Cash was in short supply, but other things seemed to exist in excess: salt and sugar, corn and wheat and oats, potatoes and pigs, and of course milk. Tons of milk. It was called “white silver.” Once upon a time, Halland cows gave more milk than all the other cows in the country combined. Until just a few years ago, the Söderström farm in Skavböke had several hundred dairy cattle. Now there were much fewer, and it was hard to say where the money had gone. To liquor, maybe, and other comforts it took to get through life.
Why were farmers made stewards of the land? That’s just the way it is, probably, but it still bears considering.
Oh, to be eighteen in Skavböke. All you thought about was money, sex, and freedom. It’s not easy to say which events were important orinsignificant; even something that seemed trivial could feel pivotal: putting on a new shirt or jacket, perhaps. Catching someone’s eye. Lighting a cigarette and speaking in a low, serious voice. There was no way to know.
—
“There.” Killian came back inside and eyed the lightbulb that dangled from the ceiling. “Try one more time. Then we’ll head to Pierre’s.”
Sander did as he said. The lightbulb flickered again, but then it settled down to a bright, warm glow. Sander looked at Killian and they smiled.
A moment in the heart of Halland, at the very end of a century.
8
The murder was committed in the night, after the party at Pierre’s house. Sander and Killian had been there, no doubt about it. They arrived at the house in Årnilt together and left together, too, another not-insignificant observation.
In many respects, it was a party like any other. A visitor in the home that evening would have caught scraps of conversation, music, the occasional argument. Someone had just bought an expensive cell phone, and no one had a clue why. There was no coverage out here, because the closest tower was way over in Amböke. Cell phones were useless in Skavböke and would stay that way for several years.
There were flashes from a disposable camera a couple kids had brought; glasses clinked and the music streaming from the speakers got louder and louder. Sander and Killian discussed the upcoming match between Oskarström and Breared. Things didn’t look good for Oskarström, they agreed. But miracles had happened before, although God rarely interfered with anything as profane as the Oskarström soccer team.
No one knew where Felicia was, whether she had come to the party, was she somewhere in that house? Sander didn’t know what he would do if he saw her. Maybe nothing. That seemed like the safest bet, given what happened last time.
It had been a warm night last summer, late August, and they werestanding alone in the kitchen at Alice Fredriksson’s house. For some reason, the rest of the party had moved to the lawn. Sander described the episode with the tractor and the shop, only a few weeks old at that point, and it made Felicia laugh and call him and Killian idiots. But her eyes sparkled as she said so. Encouraged, Sander went on to explain the Beer Bunker, which was just an idea at the time, or maybe you could say it was avision. She laughed again, just as Sander hoped.
Then they kissed.
She’d mentioned his name in passing earlier that evening, and it felt like the first time he’d heard it. Brain buzzing with alcohol, he was enchanted by how “Sander” sounded when it came from Felicia Grenberg’s lips, gliding so softly over the consonants, kind of like a song.
The kiss ended when she had to turn away to puke in the sink. Sander simply stood there, unsure whether they would keep going once she was done vomiting.
She’d had too much to drink, she said without looking at him, and apologized. Felicia’s disappointment was perhaps not as fervent as Sander’s. As though her body’s reflexes had interrupted something she wasn’t all that interestedin.
Now Sander was drinking his beer on Pierre’s parents’ leather sofa. Just as well if she didn’t show up. She would be staying here in the area like everyone else, and he was already on his way out.
Sander thought of Ardelius’s wink, a detail so minor it could mean anything. Even so, it stuck with him, like a promise soon to be fulfilled. When he returned to school after that conversation, he heard the rustling of the dead trees bordering the Kattegat School parking lot on Skepparegatan, and the pavement was covered in slush. Everything was brick and cramped classrooms, winter coats and afternoon math; everything was the same yet different. He carried the course catalog in his backpack and the world took on a new luster. A particular shimmer appears around the edges of places and people when you start to realize that they can be left behind.
Pierre settled onto the armrest. His voice slurring, he complainedthat there were too many people there, although hardly anyone had arrived yet.
A Christmas star glowed from the window, peaceful and warm. In the corner was a fresh, plump spruce tree covered in tinsel and red ornaments. It was the last Friday before Christmastime, with two weeks left of the century. It would be an unusual New Year’s Eve: at home on their farms, and in their homes, people would sit in front of their TVs, tense and anxious, ready to hurry down to the basement if the end of the world arrived. Rumor had it that computer systems were programmed to crash and the banks would collapse; satellites would fall from the sky and the power would go out for good. Their parents had been talking about it nonstop. Not everyone believed these rumors, but some did. Others decided it was better to be safe than sorry.
“At first Dad didn’t believe it at all, but now he’s taking it a little too seriously,” said Jakob Lindell. “He withdrew all our money before he and Mom left yesterday, because he’d heard that’s what Kjell Östholm had done. So now we’ve got basically everything we own in cash. For real.”
“How much is that, a thousand kronor?” Mikael Söderström asked acidly.
“More or less.” Jakob laughed, the kind of hollow sound an empty keg makes if you hit it, and spilled his drink on his pants. “Yeah. I don’t know. It’s definitely not much, but there’s some.”
“Enough to pay off your TV.”
Jakob stared at Mikael’s half-drunk grin.
“Oh, lay off.”
“Oops. Is that a sore spot?”
“Stop it, Mikael,” Pierre said softly.
“But it’s true.”
