Smalångerhomecareservices were expecting the presence of janakippo. It was already half past six. I packed a couple of bananas and a pot of yoghurt. Put on one of bror’s clean shirts and a pair of his jeans. Drove to work.

My mobile pinged now and then during the day. A picture of lukas next to a bull elk. Another of eight naked saunalads beaming at the camera. The messages made me happy. Read them several times with a feeling that was new to me. From long habit I kept my distance from groups of every kind. Contented myself with watching their warm togetherness from the other side of the windowpane.

When we all got together in the service office at the end of the day I asked my workmates if they’d like to come to my house for a meal once the elk cows were in season and the hunting had to stop. To my surprise they seemed genuinely pleased. Even märitljungqvist. We fixed a date.

The unaccustomed sense of belonging stayed with me as I drove home on the bumpy smalångerroad.

Petra was sitting on the step. She was smoking and puffed smoke through her nose like an angry bull. Flicked the fag end away to die in the grass.

Hi I said. Help me get some wood into the house. I reckon it’s cold.

We picked logs from what was left in the meagre pile of cut wood. I put one armful in the boiler and another in the kitchen stove. 195

Then I put water on to make tea. Petra looked around the kitchen.

Everything here looks the way it used to she said. Even the tablecloths are the same. Or it could be that it’s the tablecloths I remember specially. The way there was one of them everywhere.

Mother kept embroidering them I said. So when were you last here.

At least ten years ago. Could be longer. I came along with dad. He sold fish to you. I used to come with him out in the boat. But that was before.

Before what I asked as I poured hot water into the teapot.

Before things became so strange she said.

Wait I said I’ll just light a fire in the bestroom. The bestroom she said. I haven’t seen it.

The box was still on the table but the painting had gone. I had left it on one of the armchairs. Someone had been here. Her dad if that’s what he was had been tidying up.

This is a nice room she said and sat down at the piano. Played a few simple chords on the outoftune keys. They made a dull melancholy sound.

Do you play she asked.

No I said. It was mother’s piano. The book of chorales was still on the music rest.