Kitabı oku: «The Dark Path: The dark, shocking thriller that everyone is talking about»

You must always go carefully into the dark Swedish woods, for within the forests there live many dark, dark creatures. Witches and werewolves and wicked, wicked trolls. Beware the trolls! For they are in the habit of stealing away human children to keep for their own. Oh, you must beware the trolls, for you will not see them coming. They are terribly clever with their disguises.

—Åsa Lindqvist, Det hämndlystna trollet.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Epigraph

Merry

Sam

Merry

Sam

Merry

Sam

Merry

Sam

Merry

Sam

Merry

Merry

Sam

Merry

Frank

Sam

Frank

Merry

Frank

Frank

Merry

Frank

Sam

Merry

Frank

Merry

Sam

Sam

Frank

Merry

Merry

Frank

Sam

Frank

Sam

Frank

Merry

Sam

Frank

Merry

Sam

Merry

Sam

Frank

Sam

Merry

Sam

Merry

Sam

Merry

Frank

Merry

Frank

Merry

Sam

Frank

Merry

Sam

Frank

Sam

Frank

Merry

Merry

Frank

Merry

Frank

Merry

Frank

Merry

Frank

Merry

Sam

Merry

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Merry

If you saw us you’d probably hate us. We look like the cast of an insurance commercial: shiny, happy us. The perfect little family, living the perfect little life.

Wasn’t that another perfect day? is what we always say at the end of days like these. A confirmation. A promise. A warding-off of any days that might be anything less. But most are perfect here in Sweden, many more than I can count.

It’s so beautiful, especially now in the middle of the summer, all dappled, dancing light and gentle sun. The little red wooden house we live in is out of a children’s picture book – nestled in the forest, snug as a bug, with the trees all around and the garden lush and blooming, an abundance of life – vegetable patches thick with leaves, bushes heavy with sun-ripened summer berries, the smell of blooms everywhere, heady and sweet, drawing in the bees with their charms. The summer evenings are endless and still, the sky bright well past ten, and the vast lake pale and calm like the very faintest shade of blue on a color wheel. And stillness – everywhere just the sound of the birds and the rustling of the leaves on the branches.

Our lives here involve no traffic, no pollution, no upstairs neighbors blaring music or downstairs neighbors screeching out their misery; no litter on the sidewalk or rotting Manhattan trash or sweaty L-train commutes to work, no crowds, no tourists; no daily encounters with rats or roaches or perverts or street preachers. No. Nothing but this, an impossible life of lightness and dreams. Sam and the baby and me, on our island of three.

Like most mornings after I put the baby down for his nap, I went into the kitchen to bake. Today, a pie from the blueberries we’d picked in the forest this past weekend. I made the dough myself and rolled it out, pricked it with a fork, baked it blind to crisp it. The sun was already streaming in through the big open windows, rays of light casting themselves across the floors of our bright little house. The ripened berries I cooked low and slow, excising out the juices over the heat with maple syrup and a stick of cinnamon, careful not to let it all burn and spoil. Sam in his studio smelled the butter and the sugar and the sweetness of the fruit; he came out to the kitchen to see what I’d made. He looked at me and grinned, just as pleased as punch.

See, he said, don’t I always tell you. The Dark Path.

The pie was good; we ate it still warm with mugs of coffee as we sat out in the garden under the early-afternoon sun. The baby tasted a spoonful of the innards and dribbled it all out again, like a miniature office worker who’d just chewed his blue pen. Sam laughed and scooped it back up into the spoon.

Isn’t this kid the best? he said. He lifted him and jiggled him about, so the baby laughed and squealed and spit up some more. I observed them together. The boys. My boys. Father and son. I smiled, and felt the warmth of the sun against my skin.

Down the dirt road that connects the houses on the reserve, one of the neighbors has a paddock full of prizewinning horses nursing their young. The spring foals wobble about on spindly, unsteady legs; the mares nudge them up with their muzzles, coaxing their offspring gently into the world. They are good at mothering. Patient and instinctive. Fierce with love for their young, as nature demands.

Sam and I walked the baby over to watch them in the field. Horse, Sam said, and he pointed and neighed, and the baby was in hysterics. I reached out a hand to a chestnut-brown mare who had approached the fence, felt the quiver of life and taut muscle under my fingers. She was beautiful. Strong and certain. Her black eyes were fierce.

Careful, Sam warned. New mothers can be dangerous.

