© Anna-Karin 2005
Authors note and disclaimers:
The characters of Hickey and John Smith do not belong to me. They belong to New Line Cinema
and I am not making any money from this. No copyright infringement intended.
This story is a sequel to The Legend of The Golden Cradle, and will make more sense if you have
read that story first.
Wind. (The sound of broken sails, flapping with whip crack noises)
Fear. (The hull of the ship creaking, then breaking.)
Water. (Cold, wet, rolling, tossing, sea-weed tangling, touching, slimy.)
Stone. (Hard, smooth, slick of algae, slippery, wet cold, then dry cold.)
Darkness. (No stars in the sky, no moon either, just dark clouds overhead)
Fire. (Torches and lanterns moving over the rocks.)
Voices. (In a strange tongue, coming closer, closer)
Screams. (Begging for aid, begging for help, begging for mercy.)
Pain. (Red lightning, the sound of something cracking, again, again.)
Cecilia Scriptor woke up, still seeing red flashes in front of her eyes. She shifted and groaned. It was that nightmare again. She'd had it since she was sixteen, but it had never been this bad. But two months ago the intensity of the nightmare had escalated from just noticeable to a state very close to pain.
The train was rocking not too gently along the tracks from Stockholm to Gothenburg. It was supposed to be a lovely day in may, but she didn't see the sun nor the blue skies or the cherry blossoms. To her everything was a dull grey shade.
The bile began to rise in her throat and she made an attempt to rise. The train turned around a curve sending her back to her seat. For a long moment she sat still, trying to will away her nausea. It didn't work.
The next time she tried to rise, she managed to get to the bathroom at her end of the wagon. Once she got there, she lost her breakfast and her supper from the day before. Afterwards she sat on the lid of the toilet, trying to gather her wits.
If Cecilia was to be honest with herself, and she preferred not to, she'd have to admit that this particular nightmare had begun shortly after she had found the golden cradle in the German princess' cairn. And the escalating had begun at the same time she'd realized that she was pregnant.
It wasn't visible, not yet. But if she remembered correctly, her foster mother hadn't begun to show until she was about three months pregnant. Cecilia thought that she herself might be two months pregnant.
She groaned again.
'Will this puking never stop?' she wondered as she rose to lift the lid of the toilet seat.
Cecilia had thought that her life was about to begin for real, when she left Rydkyrka valley on a mail boat to Gothenburg. But that was eleven years ago, in 1935. A war and a lot changes had happened, and she was no longer so sure she should have gone aboard that boat.
At first things had been good. She'd gotten a job as a waitress at a café in Karlskrona, and had earned well enough to contribute to the household, and still have some for herself. She'd bought silk stockings, and a nice pink sunday dress that went really well with her hair. A nice hat and a dash of lipstick had transformed into a young lady of taste. Nobody who'd seen her in those happy days could ever think she was anything but a city girl. The accent had disappeared fast, thanks to the clients of the café, who were always happy to chat a few minutes with the young and pretty waitress.
But she had had a little secret. In her purse, or in her skirt-pocket, she kept her most valued possession; the tiny golden cradle that she had found back home, in Bohuslan. Sometimes in the evenings, when everyone else had gone to bed, she would pick it out and play with it. She would put it on the kitchen table and touch it with a finger, making it rock back and forth. It would sparkle in the lamplight, and make her forget about the troubles of the day. Once she had sewn a tiny mattress and a tiny quilt to the cradle.
In 1937 she'd found a job in Stockholm, as a nanny, in an aristocratic family, the Rosencronas. They'd lifted an eye-brow at Cecilia's surname, as it was very unusual. They'd asked her if she perhaps was related to baron Scriptor, who was then in the process of converting to the Catholic faith, a thing that had divided the Stockholm aristocracy. Some supported the Baron, while others considered him a traitor.
Cecilia had answered that she was, but a very distant relative, and that she was a good Lutheran. They had accepted that, and she had begun her job. The following three years saw her as a member of the Rosencrona household. The children were rather easy to deal with, and she was sad when they grew too big to need a nanny.
After that she'd found a job at a restaurant, as a waitress. She had liked it there, and stayed there for the next four years. Then, in 1944, she'd met Mr. Harald Flodin.
He was a traveling salesman, and a rather successful one. He told her he was a widower with no children, and Cecilia had believed him. They began going out together, and got engaged to marry. She'd been happy then. And when she found herself with child, she thought that there was no problems with them getting married.
Then Harald told her that he was married already, and had two children. This had happened only a few days before, and now she was on a train, going home.
She'd sent a telegram to her foster mother, asking if she could come home. The reply had come the next day. It was short, just two words; "welcome home."
It was afternoon when young viscount Scriptor, Henrik to his friends, walked down the King's Gate Avenue. The day's lectures at the university of Gothenburg were finished, and he'd gotten a good start on the essay that was due in two days. Pleased with himself, he whistled as he sauntered past the old theatre and over the bridge to the King's Gate Place.
