk up and take it. It is such a small hand, not at all like Grandfatherâs. It is soft and smooth and it holds her hand in a tight grip for too long. Because she doesnât know where to turn her gaze she stares at their joined hands. The nails on Hansâs hand are long and they shine in the light from the lamp. It looks like a womanâs hand, she thinks. She can smell his perfume. And when he finally bends forwards and opens his mouth she catches another strong, sweet smell. She would like to turn away but she canât do that. Her stomach tightens and she holds her breath.
âLetâs hope weâll be very happy together,â he says.
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