We left the horses and made our way slowly back to the house. Our home for a little under a year. It’s around forty-five minutes outside of Stockholm, on a nature reserve bordering Sigtuna, the oldest town in Sweden. The reserve covers a fairly large stretch of land, mostly fields and forest nestled around the lake, with the odd house dotted in between the pines. Many of the homes have been in a single family for generations, the same red wooden cabin extended or repaired over the years as necessary; the walls within witness to the constant comings and goings of the newly born and the newly departed.

Sam inherited the house from his grandfather’s second wife, Ida, who was born and raised here. She had no children of her own, but always had a soft spot for Sam, who knew even as a child how to charm her, how to compliment her on her rose garden or her spiced cookies or the gentle Swedish accent that made all her words sound like songs. When she died some years ago, Sam discovered she’d left him the house, with the stipulation that it could never be sold, only passed down.

We’d never visited before last year, never even thought much about the house or the country. Actually, our sole point of reference for all of Sweden was one of those little red Dala horses Ida brought back for us after one of her visits. It sat atop the spice rack in our Brooklyn apartment, next to the pepper grinder and the unopened jar of saffron strands I’d bargained for at a night market in Marrakech.

Of course, moving here was Sam’s idea.

All the good ones are, he likes to joke.

He said it would be like a fairy tale. That we’d be happier than we’ve ever been.

He was right. He always is. Pointing us in the right direction; the compass that leads me away from the storms. How lucky I am to have him.

Later in the afternoon, the three of us took a long walk through the forest, the baby in the backpack carrier, hitched snugly to Sam. As we walked, we named the trees and birds we’ve learned to identify this past year – a spruce, a nest of finches, Fraxinus excelsior, a common ash. These are our newfound pleasures and hobbies, the things we busy ourselves with over here. We laugh at ourselves sometimes, imagining the people we once were.

In the little town of Sigtuna, we stopped for thick rye-crumbed herrings and potato salad at the café by the pier; listened to the sounds of the seagulls and the lapping water as they blended hypnotically with the low chatter of the well-turned-out Swedes. The waitress tickled the baby’s cheek and took our order in flawless English. Tack, we said. Tack.

Back home, I gave the baby his bath and rocked him gently to sleep in my arms. I breathed into his neck and traced a hand gently over his downy golden hair, which was slowly beginning to thicken. I touched a hand to his chest, felt the thud of his beating heart, steady and miraculous every time; doof doof, the echo of life. Sam and I, tired out from the walk and the fresh air, climbed in between the crisp sheets before it had turned dark outside. I curled into my husband’s arms, gazed at his handsome face, the dark eyes, the sharp jaw, that chest of his that feels plated in armor. A solid man, a man who can carry the weight of you, and does.

I let out a contented sigh. Wasn’t that another perfect day? I said.

Sam kissed my forehead and closed his eyes. I moved my arm to turn over onto my front.

No, he said, stay.

Yes, it’s just as Sam said. A fairy-tale life in the woods.

Sam

Today is our one-year anniversary of moving to Sweden. Hard to believe. A full year, a new country, a new home, a new child. A whole new life. A better one, that’s for sure. To celebrate, I returned home from my meeting in Stockholm with a bunch of fresh spring flowers, a bottle of wine, and a knitted Viking hat for Conor that I picked up in one of the tourist stores in the old town.

Merry was in the kitchen, her long dark hair bundled on top of her head, her apron tied around her waist. She smiled when she saw me. I kissed her and she went to fetch a vase for the flowers.

Beautiful, she said.

As is my wife, I replied. I know she likes it when I call her that.

She put her arms around me and I breathed in her smell; perfume and something recently fried. Happy Swede-iversary, she said. Look, I made Swedish meatballs to celebrate.

Where’s my boy? I asked, and went to find Conor. He was on the activity mat in the living room, lying on his back, trying to get at the frog that hangs suspended from the green plastic bar. This child. I can’t get enough of him. Eight months and counting. He’s growing by the day, a little evolution at the speed of light; always changing, always in motion.

How’s my champ today, I said, lying down beside him. He smiled at me, the smile that turns my heart on its head: gummy and pink and pure love. I nuzzled my face into his belly, inhaled the smell of talcum powder and diaper cream.

I put the hat on his little head and lifted him up to show Merry. Two blond Viking braids hung down from the hat. Conor grabbed one and put it in his mouth.

Great, Merry laughed, now he’s ready to lead an invasion.

She’s so happy here. Light and happy. Unburdened. I love to see her like this. It’s all I’ve ever wanted for her. For us.

I handed her the baby so I could go and wash up for dinner. She cradled him close, and I paused a minute to frame the scene.