Henrik was going to see his cousin, Cecilia, for the first time in eleven years. She'd sent his mother a telegram, asking if she could come home. Then his mother had asked him if he could meet Cecilia at the Central station. He was to keep her company until it was time for the train to Uddevalla, where his mother and stepfather lived during the winters.
Henrik's life had changed when his mother had married count Scriptor. Widow Scriptor was now Countess Scriptor, and managed both her own property as well as her ailing husband's. Henrik had been sent to a private school in Gothenburg. There he lived at the workman's hotel, owned by a relative of his mother, Mrs. Hedvig Andersson. Then he had gone to a junior college in Gothenburg.
When he was eighteen, he'd been drafted into the army. For two years he'd been patrolling the border to Norway, then occupied by the Nazis. When the peace came, he returned to his old junior college to finish his studies. Now he was studying business law at the university.
As he walked past the statue of Charles X, he wondered if Cecilia had changed. Then he corriged himself. 'Of course she's changed, you dummy!'
Then he crossed Well Park, and walked up to the Central station. He did not stop at the newspaper store, nor did he check out the pretty girl behind the bar in the restaurant. It was just a few minutes left until Cecilia's arrival, and he didn't want to be late.
Henrik could imagine Cecilia's face; amused, with just a hint of exasperation. It would be good to see her again. They'd written letters to each other, but that had turned into just a card at Christmas and a happy-birthday card at their respective birthdays. He knew she'd worked at a restaurant, that she liked Stockholm, but nothing more than that.
He was standing at the platform, looking for his cousin's face among the crowd that stepped of
the train. He scanned each face; no, too old; no, too young; no, too pale.
But the pale woman in the too big overcoat stopped in front of him. She was holding a battered
old suitcase.
"Hello, Henrik", she said.
Henrik stared at her. Who was this pale woman with the sunken cheeks and the fever-blank eyes?
Then the strange woman frowned and drawled "Dawn't yaow see who ah am, 'Enrik?"
Henrik blinked, and recognized Cecilia's smile, the one she had when she put up with someone
being stupid, because she liked him.
"Cecilia!" he exclaimed, "You've changed!"
Cecilia closed her eyes and nodded.
In that moment, Henrik saw how weak she was. It seemed like she could not stand on her own feet more than a few minutes at a time. And there was a gray shadow behind her, just visible in the corner of his eye. He got the impression of bones, human bones, and rags tossed about by the wind. Then the vision was gone, and it was only Cecilia, his childhood friend, standing in front of him, looking weak and tired.
Viscount Scriptor and Miss Scriptor sat in a corner of the railway restaurant. Miss Scriptor didn't have any appetite, but was sipping at a cup of tea. Viscount scriptor had ordered a roast beef sandwich with extra pickles and a beer. He wasn't hungry either, but needed something to do with his hands. And he could use a beer after that vision.
"Could I have some pickles, do you think?" Cecilia asked.
"Sure! I'tell 'em."
"Good."
The food came, and Henrik ate in silence. The pickles came a few moments later, in a nice small
glass bowl on a plate with a fork and a napkin. The waiter winked at Henrik as he put it down on
the table in front of Cecilia.
Henrik wondered why, but then shook his head and let it go.
Cecilia took her time with the pickles, enjoying the slightly vinegary taste of the small onions, and the crispness of the other pickled vegatables. For once she did not feel sick at the sight of food. She hoped that it would last.
Then, when they had finished eating, and was about to go to the platform to catch the train to Uddevalla, Cecilia fainted.
"You say this is proper food for an old man who can't chew properly, and I say it is not!"
said count Alfred Scriptor.
"The meat-loaf is easy to chew, therefore it is proper food for you, sir", replied his cook,
Mrs. Svensson.
"It is not proper food. The potatoes are soggy, and the meat-loaf tastes bland, and close to
just awful!"
Countess Scriptor was standing in the door, listening to the weekly argument between her husband and the cook. She thought that count Alfred did have a point, but decided not to step into the argument. But perhaps she could send Mrs. Svensson to Paris, to see how the food was made there. The old man had spken so much about that city, especially about the food and the entertainment. Now, when the war was over, that could be done. Or perhaps she would just give the cook a book on French cuisine, with directions to pay attention to the spices used in those recepies.
Count and countess Scriptor had been married for eleven years. They had walked into this arrangement with open eyes. All the former widow had wanted was saftey and a future for her children. A future where her sons would not have to go out to sea in those unsafe boats to earn a living. A future where her daughter would be able to get a higher education. She had been prepared for a rather cold, loveless marriage.
She had not thought that she could be able to love the old man. And yet here she was, feeling happy that he still was well enough to have an argument with their cook. She smiled to herself.
The count saw his wife out of the corner of his eye. He saw her smile, and turned to smile back. Then he lifted a hand and waved to her. The cook turned her head, saw the countess and made a brief curtsy.
The count had wanted an heir. An heir that was a member of the Scriptor family, with all the hereditary traits and quirks in the blood. To get a wife, a spare heir and another daughter had just been a bonus. But he had not counted on getting so attached to them all. He had not expected to feel so proud when Lotta had called him 'daddy', instead of 'uncle'. She still was the only one of his stepchildren who called him that. He didn't mind that the other children called him uncle. If any of the boys started to call him daddy, he'd suspect that they were trying to curry favours with him.
