The second book in the Erik Winter series, 2006

Translated From The Swedish By Laurie Thompson

She felt a prick in her right foot, under her toes. She had been feeling her way forward, but the bottom was covered in seaweed here, a sort of long, thick grass that swayed with the current. It was brown and nasty. Like dead flowers.

Now she was standing on a little sandbank. She balanced on one leg and examined her right foot: she could see it was bleeding, but only a little. It wasn't the first time this summer. Par for the course.

She suddenly found herself thinking about a cramped classroom smelling of musty clothes…and musty thoughts. Rain against the window pane. Questions on a sheet of paper and the scratching of pens, answers that would be forgotten as soon as the papers had been handed in. Now that was all over, though. She'd passed her final exams, big damn deal. And now a summer that would never end. Ne-e-ever end. She could hear the tune in her head.

The cut would be no more than a little scratch by tonight, and it wouldn't hurt at all; but she would still feel the heat on her skin, from the sun and the salt. From the shower. Before the evening got under way.

She swam, kicking with her legs, and water flowed all around her. A sail boat chugged slowly into the bay. She could see the little ferries, three of them from where she was swimming. All the people on their way down to the islands in the southern archipelago. She was drifting on her back. She couldn't feel the water anymore, it was like floating on air. I can fly, she thought. I can do anything. Be whatever I like. I can be famous.

I can forget.

Summer, and then she'd be starting at the medical school-but that was a million years away, millions of drops of water tasting of salt and sand when she dived.

The water was green and a bit cloudy. She saw a shadow that might have been a fish.

She'd study for a year and then take a year off, no matter what her father had to say. He'd comment that she was good at planning sabbaticals, but what about all the rest?

She didn't want to be at home.

She stayed underwater for as long as she dared, then kicked off and tried to leap high above the surface. She swam back to the rocks-picking her way carefully through the seaweed-and heaved herself up onto one jutting out into the water.

The wound under her big toe was still bleeding. She clambered up to her blanket, pulled her towel from her bag, dried her hair, and took a drink of water, then sat down on the blanket and blinked away some drops of saltwater from her eyes. She took a breath, then another, a deep one, full of sun that almost scorched her lungs. The surface of the water was glittering like fish scales, as if tens of thousands of fish were wriggling away out there. She could hear faint sounds from boats heading in all directions. Some disappeared into the horizon, melted away. The sky was nearly white in the distance, but there was no sign of any clouds. She lay on her back. A drop of water ran down from her hair and over her cheek, and she could taste it on her lips. She'd already closed her eyes. Everything was red and yellow inside her head now. She could hear snatches of voices from people nearby, half words, a splinter of laughter that sparkled like the surface of the water in the sun.

She didn't have the strength to read. She didn't want to do anything at all, just to lie there for as long as possible. Do nothing, just live forever.

The sun was at eye level when she gathered her things together and scrambled over the hill and down through the little ravine to the bike rack. She felt quite dizzy. Her shoulders were smarting, in spite of the sunblock. Her cheeks were burning, but not too much. It would die down by evening, sort of sink in. It would look good in the lights of the outdoor café. She was starting to forget.

She cycled past the marina, threading her way through the crowds of people flocking off the archipelago ferries toward the streetcars and buses. Everybody was going home at the same time, as if they all had the same habits. Maybe we do, she thought. That's the way it is in summer. Everything is simpler. Sunbathe, swim, shower, party. Swim, sunbathe, shower, party. Shower, sunbathe, swim, party. She stopped, parked her bike, and stood in the ice cream line to buy a cup with two flavors: tutti-frutti and old-fashioned vanilla. The ice cream started to melt right away, but it would have been worse if she'd had a cone. A woman next to her said it was ninety degrees. Ninety degrees at 6:00. "We shouldn't complain," said a man to the woman's right. "Oh, I don't know," said the woman, who could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty. "The gardens could do with a bit of rain."

Screw your gardens, she thought as she rode off. Let this never end. The gardens will get their fill of rain come autumn.

There was a smell of hay coming from the field sloping down to the creek on the other side of the road. She passed through a cluster of houses, speeded up when she came to the bike path alongside the streetcar lines, and was home within ten minutes. Her father was sitting on the verandah with a glass of what looked like whiskey.

"Here comes a beet."

She didn't answer.

"Still, better that than a leek."

"A leek?"

"The white parts on a leek."

"I'm going up to my room," she said, walking up the steps. It was whiskey. She recognized the heady smell.

"I'll be lighting the grill in exactly ten minutes, Jeanette."

"What are we having?"

"Skewered salmon, angler fish. And a few other things."

"When are we eating?"

"Precisely forty-five minutes from now."

Her father took a sip and turned away. The ice clinked. She liked wine, or a beer, but never whiskey.

By the time Jeanette was making herself up, the sun had already sunk into her skin, its color grown deeper. The room was shady: she had drawn the curtains and dimmed the light, but she was radiating a warm, dry, wholesome smell from her skin. She stood in front of the mirror, wearing only her pants. Her breasts glowed as white as her teeth.

Now the room smelled of the after-sun lotion she'd just applied. Her skin had already softened in the freshwater from the shower. A lovely term: freshwater.

Her father was shouting from the garden and, at that very moment, she could smell the grilled fish, and, at that very moment, she felt ravenously hungry. Ravenously. And thirsty.

Elin's teeth were gleaming on the other side of the table.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" she asked.

"Sunbathing and swimming."

"Should we have another one?"

"I don't think so. This one's gone to my head," Jeanette said, indicating the beer glass on the table.

"You really do look brown," Elin said.

"Thank you."

"And your hair's turned white."

"I don't know if I should thank you for that."

"It's fabulous."

"OK, thank you."

"I think I'll have another beer," Elin said. "I'm permanently thirsty." She stood up. "I guess I'd better go in and serve myself. The waitresses never get this far out."