Beautiful, I said again.

We sat down together around Ida’s old oak table, Con in the high chair I built for him, Merry and I across from one another. She’d unpinned her hair, parted it to the side just as I like best. She was wearing a blue blouse that made her gray eyes appear almost translucent, as though they were portals to some other world, or altogether empty behind.

I poured the wine, Merry dished up the food and wiped the rim of the plates where the sauce had spilled. She’d lit candles even though it would still be light out for hours, and set the flowers on the far end of the table.

To Sweden, I toasted.

Merry held up her wine and we clinked our glasses together.

So good, I said, eating a mouthful.

Remember when we met, I laughed, you could hardly make a slice of toast.

It can be hard sometimes to remember that Merry. So much has changed since then.

Another lifetime, Merry said.

Yeah, I agreed. And this one’s a far better fit.

She was radiant, the evening light from outside streaming in, painting her edges in a soft golden glow.

She was trying to feed Conor, but he kept turning his head away.

What have you got for him?

Broccoli, carrot, and chicken, she said.

Lucky guy. I smiled. Let me.

I took the blue plastic spoon from her.

Vrooom, vroooom. He opened his mouth wide and was done in no time.

See? I winked. He just wants you to work a little harder for it.

Later, after Con was asleep in his crib, Merry and I lay out on the lawn and finished the bottle of wine. I pulled her to me and kissed her deeply.

The stars above us blanketed the sky in light. The lavender in the garden floated its scent in the air, a little too overpowering. I could make out Merry’s eyes, watching me, and within them, the edges of my reflection. I lifted her blouse and moved her down beneath me.

Sam, she protested.

Shhh, I said, we’re in the middle of nowhere.

She relaxed under me and shuddered slightly as I pried her open and apart.

Besides, I reminded her, we’re supposed to be trying for another baby.

Yes.

This is the life.

This is exactly how it’s meant to be.

Merry

Today my project was jam and baby food. There’s a surplus of produce from the garden and the refrigerator is almost empty of the little pots of food I make for the baby’s meals. Sam and I agreed that he should eat as much organic and homemade food as possible, so we grow most of the vegetables ourselves, and I cook it up and turn it all into puree to bottle and store. It’s not that much more work, really. I suppose nothing is when it comes to your children.

When we arrived last year, everything was wild and overgrown, fifteen years of neglect, of unweeded lawn and trees beset with rot. We pulled down the rotted spruces, heaved out the gnarlrooted bushes and the lawn overrun with chickweed and black grass. We bought books on horticulture and planted rows and rows of seedlings from the nursery. Sam custom-built bricked-in vegetable patches and cold frames for the winter to guard against the frost. There were plagues of snails and fungus, seedlings that refused to sprout, mis-planted produce that we tried and failed to grow in the wrong seasons. Slowly, eventually, we worked out the rhythms of planting and picking, the time it takes to nurture a cabbage, the optimal alkalinity of the soil. We are quite expert now, or at least I am. Like the kitchen, the garden is my domain.

There is no shortage of produce these days. Every morning, I am outside sowing the seeds, removing the weeds, harvesting the vegetables from out of the soil. The smell of earth sits heavy in the air; the smell of something wholesome and good. Back to basics, Sam says. He likes to pretend he can taste the difference; he’ll take a bite of salad and rule it home-grown or market-bought. I usually lie if he guesses wrong. I hate for him to feel silly.

For the baby’s food, I boil the vegetables in pots on the stove, one for carrots, one for broccoli, one for zucchini. I write labels for the jars, as though the baby might be able to read them and choose his own dinner. Sam likes to open the refrigerator and see them all lined up in a row, a little army of food soldiers ready to serve.

Who’s been a busy little wife? he’ll say.

Oh, that would be me, I’ll reply, with a wink. Coy and cute.

I sure am a busy little wife. It is the role I was born for, according to Sam. He cannot get enough of me like this, wifely and domestic and maternal. Perhaps he is right, and I was built for it. I certainly seem to excel at it. A natural, you might say, if you didn’t know how hard I work to pull it all off.

Never mind; it’s worth it, isn’t it? What more could I hope for. What more do I need? The love of a husband, the gift of a child. It is enough – it is everything.

Sometimes this new life makes me feel as though I am living as a quaint eighteenth-century settler wife. Growing things, baking bread, going to the weekly farmer’s market to choose my box of greens: zucchini, kale, celery, whatever I can’t grow in your own garden. Sam marvels at the offerings – the freshness of wild Norwegian salmon, the taste of real farm butter or eggs plucked right out from under a hen.

