The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

could no longer assume anything. It was like starting over from scratch. He ended up getting a divorce, quitting his job, and moving into his own flat. He started a whole new life. How much of his wife lingered in the walls of that house? How much of their shared life existed only in their home, in the possessions they’d acquired and the routines they had become accustomed to? The thought terrified Knutas. He tried to reassure himself that things were different with him and Lina. Very different. On the other hand, who was to say that his friend had been happier back then than he was now? Maybe life demanded change once in a while. Required a person to shake things up, let in fresh air. Open the door to something else, something more enriching.
    Knutas glanced at the clock on the wall. Five thirty. He’d been swimming for half an hour, but he wasn’t tired at all. He decided to keep going for another fifteen minutes. Rain was pouring down outside the big windows of the swimming hall. That never-ending rain.
    Sometimes he wondered whether he was going through a mid-life crisis. Nothing seemed to give him real joy any more. Now summer had arrived, and later he would go on holiday. He was supposed to have the entire month of August off, and he was planning a two-week trip to Italy withhis family. Knutas had never been to Italy. But he was having trouble mustering his usual enthusiasm. He seemed overcome with apathy. That was also the accusation that Lina had flung at him when they argued the night before.
    ‘You don’t react to anything any more,’ she’d told him. ‘You have no opinions, there’s nothing you want, you just don’t care. As far as you’re concerned, the world can go ahead and fall apart and all you’ll do is shrug. Your indifference is driving me crazy!’ And, as usual, she’d shouted and waved her arms about. Lina was so temperamental. She’d always been like that, with that flaming red hair of hers, and her pale complexion that flushed crimson whenever she got angry. In the past he had always admired her fiery temper.
    Nowadays it merely made him tired.

AT FIRST GLANCE the inn looked like an ordinary house. A small sign with the name ‘Slow Train’ painted on a piece of driftwood appeared right next to the turn-off. They just managed to see it in time, or they would have driven past. The name made Andrea think of an old tune by Bob Dylan, ‘Slow Train’, and the minute she got out of the car, she sensed a nostalgic air about the place.
    The rain in Visby hadn’t yet reached here. The clouds looked threatening, but so far no rain. Several horses were grazing in a pasture, a man in a straw hat was pottering about in the garden filled with flowers, and a slender woman wearing a long white skirt was taking in the laundry hanging on a line between the apple trees. From an open window in the large stone house came the scent of freshly baked bread. The woman stopped what she was doing and came to greet them.
    ‘Hi. Welcome.’
    Her gentle voice clearly revealed a French accent. She had a small, pale face with classic features, and she gave them a friendly smile. Then she ushered them into the house, which reinforced the feeling of a bygone era. They first went through a glass veranda with comfortable sofas along both sides. The window ledges were covered with all sorts of odds and ends: ceramic figurines, scented candles, baskets filled with flowers, and lamps in various colours and sizes.
    A dark wooden table in the entrance hall served as the check-in desk. On the table stood a brass Strindberg lamp, an old inkwell with fountain pen, and a glass vase with a single rose.
    ‘We call it the Bergman rose,’ the Frenchwoman told them. ‘It comes from the same rosebush that was planted on his grave.’
    Andrea gave a start, not sure whether she thought the rose added to the pleasant atmosphere or not.
    The woman gave them the keys to their rooms. Andrea and Sam had been assigned a room upstairs in the main building, while the others were given rooms in the surrounding buildings. They agreed to meet for a drink before the opening ceremonies of the Bergman festival, which would be held in the Fårö church.
    ‘What a … picturesque room,’ exclaimed Andrea after they huffed and puffed their way up the narrow staircase and opened the door to what was called the ‘bridal suite’. She paused in the doorway and looked around in confusion. ‘No toilet?’
    The room held a double bed with a