Sail of Stone by Åke Edwardson Page A

to driving in circles; that’s what he did with the portion of his free time that felt more forced, like a compulsion, than it did free. He drove back and forth.
    What’s going on? he had thought more than once. What’s going on with me? What’s going on with my life?
    I should be happy, what they call happy, or secure, what they call secure.
    He worked overtime. He didn’t need to, but he might as well have: He drove around town on the thoroughfares and he was paid for it when he was on duty.
    Am I someone else? he sometimes thought. Am I on my way to becoming someone else?
    Martina’s face had become darker and darker. Concerned, maybe.
    Ada’s face was still bright; she didn’t understand, didn’t understand yet. That was possibly the worst part: How could he sit here, out on the streets, when his little daughter was there at home?
    They hadn’t spoken, he and Martina. She had tried; he had not tried.
    He continued to chase burglars. He drove to the sea; they weren’t there. He could drive down to Hjuvik and just stand there. It wasn’t far from home, but it still seemed like the other side of the water.
    He could get out of the car and go down to the beach and try to see his reflection in the water if it was calm.
    Who am I?
    What is it all about?
    Who are you ?
    He saw his face from a strange angle. Maybe it was more real.
    In the car on the way home, he tried to think back. He had always carried a restlessness within him, as far back as he could remember. But this was more than restlessness, worse than regular restlessness.
    Or maybe it’s just that I can’t live with anyone.
    But it’s not just that.
    Do I need drugs? If I need drugs like that I have to talk to a brain doctor first.
    Do I need something else?
    When he parked in the carport, he didn’t know if he wanted to get out of the car or stay in it.
    Is this what they call being burned out? he thought.
    He heard sounds against the window. He saw small fingers. He saw Ada.

12
    I n the morning, Winter called Johanna Osvald’s number, but she didn’t answer; no one answered. There was no answering machine.
    It was Saturday. He had the day off. There had been a suspected case of manslaughter or possibly homicide on Tuesday night, but it wasn’t a case for him and hardly for any other detective either. The deceased and the perpetrator had both been identified and linked to each other both figuratively and literally, by matrimony among other things. Till death do us part. Some people certainly take that seriously, a detective had said this past week, and then wanted to bite off his tongue when he saw that Halders was sitting there with the remains of his personal grief. But Halders had just said, It doesn’t matter, Birkman, I have been like that myself.
    Till death do us part.
    It was more than just words.
    Winter had proposed to Angela and she had said yes: Are you finally going to make an honest woman out of me?
    That had been some time ago. She hadn’t said anything more, and neither had he.
    Now you have to take responsibility, Winter. You can’t just talk about things like that. It’s a big responsibility, and you have to take it.
    He drove south. The sun was on its way up. It was still early morning, and a transparent haze was in the air.
    Go ahead, Angela had said. If it will really help. I really hope it helps.
    On Monday they had to settle the deal. Okay. He would settle it, clinch it, get the ball rolling. It was just a piece of land. They wouldn’t move there right away. He had promised, or whatever it was called … offered his decision, a future, yes indeed, the everlasting future up until. Until.
    Decisions like this were heavy as stones. You couldn’t release them just any way, at any time.
    The sun began to hit just right between the roofs of the houses on thefield outside of Askim. He pushed in the CD. It was Angela’s disc and it was Bruce Springsteen. He had given the guy a few chances and he was worth it. Springsteen was