How did we ever survive in the States? he says.

You’d wonder, I reply.

We do this frequently, compare life before and after; new world and old. Sweden always wins. There is seldom much need for debate. Sweden is Sam’s gift to me, to us. It is the answer to everything, it has been the cure for all that ailed us before. Paradise, he calls it, and waits for me to agree.

I always do. How could I not.

As well as jam and baby food, it was a bathroom and kitchen day, so after finishing with the food, I made my homemade cleaning paste of vinegar and baking soda – the recipe courtesy of a blog Sam found for me. It’s full of household tips, like how to make scented candles and the best ways to remove stubborn mold from the grouting. He subscribed me to the newsletter so I need never miss a single tip.

He’s good like that. Proactive. I admire that quality in a person, the ability to decide and do, to set plans in motion. It has never been something I’m particularly good at. I often wonder what my life might look like if I was.

On my knees in the bathroom, I started with the bath. Scrubbing and shining the taps till I could see myself reflected back, distorted and inverted, pulling our week of collective shed hair out of the drain in a single swampy ball. The toilet next, finicky work, head in the bowl. What would my mother say if she could see me now? In the mirror, I looked at myself. Unkempt, that’s what my mother would say. Or, more likely, hideous. Unwashed, no makeup, skin slicked in oil. A thin trickle of sweat pooling down my T-shirt. I sniffed under my armpits.

Then I smiled into the mirror, dazzling and wide. I opened my arms in a gesture of gracious welcome.

Welcome to our home, I said aloud. Welcome to our lives.

The woman in the mirror looked happy. Convincing.

There was a phone call earlier this morning from Frank. She woke the baby.

I’m coming to Sweden, she said.

What?

I’m coming to visit!

I’ve said it to her again and again in the year we’ve been here, at the end of every email and phone call. You must visit, it’s wonderful; we’d love to have you.

And now she is coming. She will be here in a few weeks.

Your best friend, Sam said when I told him. That’s great news.

Yes, isn’t it, I said, smiling.

I’d emailed her just a few days ago. Another missive about my wonderful Swedish life, with photographs as proof. Something home-baked, a smiling child, a shirtless husband. She replied almost immediately, informing me of her new promotion, a sparkling new penthouse in Battersea. She attached a photograph of herself from a recent break to the Maldives. Frank in a pineapple-print bikini, sun-kissed and oiled, the lapping Indian Ocean in the background, a coconut cocktail in her hand.

I wonder what she’ll make of all this. The picture of my life, when she sees it in the flesh.

I wiped the mirror and opened the windows to air the room of the stench of vinegar. In the kitchen, I moved the dishwasher and cleaned the dirt gathered against the wall. I scoured the oven of fat and grease, climbed up on the ladder to clean the top of the refrigerator. Sometimes I like to carve out messages in the dust. HELP, I wrote this morning, for no particular reason.

The baby woke up and began to cry just as I was halfway through bottling the last of the excess vegetables in brine. Pickling is another of my newfound skills. It’s very rewarding. I went into the baby’s room and stared at him in his crib.

Boiling over, face red with rage at his neglect. Spit foaming out of his mouth as he cried. He saw me and frowned, held out his arms, rocked on his haunches to try to propel himself up and out.

I watched him. With all my heart, I tried to summon it. Please, I thought, please.

Instincts, they call them, but for me they are the very furthest thing. Buried somewhere deep inside under too many layers, or altogether missing.

Please, I urged again, I coaxed, I begged. But inside, like always, there was only emptiness. Cold and hollow. The great void within.

I could do nothing but stand and watch.

The baby’s cries grew more urgent, his face twisted with hot and vicious need. Almost purple. I stood helpless, rooted to the spot. I turned my head away so he would stop appealing to my eyes, imploring me to alleviate his rage. Unable to comprehend that I could not do it.

I looked around his room, filled with books and stuffed toys. A map of the world on the wall, along with stenciled illustrations of Arctic mammals. Polar bear. Moose. Fox. Wolf. I’d done it myself, the last month of pregnancy, balancing a paint box on the mound of my belly. The whole world, just for him. And still it is not enough. I am not enough.

And he is too much.

In the noise, I tried to find my breath, to feel the beating of my heart. It was pounding today, loud with upsets of its own; an angry fist in a cage.

I edged closer to the crib and peered down at the hysterical child. My child. I shook my head.

I’m sorry, I said at last. Mommy is not in the mood.

I left the room and closed the door behind me.