When the countess stepped into the room, count Alfred thought that the room got a little brighter, as if she was carrying the spring-time sun with her. He loved her for bringing in that sun into his life.
"Hello, sir", said the countess with a smile.
"Hello, mylady", replied the count.
Mrs Svensson stared at them. She could never understand how they could be so close and still use such a formal language when they spoke with each other. Then she left the room, feeling that the kitchen needed her more that they did. And she was still going to make the meatloaf the way she wanted to.
A telephone signal cut through the comfortable silence and the countess went to answer the call. Perhaps it was from the butcher, or the doctor.
"Scriptor residence, Countess Scriptor here", she said.
"Hello Mother! It's Henrik."
The boy sounded like he was out of breath.
"What has happened, dear? Is it Cecilia?"
"Yes! She fainted! At the central station! She's in hospital now!"
"What! Is she sick?"
"Yes! The doctor says she's pregnant. He thought I was the father. She is very weak. And..."
"And what?"
"She may be dying."
Hickey lay slumbering in his bed in his and Smith's room at the Anderssons Hotell. Smith was sitting in a chair by the window, reading through a pack of papers in the evening sun.
Smith's publisher had asked him to edit a collection of the more popular stories. They'd sent him the the first print for proof-reading, and so far he hadn't found any errors. Well, except for a missing letter here and there and a few misspellings of names and places.
One of the stories was about 'The Woman Who Carried Fire In Her Bucket', and another was a re-telling of the legend of the golden cradle. That summer, back in 1935, had been inspirational for Smith. But as much as he had to thank the Scriptor family for, he didn't like them much.
Hickey on the other hand had taken to them like an orphan to a new family . Henrik and Kristian Scriptor lived at the workman's hotel, and had become friends with him. If they needed to vent, they went to him. He was not giving them any advice, but simply listened while they worked on the problem.
Smith decided to let go of that line of thought. It was no use brooding over what one couldn't anything about. Besides, he had nicer things right in front of him to think about. His and Hickey's relationship for example.
'Fourteen years earlier', Smith thought, 'Hickey was the one sitting on a chair reading, while I was sleeping.' He smiled at the memory, and counted himself a lucky sod. He put away the papers on the tiny table under the window, and walked over to Hickey's bed. He bent down and gave Hickey a kiss on the cheek. Hickey turned in his sleep, and Smith gave him a kiss on the mouth as well. Hickey opened his eyes, saw Smith and smiled.
Without a word Hickey moved to one side of the bed, to make room for Smith. He accepted the invitation and laid down beside Hickey. He began to move his hand over Hickeys side, light caresses that sometimes dipped down to cup the other man's ass. His lover answered with long, lingering touches over his chest and shoulders. They took it slowly, with Hickey breathing over Smith's throat, just where the shoulder began. Smith responded with small nibbles on Hickey ear lobe.
Soon they were moving their hands downwards. Hickey's long fingers won the speed contest and had out Smith's cock, while the other man was still fumbling inside his pajamas. Smith almost forgot his task as he felt a finger caress the top of his cock in small circles all over the cock head. He breathed out, reveling in the sensation. "Oh God ... Hickey ...", he moaned as Hickey's caresses got firmer. Then he tensed. Hickey looked at him with a puzzled frown. Then he heard it too.
There was someone knocking on the door.
"Wait!" Smith called out, as he and Hickey rushed to put his clothes in order. Then Smith went to open the door. Meanwhile Hickey pulled his quilt over himself.
Henrik Scriptor walked in through the door, noted the state of the men's hair and clothes, blushed and turned around to leave. Smith stopped him. "Now when you are here, you may as well say what's on your mind."
"Sorry", said Henrik, "but I just... sorry. It's Cecilia."
Smith recalled that Cecilia was supposed to come to Gothenburg that day. Henrik had not been
able to talk of anything else at breakfast that morning.
"Cecilia", Henrik continued, "is ill. She fainted at the central station. Then the doc at the
hospital congratulates me and says she's pregnant. Ah tell him Ah ain't 'er 'usban', an' den
'e sez Ah better marry 'er, cuz dat's mah dooty."
Agitation brought out his accent and neither Smith nor Hickey could understand anything he said after 'duty'. They could only gather that he had informed the doctor that he was indeed not the father, nor was he going to marry her.
Then the young man calmed down and returned to his Gothenburg accent, which the older men found
much easier to understand.
"So I've called Mother and uncle", said Henrik, "and they are coming down to-morrow. I've told
Kristian too." Then he concluded with a long string of curses, mostly aimed at the unknown
father of Cecilia's child. There were also a few moans over the bastard child who was going
to make such a mess for the rest of the family.
"To-morrow", said Hickey, once Henrik had run out of breath, may we come with you to see Cecilia
at the hospital?"
