The Lost Village(38)
“Alice here.”
It comes out as a shrill, shaky whisper.
That crackle returns, only louder, so loud that it grates. But then, amid the crackling, I hear a moan.
A child’s voice, a woman’s voice, distorted and metallic, emerges from the interference.
The doors open and I scream and drop my walkie-talkie. It clatters to the ground, sending the batteries flying.
The figure in the doorway pulls down its hood. Emmy’s henna-red hair comes tumbling out.
“What is it?” she asks. “Relax! It’s just me!” She climbs into the back of the van, leaving the doors open. Behind her I see the rain pouring down in big, hard drops into the puddles that have formed in the square.
“What is it?” she asks again. “Has something happened?” Her pupils look huge in the darkness.
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice again. My rational thought is still caged by fear and adrenaline, and the words burst out of me:
“What the fuck are you doing? Why were you just standing there? And that walkie-talkie game? That’s fucking sick!”
Emmy recoils slightly at my rage, but then her features harden, and she hisses back:
“Since when is me coming over here something to get so fucking hysterical about? I just wanted to ask if you wanted some lunch!”
“I’m not mad about you coming over here, I’m mad about you hanging around outside like some psycho, zombie-groaning into your walkie-talkie! What are you, a child?”
My palms are sweaty, and I can taste blood in my mouth. My anger is so intense that my voice has transformed into something gruff and hacking.
“What?” asks Emmy, sounding genuinely confused. “What are you talking about? What groaning?”
“Don’t even try it,” I start to say in disgust, but Emmy shakes her head.
“No—Alice, I don’t know what you think I did, but I don’t even have my walkie-talkie on me.” She turns the pockets on her hoodie inside out to show that they’re empty, then points at her bare waistband.
“Look,” she says.
I stare at her.
“And I wasn’t hanging around out there,” she goes on. “I literally just ran over from the other van. I wouldn’t want to get any wetter than I had to.”
Her hair is tousled, the skin around her bright eyes completely unsmudged.
Almost against my will, my eyes are drawn to the windshield, to the school looming over in the distance. Those big, open doors on their rusty hinges, and the silent void behind them.
The sky above us lights up again, but the thunder lags a few seconds behind. The storm is passing. The rain outside has started to slow, if only a little.
I look at Emmy. At her light-gray hoodie.
It’s almost completely dry.
Her eyes are bottomless when she fixes them on mine and says, with a voice quiet and unflinching:
“You saw somebody, didn’t you?”
February 9, 1959
Dearest Margareta,
I hope the journey went well, and that the train didn’t leave you feeling too poorly! You did look a little peaky when we said good-bye at the station, but I didn’t want to say anything in case I put my foot in it! Mother mentioned it today at breakfast. She told us how she had felt so ill when she was pregnant with you that she could hardly get out of bed for the first few months.
But how exciting it is! And, I know you’re very busy right now with your work, the pregnancy, the new apartment and all, but you must try to write every week. I shall do exactly the same, to remind you!
Oh, and I’ve found such a beautiful name for the baby if she’s a girl! Dagny was over for coffee when I came home today, and she said you’re definitely expecting a girl, because apparently you always feel worse with girls. Mother just smiled when she said that, but as soon as Dagny left she told me it was all poppycock, if you can imagine! Still, I think Dagny might just be right—though perhaps that’s just wishful thinking on my part. But how wonderful it would be if it were a little girl! I can’t wait. August can’t come soon enough.
Oh yes, the name: what do you think of Ruth? Isn’t it beautiful? I know you mentioned Elisabet and Charlotta, but if you ask me, I think shorter names are more elegant. (Besides, how important is it really to have a “continental” name, whatever that means? Father said you’ve started to sound like big city folk. Did he say that to you, too? Perhaps I shouldn’t have written that. I don’t think he meant anything by it.)
Anyway, I found the name in our Bible group yesterday. Ruth has an entire book named after her in the Bible, and Pastor Mattias had selected a passage from it to read for the meeting. The group has already become quite the crowd—even Lena has started coming to meetings, though I think that may be less to do with her interest in the Bible than her crush on the pastor. Yesterday she wore that blouse with the pleated front that she says gives her a real waspish waist. But the pastor didn’t seem to pay it any notice; he just smiled warmly and said it was lovely to see so many new faces in the group. And that was it! In fact, he gave her no extra attention at all—I almost think she was a little put out by it.
We talked about Ruth and her family, and how hard it must have been not to have a home, and then Karin ?nglund started to cry. The room went quiet—none of us knew what to say—but the pastor just sat down next to her, waited for her tears to start to settle, and then asked her what had made her so sad. Karin said that her mother and father might not be able to stay in Silvertj?rn, that they might have to leave to find work elsewhere, and she didn’t know where they would go. She said that she would be homeless, just like Ruth. But then the pastor reminded her that Ruth found a new home, and he told her that she needn’t worry, for we and the church would be her home, and that he, and God, would always take her in. Then Karin started to cry even more, and when she whimpered, “thank you, thank you, thank you,” then my chest started to hurt, too, and I thought even I might burst into tears.