A Week in Winter(67)
‘But you were breaking free. Isn’t that why we were able to come to Greece instead of you working there all summer?’ She was totally bewildered.
‘But we know I have to go back, Erika.’
‘No, we don’t know that you have to go back. You have only one life, and you don’t want to spend it there, in that little world with cousins and colleagues.’
‘There’s no alternative. He only had one son. If I had brothers who could have taken it over . . .’ his voice trailed away.
‘Or sisters,’ Erika corrected automatically. ‘It’s only fair to tell him now rather than waste his time, their time, your time.’
‘I can’t do that. Not until I’ve tried it, anyway. It would be an insult. You’re very strong on the respect thing. I owe him that much respect.’ In the warm evening air as they sat in the little taverna beside the sea, they heard other people laughing in the distance. Happy people on holiday. Musicians were beginning to tune up.
Anders and Erika sat there, aware of a huge gap opening up between them.
It was now out of their control. The future that had looked so great half an hour ago was about to disappear entirely.
They tried to salvage the rest of the holiday but it was no use. It hung over them: Anders’ belief that he would spend his life at Almkvist’s and Erika’s belief that he had yet to find what he would do were too far apart to gloss over. By the time they got back to Sweden, they knew that there was nothing ahead for the two of them.
They divided up their records and books amicably. Anders took a room in a student block. He told his father that he and Erika were no longer together.
His father’s reaction was about the same as it might have been if he had said that a train was running late. A mild and distant murmur that these things happen in life. Then on to the next subject.
He studied hard, determined to get a good degree. Sometimes on the way to and from the library he would see Erika within a laughing group and feel a great pang of regret. They always greeted each other cordially; sometimes he even joined them for a beer in the student cafés.
Their friends were mystified by it all. They had always got on so well. Nothing had changed on the outside; they just were not together any more.
His mother had emailed to say she was sorry to hear they had separated. Erika must have told her. Gunilla said she and William had thought that Erika was a delightful girl, and that Anders must remember that when doors closed they could often be opened up again. She also advised him to do something with his music, or to learn to play tennis or bridge or golf, something that would give him a world outside Almkvist’s. Perhaps he might even go back to playing the piano. He had even stopped playing the nyckelharpa since he and Erika broke up.
Anders was touched, but there would be little time to spend inventing hobbies. He had his final exams to concentrate on; he couldn’t take up his place at Almkvist’s unless he came away with a good degree. It was time to knuckle down and just get on with it.
He went home every month and worked for a few days in the office, keeping his hand in. He learned how to express his views and how to make decisions. He had a good business head, and people had begun to take him seriously. He was no longer the son and heir of the senior Almkvist: he was a person in his own right. He found himself able to talk to his cousin Mats about his drinking, which had become a matter of some concern; as Mats was family, the problem had so far not been addressed. Anders had been firm but fair. He showed little condemnation, but gave a very clear warning at the same time. Mats pulled himself together sharply and the situation was sorted.
If his father knew of it, he said nothing. But he tended to leave more and more to Anders. Anders, in turn, leaned on Klara. She was willing to share her experience with him, which was a great help as his final exams were now only weeks away.
On a sunny day in June, Patrik Almkvist sat next to his wife Gunilla for their son’s graduation. William had stayed at home because of business commitments, he said. Privately, Anders thought that might just have been a diplomatic retreat. It might have been a miserable ordeal. Instead, Anders was pleased to see, it wasn’t just good manners that kept them all smiling throughout the afternoon and into the evening. He realised that now his parents no longer lived together, they could relax. To his astonishment, a kind of friendship had emerged and they were both able to enjoy their son’s achievements.
The conversation over dinner was filled with talk of the future: for a long time, it had been planned that after his graduation Anders would spend a year in a big American firm of accountants, a place with a distinguished name where he would learn a great deal in a short time. It had all been arranged with the senior partners, and Anders was hugely looking forward to it. Klara had been very helpful with her Boston contacts and had arranged everything. Gunilla had contacts there too, it emerged, and he would have a marvellous time in the city. As they strolled through the streets of Gothenburg, Anders felt that everything was falling into place.
The following morning, Patrik Almkvist collapsed in the hotel lobby.
It was a heart attack.
It was not major, the hospital told them; Mr Almkvist was not in any danger but still he had to rest. Anders and Gunilla sat by his bedside for two days and then, as his mother flew back to London, Anders took his father back home to Stockholm.
Fru Karlsson took charge immediately, and Anders knew his father would be in good hands. He was making arrangements with her for home nursing and support but his father cut straight across.