"Yes, sure", said Henrik. "Do you want to come too?" he asked Smith.
Smith didn't really want to come, but for Hickey's sake he nodded yes.
When Henrik finally left, neither of the men felt like going back to the activities they had been involved in before they had been interrupted.
The next day Smith, Hickey, Henrik and Kristian arrived to the hospital. The corridors were long, and the usual hospital sounds, of nurses going from room to room and the low murmur of conversation from the wards, sounded like they were coming from someplace far away. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectants and sweat, and made the men slightly queasy.
Henrik stopped a nurse who was carrying a food tray covered with a white napkin.
"Sorry, miss", he said, "Do you know if miss Scriptor is well enough to receive visitors?"
"I don't know, but I'll ask the head nurse."
"Thanks."
After a short while the nurse came back and said that miss Scriptor had had a brief fever attack during the night, but that she could receive visitors, if they weren't too many, or too rowdy. Henrik thanked her again, and she left, still carrying the tray.
There were chairs lined up along the corridor where Cecilia's room was. The men sat down. They had decided to wait until the count and the countess had arrived, before they walked into her room.
They had to wait for almost half an hour before the Count and the Countess arrived. The old man
was sitting in a wheel-chair pushed by his wife. Behind them, carrying a basket and a couple of
blankets and coats was their chauffeur, Spjuth. Behind him was Lotta, who carried nothing.
"Hello!" said the Countess, " we are so sorry we're so late, but there was so much we had
forgotten until the very minute before we left."
"How do you do, Mr. Smith, Mr. Hickey?" said the Count, while shaking hands with them. There was
a brief polite conversation, before Spjuth was sent to fetch the doctor who was in charge of
Cecilia's health.
The doctor, Dr McKenzie, shook their hands and walked into Cecilia's room, to let her know that she had visitors. When he returned he told them that she was awake, but tired. She did want to see them though.
Cecilia sat on the bead, supported by pillows. She was clad in a hospital night-shirt under a beige dressing gown. Her legs were covered by a pale green quilt, and her hands were folded in her lap. She looked up as they walked in, smiled and raised a hand in greeting.
Hickey was struck by how changed she was.
This woman with hollow cheeks and blank eyes had very little in common with the carefree girl he'd met one summer so long ago. Cecilia looked back at him, at first without much interest, but then her eyes widened, before she looked away. Hickey wondered why. Had he changed so much? He didn't think so. Then he recalled that he had had red hair when they last had seen each other. But it had turned white over the years, which could be startling for people who hadn't seen him for over a decade.
Smith, on the other hand, was more occupied with the shadow by Cecilia's bed. It was more solid than he remembered. He could see the outline of a woman in wide robes, torn into rags, stirring as if moved by a wind that was not there. But there rest was hidden in the shadows.
He heard a whimper from behind and looked over his shoulder. The Countess was holding her hand
over her mouth, shaking in fear. The count was also looking at her, as was her children.
"Cant you see?" she said, "that ugly thing..."
She pointed at the ghost, but to those that could not see it, she was just pointing at a
bedside table.
Cecilia blinked in confusion and looked at the same spot as the others. "There's nothing but that table there", she said.
As Smith and the Countess watched, the shade faded away. They looked at each other, and then they realized that everyone else were staring at them.
"You look as if you've seen a ghost", said Dr. McKenzie.
Kristian was sent to ask for more chairs for Cecilia's visitors, as the Countess and Lotta packed up the food they had brought with them. Smith noted with satisfaction that there were ham-and cheese sandwiches as well as liver paté sandwiches with pickles and salad. Hickey on the other hand saw that the Countess had brought her trademark manor house cookies, delicate pastry leaves with pink sprinkles.
Cecilia asked for the liver paté sandwiches as soon as she saw them, and Lotta handed her a couple on a small bone china plate. Balancing the plate on her lap and holding a cup of coffee she looked like an elegant hostess presiding over her salon.
The Scriptors spoke of many things that afternoon. Henrik spoke of his studies and of his time in the army, while Kristian told everyone what he thought of the latest car models, and how they could be improved. Lotta on the other hand talked about her girlfriends, and about the latest fashions.
Cecilia had a hard time believing that the tall girl was the same person as the little toddler she had left behind so many years ago. And it was obvious that Lotta didn't remember her. She would tell an anecdote which she thought the younger girl would remember, just to hear "I was very little back then, and I simply can't recall anything of it."
The afternoon became evening. Spjuth, who had been in the background all the time, fetching this and holding that, was sent to buy some more coffee. The younger Scriptors were given some money and told to go to the movies. The boys grumbled a bit about having too look after their baby sister, but it was mostly for show. They were going to the Anderssons Hotell after the movie.
Once Spjuth had come back with the coffee, and the children were out of earshot, the adults
got down to business.
"Cecilia, my sweet girl", the Countess sighed, "What kind of mess have you put yourself in?"
"I'm pregnant, and unmarried", Cecilia replied.
"No, the child is not the problem. But the fact that you are without a husband is."
"And what can I do about that? The bastard..."
"Cecilia! Language!"
