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  He tried to see himself in two years, five years, ten. As an old man, walking along the same path. Could he imagine that?

  Yes. I can imagine that.

  When they reached the top of the path, Simon kept his fingers crossed that it would be that house. The white one with a little glass veranda looking out over a grassy slope down to the jetty. It didn’t look much on a cloudy day like this with not a scrap of green in sight, but he could just picture how it would look in summer.

  A boy of about thirteen was standing in the garden with his hands pushed deep in the pockets of a leather jacket. He was slim with short hair, and there was something mischievous in the look he gave Simon, weighing him up.

  ‘Johan,’ said Anna-Greta to the boy, ‘could you fetch the key for Seaview Cottage, please?’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders and ambled off towards a two-storey house a hundred metres away. Simon glanced around the plot, which also seemed to include a cottage on the other side of the inlet. Anna-Greta followed his eyes and said, ‘The Shack. There’s nobody living there at the moment.’

  ‘Do you live here alone?’

  ‘Well, there’s me and Johan. Aren’t you going to inspect the property?’

  Simon did as he was told and took a random stroll around. Looked at the lid of the well, the lawn, the jetty. It was completely pointless. He had already decided. When Johan came back with the key and Simon saw inside the house, he was even more certain. When they got back outside he said, ‘I’ll take it.’

  Papers were signed and Simon paid the deposit. Anna-Greta offered him a cup of coffee, as it would be an hour before the tender went back. Simon learned that Anna-Greta had inherited her house from her parents-in-law, who had both died a couple of years earlier. Johan answered his questions politely, but said no more than was necessary.

  When it was time for Simon to think about leaving, Johan suddenly asked, ‘What’s your job?’

  Anna-Greta said, ‘Johan…’

  ‘It’s a natural thing to ask,’ said Simon, ‘if we’re going to be neighbours. I’m a magician.’

  Johan looked at him with a sceptical expression. ‘What do you mean, a magician?’

  ‘People pay to come and watch me do magic tricks.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really. Well, the tricks aren’t real, it’s just—’

  ‘I know that. But you’re an illusionist, then?’

  Simon smiled. Not many people outside magicians’ circles would use that term. ‘You’re very well informed.’

  Johan didn’t answer. Instead he sat there nodding to himself for a couple of seconds, then he burst out, ‘I thought you were just some boring bloke.’

  Anna-Greta brought her hand down on the table. ‘Johan! That’s not the way to speak to a guest!’

  Simon got to his feet. ‘I am just some boring bloke. As well.’ He held Johan’s gaze for a few seconds, and something happened between them. Simon sensed that he had just made a friend. ‘I’d better be on my way.’

  At the beginning of July, Simon hired their usual driver to take him and Marita to Nåten with all their luggage. Marita loved the place, and Simon was able to relax. For five days. Perhaps the abstinence got too much for her, or possibly the isolation, but on the morning of the sixth day Marita declared that she had to go into Stockholm.

  ‘But we’ve only just got here,’ said Simon. ‘Try to relax a little. Rest.’

  ‘I have rested. It’s wonderful here, and I’m going crazy. Do you know what I did last night? I sat out in the garden staring up at the sky and prayed to God that a plane might appear, so that at least something was happening. I can’t handle it. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  She didn’t come back the following day, nor the day after that. When she turned up on the third day, she dragged herself up the hill from the steamboat jetty. She had dark circles under her eyes and she immediately fell into bed and went out like a light.

  When Simon went through her overnight bag, he didn’t find any inhalers. He was just about to close the bag and thank providence for that small dispensation when he noticed the lining bulging oddly. He pushed his fingers inside and found a slender case containing a syringe and a small tin of white powder.

  It was a glorious summer’s day. There was a stillness everywhere; only the buzzing of the insects created any movement in the air at all. A pair of swans were teaching their young to look for food in the inlet. Simon sat in the lilac arbour beside the path as if he were in a trance, with a tin and a case in his hand. Yes, they fitted into his hand. Two innocent, trivial-looking objects that contained an army of devils. He didn’t know what to do, couldn’t summon up the energy to do anything.

  When Anna-Greta walked by, there must have been something in his vacant gaze that made her stop.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  Simon was still sitting there with his hand open and outstretched, as if he had a present he wanted to give her. He had no strength left for lies.

  ‘My wife is a drug addict,’ he said.

  Anna-Greta looked at the objects in his hand. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Amphetamine, I think.’

  Simon was on the verge of tears, but managed to pull himself together. If Anna-Greta did know anything about amphetamines, it wasn’t appropriate to discuss it with her. Johan would sometimes come over for a chat, and Anna-Greta would hardly want her son to be spending time with drug addicts. Perhaps she might not even want to rent the house to him any longer.

  Simon cleared his throat and said, ‘But it’s under control.’

  Anna-Greta gazed at him incredulously. ‘But how can it be?’ When Simon didn’t respond, she asked, ‘So what are you going to do with that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I might…bury it.’

  ‘Don’t do that. She’ll just force you to tell her where you’ve hidden it. I’ve seen how alcoholics behave. I don’t think there can be much difference. Throw it in the sea instead.’

