it,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘We’re done.’
‘Do you scan them in, or how do you do it?’ asked Adam.
‘Right, we scan them in,’ said Gösta, ‘and then we run them through the database you were talking about. We have every Swedish citizen over eighteen in the database. And a number of foreigners too. Via Interpol, you know. We’re connected with them. Interpol, I mean. Via a direct link. And with the FBI and CIA, too.’
‘Awesome!’ said Adam, looking at Gösta with admiration.
Gösta laughed all the way back to Tanumshede.
He set the table with great care, using the yellow tablecloth that he knew Britta liked so much. The white china with the raised pattern. The candleholders they’d received as a wedding gift. And a few flowers in a vase. No matter what the time of year, Britta had always had flowers in the house. She was a regular customer at the florist’s, or at least she used to be. These days it was usually Herman who bought the flowers. He wanted everything to be the way it had always been. Maybe if everything around her remained unchanged the downward spiral might at least be slowed, even if it couldn’t be stopped altogether.
The worst was in the beginning. Before they received the diagnosis. Britta had always been so meticulous about things. None of the family could understand why she suddenly couldn’t find her car keys, or why she would call a grandchild by the wrong name, or find it impossible to remember the phone numbers of friends she’d known most of her life. They’d blamed it on fatigue and stress. She’d started taking multivitamins and drinking Blutsaft, thinking it would combat whatever nutritional deficiency she was suffering from. But there came a point when they could no longer close their eyes to the fact that something was seriously wrong.
The diagnosis had rendered them both speechless. Then Britta had let out a sob. That was all: one sob. She’d given Herman’s hand a squeeze, and he’d squeezed back. They both knew what it meant. The life that they’d shared for fifty-five years was about to change inexorably. The disease was slowly going to break down her mind, cause her to lose more and more of herself: her memories, her personality. The abyss gaped wide and deep before them.
A year had passed since then. The good moments were now few and far between. Herman’s hands shook as he folded the paper napkins. Britta had always formed them into fans, but even though he’d watched her countless times he couldn’t manage it himself. After the fourth attempt, anger and frustration surged up inside him, and he tore the napkin to shreds that floated down on to the plate. He sat down on a chair and tried to pull himself together as he wiped a tear from his eye.
They’d had fifty-five years together. Good years. Happy years. Of course they’d had their ups and downs, just like in every marriage. But the foundation had always remained solid. They’d become adults together, he and Britta. Especially after they’d had Anna-Greta. He’d been so proud of Britta. Before their daughter was born, he had to admit that he’d sometimes found his wife to be rather shallow and superficial. But from the first day she held Anna-Greta in her arms, she’d changed. It was as if becoming a mother had given her a foundation that she’d lacked until then. They’d had three daughters. Three blessed daughters. And his love for his wife had grown with each birth.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Pappa? What’s wrong? You didn’t answer when I knocked, so I decided to come in.’
Herman quickly wiped his eyes and put on a smile when he saw the worried expression on his eldest daughter’s face. But he couldn’t fool her. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his.
‘Is this one of the bad days, Pappa?’
He nodded and for a moment allowed himself to feel like a child in his daughter’s arms. They’d brought her up well, he and Britta. Anna-Greta was a warm and considerate person, and a loving grandmother to two of their great-grandchildren. Sometimes he couldn’t understand how things had happened so fast. How could this grey-haired woman in her fifties be the daughter who had toddled about the house and wrapped him around her little finger?
‘Time passes, Anna-Greta,’ he said at last, patting her arm as it lay across his chest.
‘Yes, Pappa, time passes,’ she said, hugging him even harder. She gave him an extra little squeeze and then let him go.
‘I’ll fold the napkins while you get the knives and forks. I think that would be best, judging by what I see here.’ She pointed to the scraps of napkin lying like confetti on the table and gave him a wink.
‘You’re right, that would probably be best,’ he said, smiling at his daughter gratefully. ‘That would probably be best.’
‘When are they supposed to get here?’ called Patrik from the bedroom where, at Erica’s request, he was changing into something more appropriate than jeans and a T-shirt. His protests – ‘But it’s just your sister and Dan coming to dinner …’ – had got him nowhere. Having guests over for dinner apparently required something more than casual attire. End of story.
Erica opened the oven door to take a look at the baked fillet of pork. She had been feeling guilty ever since she yelled at Patrik the day before, so to make up for it she was cooking one of his favourite dishes: fillet of pork baked in puff pastry, with a port wine sauce and mashed potatoes. It was what she’d cooked for him the first time she invited him over. The first night that they’d … She laughed to herself and shut the oven door. It seemed so long ago, even though it was only a few years back. Much as she loved Patrik, it was strange how quickly the daily routines and the demands of child-care could kill off any desire to make love five times in a row, the way they had on that first night. Nowadays the mere thought of it left her feeling worn out. Once a week seemed a real achievement.
‘They’ll be here in half an hour,’ she shouted upstairs and then began making the sauce. She’d already changed into black trousers and a lilac blouse – one of her favourites from the years when she’d lived in Stockholm and still had a decent number of shops to choose from. Just to be on the safe side, she’d put on an apron, and Patrik whistled appreciatively when he came into the kitchen.
‘What do my weary eyes see here? A revelation. A divinely glamorous creature, but with a touch of homespun chic and culinariness.’
‘There’s no such word as “culinariness”,’ said Erica with a laugh as Patrik kissed the back of her neck.
‘There is now,’ he said, winking. Then he took a step back and did a pirouette in the middle of the kitchen. ‘So? Will I do? Or do I need to go back upstairs and change into something else?’
‘Stop it, you make it sound like I’m a real nag.’ Erica looked him up and down with a stern expression but then laughed and said: ‘Very nice. You’re a sight for sore eyes. Now, if you can just set the table, maybe I’ll start to remember why I married you.’
‘Set the table? Consider it done!’
Half an hour later, at precisely seven o’clock when the doorbell rang, the food was ready and the table was set. Anna and Dan appeared at the door, along with Emma and Adrian, who came right in, calling for Maja. Their little cousin was very popular.
‘Who is that cute guy, Erica?’ said Anna. ‘And what have you done with Patrik? It’s about time you traded him in for a fancier model.’
Patrik gave Anna a hug. ‘Nice to see you too, my dear sister-in-law. So, how are the turtle doves doing? Erica and I are honoured