"...is married already. He said he wasn't, but then it turned out that he was."
She folded her arms over her chest in a self-protective gesture. The Countess frowned and rubbed
her forehead. The Count asked the chauffeur to fetch some headache powder.
"I don't want to get married, just to protect the child. What it it dies? Then I'll have married
someone for nothing. I liked being single, and I thought I was going to marry someone I loved."
"Think of the child! If it is born out of wedlock, it will be called whore-brat, or worse!"
"What if it is still-born, or dies in the cradle? Then I'll be shackled with a husband."
The Count harrumphed. "My wife married me as a business agreement, and we have a good marriage
now", he said and continued, "getting married to someone you have something in common with is
not bad, even if it's not a passionate love."
"I still want to wait", said Cecilia.
"Suit yourself", the Countess sighed.
There was very little to be said after that, and Cecilia's visitors began to gather their things. The Countess and her husband were the first to leave, followed by Spjuth. Smith was next out of the room.
Hickey didn't hurry. He thought it was sad that no-one wanted to stay any longer, so he lingered
behind, exchanging a few remarks on how late the sun was setting that day. Cecilia appreciated
the kindness, and asked him to come visit again.
"I'm lonely. And ill. And having visitors takes my mind off it."
"Sure I can, Miss Scriptor."
"It's Cecilia, please."
"Then call me Patrick in return."
"Of course."
She smiled, and looked like the girl she once had been.
That evening Smith and Hickey slept in separate beds for the first time since the war. Neither of them slept very well.
May passed quickly, and june came with rainy days and sunny. Hickey visited Cecilia every wednesday and saturday afternoon. He would bring the daily newspaper, as well as family news and gossip.
From the beginning it had been done out of pity, but soon he began to look forward to visiting her. She would always listen to what he had to say, and sometimes she would tell him about the background to some of the gossip.
Smith wasn't happy, but did not say a word about his lover's visits to Cecilia. Many times, as he listened to Hickey when he retold a story Cecilia had told him, Smith felt a rant work its way out of his chest, but he trapped it behind his teeth just in time. What was so interesting about that Scriptor chit anyway? She was plain, washed-out almost. Sickly and pregnant with another man's child. And yet that woman was a huge threat to his and Hickey's relationship. It was close to being unbearable.
Hickey, if he noted Smith's discomfort, didn't say a word. Cecilia needed a friend right now, and that was all that was to it. As far as he was concerned Smith was still number one in his life. Hickey wouldn't have stayed with him for fourteen years if he hadn't loved him. Surely, Smith did understand that, didn't he?
And so the wegde of silence pushed them apart, as neither of them wanted to ask the other what was wrong.
"Patrick", Cecilia said, one day in the beginning of july, "when we first met, back in Rydkyrka,
you used to work at the Fish Church, and now you work as a translator for this big car builder.
How did that happen?"
"I was lucky", Hickey said with a smile.
"Don't tease me. I'm a woman with a mysterious illness. I'm allowed to hear a story without
having to drag it out of you."
"I know, I know. But you do look healty to-day. Are you sure you have a 'mysterious illness'?"
Hickey said and lifted both eyebrows.
"The doctors look very puzzled when they come to poke and prod at me", Cecilia groused. "My
so-called problem is doing just fine, but then there's this other thing that makes grown men
cry like two-year-olds in frustration. They see that something is wrong. They can measure it.
They keep changing my diet to see if thing gets better or worse. I keep getting new medications,
and I'm just lucky I haven't been poisoned yet by all those different pills I have to eat
morning, noon and evening!"
Cecilia pounded on the quilt with her fist as she practcally shouted the last words. A
concerned nurse looked in through the door. Hickey smiled and shook his head, to indicate that
he didn't need any help.
"Allright, allright", said Hickey and held out his hands placatingly. "Then I'll tell you! But
it is a very short story."
"It started with the letters that I wrote to Henrik during the war", said Hickey. "He needed
to practise both reading and writing English, and many times I returned his letter, where I had
corriged his grammar and syntax, together with my reply to it. One of his comrades, who was
the son of an engineer at the car factory, saw the letters, and after the war, when the facory
needed a translator, he remembered me. He asked Henrik, who told him my name, and then his
father contacted me and I was hired on the spot."
"You were right. You were lucky. And it was short."
Then she thought for a while, rubbing her growing belly. "But how did you get the letters past
the censors?"
"It was easy. Henrik simply wrote, in Swedish, at the beginning of every letter that it was an
excercise in English. He also wrote that the censors were wellcome to translate the letters to
make sure that neither he nor I were spies."
Cecilia laughed.
Hickey smiled, happy to hear her laugh. "Smith laughed too, when I told him about it", said he.
Then he thought of Smith, and realized with a heavy heart that it had been months since they
last shared a laugh. In fact they never spoke these days, not even a 'good morning' or a 'good
night - good dreams'.
Cecilia saw the sudden change in his face, and asked if he was feeling well.
"It's allright", Hickey repiled, "nothing important."