  Simon looked out towards the jetty, which seemed to be floating on the sparkling water. He didn’t want to besmirch the place where he went down to swim every morning. ‘Here?’ he asked, as if seeking permission.

  Anna-Greta also looked at the jetty and seemed to have the same thought. She shook her head.

  ‘I was just going to go over to Nåten. If you come with me, you can…dump the rubbish on the way.’

  Simone walked down to the jetty with her and stood there at something of a loss as she started up the engine with a practised hand, cast off and told him to climb aboard. Once they had set off he stole a glance at her as she sat by the tiller, gazing out to sea with her eyes narrowed against the sunlight.

  She was no great beauty, her cheekbones were far too prominent and her eyes a little too deep-set for that. But she was arresting, and Simon caught himself following a chain of thought like the one he had followed when he came to Domarö for the first time.

  Five years, ten years, a lifetime. Would I?

  Yes.

  He had seen enough of ephemeral beauty in the theatrical world to know that Anna-Greta’s looks were the kind that lasted. One of those blessed individuals who actually grow more beautiful with the passing years.

  Anna-Greta caught his eye and Simon blushed slightly, pushing the thought away. She had given no indication that she might have the slightest interest in him in that way, not with a gesture or a word. Besides which he was married, for God’s sake. He had absolutely no right to be thinking like this.

  Anna-Greta slowed the engine and nodded towards the water. Simon got to his feet unsteadily and held the case and the tin out over the side. ‘It feels as if I ought to sing something.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He threw the objects into the sea and sat down again. Anna-Greta picked up speed. It felt as if they had just gone through some kind of ritual together, which was why he had got the idea about the song. He didn’t know what kind of ritual
it was, or what it meant. No song came into his mind. Just an emptiness and a sense of dread that grew and grew while they were in Nåten, developing into sheer terror by the time they moored at the jetty back home and said goodbye.

  He was afraid of what was going to happen to Marita and he was afraid of Marita. Of what would happen now the mask was off and everything was out in the open.

  Life with a junkie. The episodes are so tedious, and you’ve heard it all before. Let’s just say that after this Marita made no effort to hide her addiction. She didn’t spend many more days on Domarö that summer.

  She held it together during the autumn, and her performances at the Chinese Theatre were stunning. Then things went downhill. Simon would go looking for her at addresses of ill-repute and would manage to get her into some kind of treatment for a short period. Then she would disappear again. She missed a couple of shows and was nowhere to be found, until Simon got a call from Copenhagen and went over there.

  And so on, and so on.

  He had called Anna-Greta and Johan to invite them to the Chinese Theatre. They came and were amazed. Then Johan rang and asked about other places where they could go to see illusionists, and when Simon called back it was Anna-Greta who answered.

  After that they got into the habit of ringing each other once a week or so. Anna-Greta was completely self-sufficient, but she was also quite lonely. She let it be known, without going into detail, that she had been involved in certain activities which meant that certain people didn’t want anything to do with her.

  She enjoyed Simon’s anecdotes from the theatrical world, and sympathised with his concerns for Marita. As spring moved into summer they both came to depend on these conversations, and became sulky and anxious if anything got in the way and led to the postponement of that week’s call.

  Via a hundred kilometres of copper cable they became friends, but neither of them touched on the topic of love with so much as a word. That wasn’t the point; they were just two people with very different lives who could nevertheless meet on a level of mutual conversation. They understood each other, and they enjoyed each other’s company. There was no possibility of anything else between them.

  And Marita? What happened to her?

  That was anybody’s guess.

  There was nothing to suggest that her drug use was increasing, and after a couple of lapses she was as reliable as before when it came to performances. But as soon as she had the opportunity, she disappeared. Simon heard from acquaintances that she was enjoying herself in various clubs at night, often with other men.

  He had given up on her. When she asked for help he always gave it, but he no longer harboured any illusions of a normal home life with her, a woman who was too beautiful for her own good—or anyone else’s. To avoid tempting fate, Simon put together a program that he could perform solo, and accepted a couple of bookings.

  His attitude was stoical. As long as things didn’t get any worse, he could cope. He had promised to love Marita for better or worse, and if he could no longer love her, he saw it as his duty at least to keep his promise when it came to the hard times.

  One spring day Simon was walking along Strandvägen on his way down to the Chinese Theatre to discuss possible future bookings with the management. The leaves on the trees were just bursting into life, and all the happy little birds were chirruping away. Simon kept his eyes fixed on the ground, thinking about nothing.

  Then a smell reached his nostrils. At first he couldn’t even say what it was, but his chest expanded, he was suddenly able to breathe and tears came into his eyes. He looked up and saw that he had reached Norrmalmstorg. The smell was coming from the quayside at Nybro, and it was the sea he could sense. That faint hint of salt that would grow stronger further away, further out. Out on Domarö.

  He straightened up and filled his lungs with air. Not long to go. Despite financial pressures he had kept this summer free so that he could spend five, maybe six weeks on Domarö. He would have liked to stay longer, but Marita had expensive habits and he couldn’t actually conjure up money, even if he made it look as if he could.

