He raced down the stairs. He didn’t know what time she was leaving, or where she was heading, but it was his only option. He jumped on his bike and pedaled down the main street as fast as he could, hoping he wasn’t too late.
But he still had a chance—it was early, not many trains would have left yet.
When he reached the station, Nils leaped off his bike, dropped it on the ground, and raced out onto the platform. A train was just leaving, and heknewshe was on it—he could feel it in his heart. The train was bound for Västerås. He ran after it, ran and ran, tried to look inthrough the windows, but he couldn’t see her. Perhaps she was sitting nearer the front? He kept on running, shouted after the train. But it just kept going. And going.
When Nils had reached the end of the platform, he stood there, breathless and empty.
A man came over to him. “Did you miss the train? There’s another one at lunchtime.”
Nils shook his head, doubling over and gasping for breath. “I didn’t miss the train. I missed the love of my life.”
He walked slowly back along the platform, looking around. His gut feeling might have been wrong. She might still be here. He scrutinized every face on the way back to the station building. He stopped in the doorway between the waiting room and the platform so that he could see everyone who came and went. There was no sign of the children, or Aino or Heikki.
Something told him she’d already left the village. He knew she’d gone. She’d left him—she’d been on that train.
And yet he stayed where he was—until the last trains of the day had come and gone, and the platform and the station were deserted, and the sky slowly turned bloodred with the setting sun. Only then did he cycle home. Slowly, drained of strength and energy. His lust for life, the thing that had given him his spark, had disappeared.
When he got home, he went straight to the dining table where the sketches for advertising posters were laid out. Tuula’s Tasty Bread. It had been meant as a surprise for her. He had employed a professional artist to produce them, but then all that business with his father had gotten in the way. Nils gathered them up, put them in a box, and carried it up to the loft.
He wanted to be mad at her, but he couldn’t be. He could never be mad at Tuula.
His beloved Tuula.
Yours always.
43
Henrik scattered flour across the slab. Tipped out the dough he had left to proof overnight. Kneaded it as the cold stone surface slowly warmed up beneath his hands.
As a child he had baked sourdough at least once a month. These days he baked every weekend. His friends loved the bread, Bente had adored it, and they had always eaten far too many slices at weekend breakfasts.
He shaped the dough into loaves and covered them with a kitchen towel. He took down the jar containing the sourdough starter from the cupboard above the refrigerator and stared at it. When Nora had told him the story of her sourdough that night at the hotel, he had thought it too unbelievable to be true and quickly dismissed the idea. But he hadn’t been able to let it go completely.
His father wasn’t aware that Henrik knew the whole story. He had heard it from Lydia, an elderly lady who had worked at the bakery, then become manager of Eklunds’ café in Almtorp.
She had spent many hours there as a pensioner long after the café had been sold to a new owner, sitting happily in a corner with her coffee, newspaper, and a cinnamon bun. Henrik used to hang out there in the summer, and he and Lydia became friends. She told him the story of the sourdough when he was a teenager and said that his paternal grandfather had never forgotten the love of his life. “She simplydisappeared—to Småland, people thought, but there wasn’t much he could do. He spent a long time searching for her, but he never found her.”
When Nora had mentioned the name of her great-grandmother, Henrik had understood how it all fit together.
He left the loaves to proof and went up to the loft and dug out a box containing old documents he had been given after his grandfather’s death. He riffled through the photographs, recipes, and sketches for advertising posters, and then he picked out a recipe and a sketch and returned downstairs.
He took a cab to the solicitors’ office in Östermalm to sign all the documents. Svärdh & Partners had produced the shareholders’ agreement for Eklunds, and two members of the legal team were waiting for him in reception—Charlotta and Johannes. They showed him into a meeting room.
“Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,” Henrik said.
“No problem. We’ve got everything ready.” Johannes pushed a pile of papers across the table.
“As I’m sure you know, the agreement states that the other shareholders are entitled to buy your shares,” Charlotta explained.
“I understand.”
“If you want to take the time to read through everything or consult another legal practice, that’s fine, of course,” Johannes said. “But it’s all very standard. There are no sales guarantees since the buyers are already familiar with the company.”
“So there are no obligations on my part once I’ve signed?”
“None at all,” Charlotta confirmed. “There is, however, a deduction here for a claim that the company has on you. It will be taken off the liquidation of your shares.” Her expression remained neutral. He didn’t know if she’d read about his father’s accusations in the press; as far as Henrik was aware, Hasse hadn’t reported his son to the police yet. Maybe he realized it wouldn’t exactly be good PR. Henrik had made a pretty clear statement, and if he was reported to the police, thefacade of the happy family Hasse had built over several decades would be completely shattered.
“Fine.” Henrik checked the relevant section; the amount was correct. He picked up the pen, skimmed through the agreement, and signed it.