But on his way home, he wondered what he could do to save his and Smith's relationship. The silence had gone on for too long, and he didn't know what he had done wrong. He hadn't changed. But Smith had.
That night, Hickey laid alone in his bed and felt the empty spot beside him. Across the room
Smith slept in his own bed. Hickey wanted to cross the floor, and creep down under the thin
sheets and sleep beside him. But the floor, illuminated by the new moon, was so wide and as
thin as night-old ice in his mind that he stayed in his bed.
"You know that I love you, don't you?" he whispered across the chasm.
There was no answer.
The next time Hickey visited, a lovely saturday, Cecilia looked very pensive.
"Patrick", she said whan he had sat down in his usual chair by her bed, "I have gotten a letter
from my father. He, too, thinks I should get married. He even went so far as to call the
count, and suggest that they put out an advertisment in a newpaper for a husband."
Hickey, who knew about the tense relationship beween the count and his nephew, nodded and asked
her to go on.
"I wrote back", Cecilia continued, "and said that I believed that I had found a husband."
"Really?" said Hickey, "who?".
"You, if you'll have me."
Hickey blinked, unsure if he had heard right.
"I figure" Cecilia said, "that a man that come to visit me, even when I'm sick, puking my guts
out, and read the news to me, ought to be feeling something for me."
"But. But. But I'm already involved. With someone. He'll...", Hickey stuttered.
"Who? 'He'. Who's 'he'?"
"S-Smith..."
"Oh..."
They were silent for a long moment as Cecilia digested this.
"Well", she said, "If the baby is born alive, and live the first month, can you then do me a
favour and marry me and adopt the baby as your own child?"
Hickey nodded, not knowing what to say. He wished he could discuss this with Smith, but it might
just make things worse between them, and he wanted to avoid that.
The days passed, and Hickey became more and more grateful that he had a job to go to, because staying at home meant being in that awful silence. In august he began to take work home with him; a letter to a retailer in the U.S. that was to be sent the next day, or a report on the sales in South Africa, to be read by the C.E.O, who couldn't read English.
Smith saw the work Hickey brought home, and felt that he had to comment, but he found that he didn't know what to say. 'Strange', he thought, 'I had no problem writing to him during the war. But a few months of silence makes us strangers to each other.'
And so, one evening late in august, Smith had become fed up with the silence between them. He was sitting in an old beer hall near the King's Gate Place, nursing a beer. He felt reluctant to go home before bed-time. The beer hall reminded him of an old english pub, with brown wood panels, and a tiled floor. A muscular man was pouring up beer for the clients, and next to the bar, at the corner table, sat the regulars.
Among them, Smith was surprised to see, two young ladies. One of them had flaming red hair, and was holding an impromptu lecture on the tax law. The other, who looked mousy with blonde hair and glasses was nodding, looking as if she understood everything the first one said. Smith assumed that they studied law at the university. He quickly lost his interest in them, when it was clear that they were not going to talk of anything more interesting than the latest taxes.
He turned away from them and listened for other, more interesting things. At a table near him, two men was discussing their marriages. He decided to eavesdrop on their conversation. Maybe it would be useful in one of his stories.
Smith listened discreetly as the two men at the next table discussed their respective matrimonial difficulties.
"She's awfully grumpy these days, missus is" said one of the men.
"Is she? I'd thought you two had a good time. She's all smiles and sugar when I see her with
you", said the other man.
"It's come suddenly. One morning she's smiling and the same evening she's all angles and
spikes when I tried a good-night kiss n'hug."
"And she didn't tell you what's wrong?"
"No, nothing. It's like I oughta know, but I don't, you know."
"You didn't ask, right?"
"No. I figure, like, if something's the matter, she'll tell me, like."
"Only she didn't."
"No."
"My wife was in a funk like that for a while, until I figured out I'd forgotten her birthday."
"No, nothing like that."
"No?"
"No. Only... Hang on! She and I've been married for twenty-five years!"
"Really."
"Really. And she had made a dinner, with sea-man's casserole, my favorite, and a cake for
dessert!"
"Oh."
"And she was all spikes that evening, though she'd been so happy all day."
"Ah."
"I'm a moron!"
"M-hm."
"Are there any flower-shops still open?"
"It's late, but maybe in the park there's like a few flowers to be picked?"
"Help me?"
"Sure."
The two men left.
Smith went over the conversation he'd just heard. It was a rather amusing dialogue, with phrases typical of the Gothenburg dialect. And to top it off, it was the low-class version, which was rather creative, with lots of puns. Though the men he'd listened to had not used puns. He began to translate it into Englisn in his mind, searching his memory for the best words.
The wife had been silent, Smith thought, because her feelings had been hurt. The man didn't know what he had done wrong until someone helped him figure it out. And all the wife had had to to was to tell her husband what was wrong. Smith shook his head at how dense some people could be. All this grief just because they didn't talk with each other.
Then something tugged at his insides, an awful feeling that he'd forgotten something. That wife was not the only one who chose not to speak to her man. Hadn't he himself done that to Hickey? Yes, he had. The realization felt like a punch to his gut.