  Perhaps I ought to do something out there? Try to arrange things so that I get a couple of bookings nearby?

  He stopped on the edge of Berzelii Park and looked out towards Nybrokajen. That was when he got the idea.

  Escape

  Everyone had been waiting for it for almost a month now. At first it had been just a rumour, then posters had gone up. And then, the day before yesterday, it had even been mentioned on the radio. That magician who rented the cottage from Anna-Greta was going to perform his escapology number just by the Domarö steamboat jetty.

  The time was set for twelve o’clock. Curious spectators began arriving from the mainland and from other islands as early as ten o’clock, to be sure of getting a good place and to sound out the terrain. You could see them walking around the jetty, staring down into the water to see if they could spot any special equipment to help him out, any secret arrangements.

  At half-past eleven, a journalist and a photographer from Norrtelje Tidning arrived. By that time a couple of hundred people were crammed together on the steamboat jetty. The journalist explained to those who were interested that of course it was forbidden to advertise such risky enterprises in the newspaper, but writing about them was absolutely fine.

  While they waited for the main attraction, it was a Stockholmer who rented a property on another island who drew the largest crowd of listeners. Many had heard of the famous Danish escapologist Bernardi, but the Stockholmer was the only one who had actually seen him appear, at the Brazil Jack Circus. The tense atmosphere was heightened as the Stockholmer told the story of how Bernardi had died on Bornholm during an escape attempt just like this one.

  The crowd around the Stockholmer dispersed only when a police officer arrived. Although to be honest it wasn’t a real policeman. It was Göran Holmberg. He had gone to the police training academy and worked in the field for a couple of years, that was true, but he was from the island after all. When he appeared dressed for the occasion in full uniform, complete with cap, he attracted teasing rather than genuine respect.

  ‘Make way for the forces of the law’, ‘Arrest Karlsson, he’s drunk and it’s still only morning!’ and similar comments were directed at Göran, who explained that it was Simon who had asked him to come along. For the effect, so to speak. He had also been asked to bring a pair of handcuffs with him, and these were passed around among all those who wanted to examine them. They were pulled and prodded, and it was established that, yes indeed, they were the genuine article.

  A small number of people had seen Simon performing with his assistant in a show in the open-air venue Gröna Lund, but he hadn’t performed an escapology number on that occasion. In any case, this whole event was a publicity stunt for the series of performances Simon was due to give at the local community theatre in Nåten during the summer. By twelve o’clock it looked as if he had undeniably succeeded. There were at least five hundred people gathered on and around the jetty as Simon came walking down from his cottage.

  Which was a bit odd. A magician should make an entrance, after all, perhaps appear in a puff of smoke. But this was just that bloke who rented from Anna-Greta, strolling down from his cottage on the other side of the inlet. This diminished the mystique, but increased the level of anxiety. Would he be able to do it, this… summer visitor?

  Room had been made for Johan and Anna-Greta right at the front when they came down to the jetty. After all, they were involved, in a sense. Someone nudged Anna-Greta.

  ‘You might need to look for another tenant after this!’

  Anna-Greta smiled. ‘Well, we’ll see.’

  She wasn’t in the habit of exposing her feelings for general consumption, and as she stood there on the edge of the jetty with her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her cardigan, her face gave away no hint of emotional turmoil.

  But to tell the truth, even she was a little anxious. She knew that Mar
ita had disappeared almost a week ago, and that Simon wasn’t feeling well. And the water was cold. Nine degrees. She had checked it herself that morning.

  It’ll be fine, she told herself, gazing down into the dark water. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing…let’s hope so, anyway.

  It wasn’t easy to impress Anna-Greta. The number of people who had turned up didn’t surprise her, people would gather for anything, as long as it was a novelty. When someone asked her how she thought Simon did it, she replied, ‘I expect it’s something to do with his joints.’

  The person who had asked smiled indulgently: obviously Anna-Greta hadn’t learned anything from Simon. But she had, in a roundabout way. When he walked around his garden without his shirt on, she had noticed that there was something strange about his frame: the bones stuck out at odd angles, as if the joints weren’t quite in place.

  She had come to the conclusion that his escapology had created that body, or that he had got into escapology because he was made that way. When she was young she had seen a contortionist at the circus, and he had looked very similar. Whatever it was that held the bones together was more flexible than in normal people.

  From this she had concluded that some kind of manoeuvring lay behind the ability to free himself from chains and ropes. She didn’t want to say any more: Simon’s secrets were his own affair. Besides which, she didn’t see how you could manoeuvre your way out of handcuffs. But there must be ways of doing that as well—at least, she hoped so.

  As Simon approached the jetty dressed in his bathrobe, the crowd began to applaud. Anna-Greta joined in, glancing at Johan. He was clapping too, but his face was tense and his eyes were fixed on Simon, who was strolling along as if he were just on his way down to take a dip.

  Anna-Greta knew that Johan was fond of Simon. Even the previous summer he would disappear for a couple of hours, then come home and show off some trick Simon had taught him. Simple things, according to Simon, but Anna-Greta certainly couldn’t see how Johan did it when he smacked a salt-cellar straight through the table.