things?
‘Do you often think about the age difference between us?’ he said, surprising himself by asking such a question out of the blue. He hadn’t intended to say anything. The words just slipped out.
Her cup banged as she set it down on the desk.
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, er, I was just wondering if you think that … well, if you notice that there’s almost fifteen years between us,’ he said, embarrassed.
‘What do you mean? Are you asking me whether I think you’re old?’ She broke into a smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth.
‘Just forget it,’ he said, getting up.
She grabbed his arm.
‘Anders, seriously, what do you mean?’
‘It just occurred to me that I never think about the age difference between us, but maybe you do.’
‘It’s not something that I do think much about, I have to admit. Not often, at any rate. And we’re just co-workers, after all. If we were together, it would make a huge difference.’
She laughed annoyingly and gave him a poke in the side. Knutas felt like an idiot. There was something about Karin, something that he’d probably never fully understand.
THE WIND WAS gusting harder across Kyllaj on this cold November morning as Eduardo and Dolores Morales drove towards the sea in their rental car. They had come to Gotland a few days earlier from their home in Seville in southern Spain to take part in a conference dealing with the depletion of fish stocks in Europe’s inland seas. Since they shared a keen interest in the history of fishing in various countries, Kyllaj was one of a string of fishing villages along the Gotland coast that the couple intended to visit. They wanted to take pictures that would become part of their ever-growing collection of photos from similar communities all over the world.
They got up early, enjoyed a hearty Scandinavian breakfast in the dining room of their hotel in Visby, and then set off to the north-east. Kyllaj was first on their list; then they would visit Lergrav, before continuing north to Bungeviken and Fårö.
They parked the car near the small-boat marina, which was deserted. All the boats had been taken in for the winter. Dolores Morales pulled up the zip on her heavy jacket before getting out of the car. The wind nipped at her cheeks, making her eyes water. The cold and the dark in these regions were indescribable. At this time of year, the sun set by four in the afternoon, and then it was pitch dark. She couldn’t for the life of her understand how the Swedes could bear it. It was beyond comprehension that anyone had come up with the absurd idea of settling this far north. Right now it was 3 degrees Celsius, with a north wind. The receptionist at the hotel had said this was nothing. Winter hadn’t even started yet. The truly bitter cold would arrive in January and February, when the seawater surrounding the island had cooled down completely. Then the temperature might drop to minus 10 degrees Celsius, or even minus 15, although that didn’t happen often on Gotland. Dolores Morales and her husband were experienced travellers, so they’d had the good sense to bring along appropriate warm clothing.
The fishing village consisted of a row of sheds down by the water, a small harbour with room for a dozen boats, and several wharfs. A few racks for drying fishing nets stood side by side, and two posts held beacons that came on at night to guide boats into the harbour.
As a matter of course, they headed off in different directions and methodically began to document what they saw. There was a feeling of complete desolation about the place, as if they found themselves at the world’s end, far from any real civilization. They peered in the windows of those sheds where the curtains were open and saw, as expected, mostly fishing gear, nets, and various tools.
Dolores was just about to suggest that they go back to the car and have a coffee break when she discovered that the padlock on one of the sheds was open.
‘Do you often think about the age difference between us?’ he said, surprising himself by asking such a question out of the blue. He hadn’t intended to say anything. The words just slipped out.
Her cup banged as she set it down on the desk.
‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, er, I was just wondering if you think that … well, if you notice that there’s almost fifteen years between us,’ he said, embarrassed.
‘What do you mean? Are you asking me whether I think you’re old?’ She broke into a smile, revealing the gap between her front teeth.
‘Just forget it,’ he said, getting up.
She grabbed his arm.
‘Anders, seriously, what do you mean?’
‘It just occurred to me that I never think about the age difference between us, but maybe you do.’
‘It’s not something that I do think much about, I have to admit. Not often, at any rate. And we’re just co-workers, after all. If we were together, it would make a huge difference.’
She laughed annoyingly and gave him a poke in the side. Knutas felt like an idiot. There was something about Karin, something that he’d probably never fully understand.
THE WIND WAS gusting harder across Kyllaj on this cold November morning as Eduardo and Dolores Morales drove towards the sea in their rental car. They had come to Gotland a few days earlier from their home in Seville in southern Spain to take part in a conference dealing with the depletion of fish stocks in Europe’s inland seas. Since they shared a keen interest in the history of fishing in various countries, Kyllaj was one of a string of fishing villages along the Gotland coast that the couple intended to visit. They wanted to take pictures that would become part of their ever-growing collection of photos from similar communities all over the world.
They got up early, enjoyed a hearty Scandinavian breakfast in the dining room of their hotel in Visby, and then set off to the north-east. Kyllaj was first on their list; then they would visit Lergrav, before continuing north to Bungeviken and Fårö.
They parked the car near the small-boat marina, which was deserted. All the boats had been taken in for the winter. Dolores Morales pulled up the zip on her heavy jacket before getting out of the car. The wind nipped at her cheeks, making her eyes water. The cold and the dark in these regions were indescribable. At this time of year, the sun set by four in the afternoon, and then it was pitch dark. She couldn’t for the life of her understand how the Swedes could bear it. It was beyond comprehension that anyone had come up with the absurd idea of settling this far north. Right now it was 3 degrees Celsius, with a north wind. The receptionist at the hotel had said this was nothing. Winter hadn’t even started yet. The truly bitter cold would arrive in January and February, when the seawater surrounding the island had cooled down completely. Then the temperature might drop to minus 10 degrees Celsius, or even minus 15, although that didn’t happen often on Gotland. Dolores Morales and her husband were experienced travellers, so they’d had the good sense to bring along appropriate warm clothing.
The fishing village consisted of a row of sheds down by the water, a small harbour with room for a dozen boats, and several wharfs. A few racks for drying fishing nets stood side by side, and two posts held beacons that came on at night to guide boats into the harbour.
As a matter of course, they headed off in different directions and methodically began to document what they saw. There was a feeling of complete desolation about the place, as if they found themselves at the world’s end, far from any real civilization. They peered in the windows of those sheds where the curtains were open and saw, as expected, mostly fishing gear, nets, and various tools.
Dolores was just about to suggest that they go back to the car and have a coffee break when she discovered that the padlock on one of the sheds was open.
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