He rose from his table and left the beer hall. Outside it was still light, despite the late hour. He walked quickly along the old moat, crossed the brigde and walked down the avenue on the other side. Then he crossed the Iron Square and ran down his home street to the hotel.
He entered the hotel, not sparing a glance for the people gathered in the dining room. If they said anything to him, he didn't hear it. He walked up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Then he was outside Hickey's and his room. He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, and trying to figure out what to say, now when he'd finally decided to break the silence between them.
He put the key in the lock and turned. He had unlocked this door so many times, and had never noticed that little 'klick-klick', that came mid-turn of the key, until then. And then the 'thump' at the end of the turn. He pushed down the door handle, opened the door and entered.
For a moment Smith feared that the room was empty, that Hickey had left, or perhaps had not come home. Then he heard the rustling of paper, and the scraping noise of ink pen running over paper. He entered the room, and didn't care that the floor boards were creaking, or that the door closed behind him with a loud bang.
Hickey sat at the table by the window, flipping through the pages of his English-Swedish dictionary. Then he wrote something on a sheet of paper, before returning to the dictionary. Smith was familiar with this as he had now seen Hickey work away so many evenings. Evenings they would have spent together, if his jelaousy hadn't come between them.
"Hickey", Smith said, "Your company's doning well, I see."
Hickey turned around. "Yes", he said and smiled. Smith felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't made
Hickey smile for so long.
"I miss you", said Smith.
Hickey rose and embraced his lover.
"I've missed you too", he said.
The summer ended, as the children of Gothenburg returned to school after the summer holidays. Soon the weather would get colder and the leaves turn color, but right now there were a few glorious autumn days to enjoy. In the Castle Forest park and the Garden park people were having picnics as they caught the last rays of the summer sun.
Too soon there would be dark, rainy days ahead, so it was best to enjoy the sun while it was still there.
One such day Smith and Hickey were sitting on a boulder by the banks of the river. They'd decided to make an outing to the Red Rock after their jobs had ended for the day. Now they they were sitting, soaking up the sun, while they ate their sandwiches.
"It's strange to think that the city is just a quarter of an hour away by streetcar. Here's
so quiet and peaceful", said Smith and sighed contently.
"Yes, it is", Hickey said.
A few meters away a couple of men were fishing, and seagulls were circling something further away, in the water. The sun sparkled so brightly on the water that Hickey had to squint when he looked out at the sea.
This was the perfect setting for a catastrophe, Hickey thought. He cleared his throat.
"John", he said.
Smith turned to look at him. "Yes?"
Hickey drew a deep breath, causing a tiny bread crumb to get into the windpipe, and began
to cough. Smith dunked him gently in the back, while he coughed up the crumb. When he had
finished coughing, he drew a new deep breath.
"Cecilia has asked me to marry her!"
Smith blinked, his hand still on Hickey's back.
"What?"
Hickey nodded. "Cecilia has asked me to marry her, and to adopt the child she's carrying."
Smith sat in silence for a long moment, during which Hickey had plenty of time to get nervous.
"Have- Have you said yes?" Smith asked.
"I haven't said anything, but the baby's due in november, and she wants an answer."
Smith was silent again, trying to find the right words to say.
"And what will your answer be?" he asked eventually.
"That depends on you", said Hickey.
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Cecilia is ill, and there's a risk that she might not survive through the delivery. And then
there's the risk that the baby might die. She didn't want to marry me until the baby is a month
old."
"Go on."
"If she lives and the baby dies, she does not want to be married, as she can look after herself.
But if she dies and the baby lives, she needs a father for the baby. Otherwise the poor tyke
has no chance of surviving in this society. And the same goes if both she and the baby lives."
"There are orphanages", Smith blurted, but as soon as the words had been said, he wished he
could take them back.
Hickey's eyes lit with a rage that Smith had only seen once before, in Jericho.
"I would never condemn an innocent child to that! Never!" Hickey whispered furiously.
Smith looked around. No-one was listening. The fishers had left. Only the sea-gulls were there to hear anything. And they were more interested in picking at the fish guts left behind by the fishers. Beside him Hickey was taking deep breaths to calm himself down.
"No matter what I say, I think you have already made up your mind, haven't you?" Smith said.
"Yes, I have, but I wanted you by my side. If Cecilia dies, I'll be alone with the baby, and
I need someone by my side. I want someone by my side. And I'd rather that it was you."
"let me sleep on it", Smith said.
Hickey nodded.
Together they picked up what was left of their picnic, and walked up to the streetcar stop.
Smith lay in his bed. Behind him he heard Hickey snore softly. He was still dwelling on what Hickey had told him earlier that day. 'So Hickey wants to become a father. No, is prepared to become a father to a child that's not even his.'
Smith shook his head. Why Hickey? He turned his eyes to the ceiling and repeated the question in his mind. Then he sunk slowly into the deep dark waters of sleep.
Smith dreamed he was in a kitchen, a sunny kitchen with bright walls. He was sitting at the
kitchen table, reading the morning papers. He heard a giggle and lowered the paper. A red-
haired child was sitting at the other side of the table. Somehow he knew this was a girl.
The little girl was eating her breakfast porridge with milk and jam. Then he heard a voice
from behind him. It was Hickey.
"Don't play with your food, sweetie. You'll get your clothes stained, and it was that shirt
you wanted to wear to little Lennart's birthday party, remember?" Hickey said to the girl.
"Aw, Daddy! I'm not spilling anything at all, see?" The girl gestured with her spoon, and
a huge dollop of porridge and jam spilled from the spoon onto her shirt.
"Oops!"
Hickey laughed and fetched a napkin to wipe off the stain before it dried.
"Can we wash it quick-quick?" The girl pleaded.
"Of course we can", Hickey answered and began to fiddle with something over at the gas stove.
Smith woke up. What a strange dream. It was like the one he'd had in Mexico so long ago. But that showed the past, and this showed the future, or at least one possible future. The dream had been a quietly happy one, without the horrors of the past. And rather convenient too.
Those dreams always came when he had pondered something over and over. Were they actually pictures from the future and the past, or were they made by his own imagination? He was certain he didn't have supernatural gifts, except for being able to see ghosts. Perhaps he could add prophetic dreamer to the that short list. But why then did he never dream of important things, like the bomb over Hiroshima, or the attack on Pearl Harbor?
Perhaps it was because he wasn't interested in the greater world politics, but in the politics of his own little world, which was limited by the boundaries of Gothenburg and the circle of his and Hickey's friends.
Then his thoughts returned to the dream. Was this a future he'd like to see? A future with a family, and a home of their own? He took a deep breath. Then he breathed out. What did his stomach feel like when he thought of this dream? Not bad. A little tingle of curiosity, and a little nervous, but no fear nor dread.
He nodded to himself and fell asleep.
"Smith has approved. I have his permission to marry you", Hickey said to Cecilia.
"Good", Cecilia answered with a brilliant smile.
" I shall say 'yes' properly when the baby is a month old, just as we agreed."
"That's alright."
The next months passed in a hectic flurry when Smith's and Hickey's friends, and the Scriptor family, had been informed of the pending marriage. Aunt Hedvig began asking her connections if there were an apartment available. There was a great shortage of apartments after the World War II, and the fastest way of getting hold of one was through contacts.
Countess Scriptor, on the other hand, began searching through old storage-rooms and wardrobes after baby clothes and furniture for the apartment. Count Scriptor was insisting on paying for the wedding and the party afterwards. He was also lobbying for having Reverend Utstrand to perform the ceremony.
Smith had realized exactly what it was he had given his blessings to, when he saw Hickey packing
tiny baby clothes in a suitcase. Hickey held a pair of baby socks in his hands. He turned around
to show them to Smith.
"Babies are so small", he said, looking bewildered.
Smith didn't know what to say, and picked up another item, a tiny baby cap made from finest lace.
He swallowed as he realized that a real baby was going to wear this tiny thing. Someone small
and tiny, innocent and defenseless, who would rely on them for protection and guidance, food
and clothes.
"It's real", he said, "it's going to happen."
Hickey nodded.
The phone in the common room at Anderssons Hotell rang in the evening of the 29th of november.
Aunt Hedvig answered it, as usual. Then she sent for Hickey who was in his room.
"It's from the hospital. Your fiancée has gone into labor. They wonder if you can come now."
"But I'm not supposed to be there now."
"Well, this is a critical case, so they want the baby's father to be there, to name the child,
in case of emergency christening."
"Oh!"
And then Hickey tore his coat from the hook by the front door and ran.
Smith came down from their room a few minutes later.
"The baby?" he asked aunt Hedvig.
"Yes."
"I'll go to the hospital in the morning. I'll better have some coffee and breakfast with me."
Then he phoned the Scriptors and told them the latest news. After that he went to
Kristian's and Henrik's rooms and informed them. Then he told Lotta.
Hickey sat in the waiting room, together with other fathers-to-be, waiting for the nurse to come and tell how it had gone. So far no news, but one father had been presented with his latest offspring. The air was thick with smoke from cigarettes and the smell of nervous sweating. A couple of experienced fathers took a nap in their chairs, while one was pacing back and forth on the floor. One was sitting and reading the newspaper upside-down. Hickey wondered if the man could read upside down or if he was just *that* nervous.
An experienced father began talking with Hickey and told him that it was his fourth child.
"The first three are home-born, but this one's been difficult. Missus isn't that young or strong
anymore so I figure I want her someplace safe. I don't want to be a widower so soon, and my kids
need their momma."
"My fiancée has been very sick. She's been here almost the whole time. I hope she survives."
"She'll do fine," said the other man. "Don't you worry."
The clock had struck five in the morning when the nurse came out, asking for Mr. Patrick Hickey.
"That's me", Hickey said and rose from his seat.
"Congratulations. You have a fine little daughter."
Sophia Scriptor was born on St Anders' day, the 30th of november.
TO BE CONTINUED