The Double Silence (Andas Knutas 7)

they could treat themselves to a holiday without them for a few days once a year. But it wasn’t supposed to be just an ordinary trip. It had to include some sort of activity, something original. And they couldn’t be away very long, since they had to find someone to take care of the children. Just a few days.
    They had gone horse riding in Iceland and river rafting near Jukkasjärvi in northern Sweden. They had bicycled through the vineyard areas of Provence and gone mountain climbing on the North Cape. This year they had decided on a simpler holiday.
    First they would attend the annual Bergman festival week on the island of Fårö, then continue on to Stora Karlsö to see the thousands of young guillemots that, at this time of year, glided down from the steep limestone cliffs to set off for their winter habitat in the southern Baltic Sea. The phenomenon was a famous event.
    Stina got up with a sigh. Outside the window she caught sight of Andrea walking past, dressed in shorts and a top that fitted snugly to her tall, toned body.
    She was walking at a frenetically brisk pace, looking unabashedly alert and energetic. Sometimes Andrea’s efficiency wore Stina out, and she didn’t feel like going along. She had declined Andrea’s invitation when she had phoned earlier. Stina had clearly heard the disappointment in her friend’s voice, but she couldn’t help the fact that she didn’t want to go. Things weren’t the same as before.
    Nowadays she mostly went running by herself. When she was alone in the woods her thoughts had free rein, often wandering to the other side of the world. Stina had been adopted from Vietnam, and for as long as she could remember, she had yearned to rediscover her roots. Fragmentary images danced in her mind. The smells of Hanoi’s slums still clung to her nostrils. She had memories of her grandmother’s sinewy hands washing dishes in the sink, of her own feet touching the stone floor, of the privy out in the yard. Just after Stina turned five she had been left on the steps of the orphanage with a note hanging from a string around her neck and a toy rabbit in her arms. When she was six, an unimaginably big couple had come and taken her away from there. She had no memory of her biological mother, or her father. But her grandmother’s face still appeared to her in the night. A wrinkled, toothless old lady with tiny black streaks for eyes, and rough but warm hands. She missed those comforting hands. She had longed for them all her life. For her, they were home, although they undoubtedly no longer existed. Stina was now thirty-seven, and back when she was five, her grandmother had already been old. Not that she had any plans to try to find her. As a teenager Stina had attempted to get in touch with the orphanage, but it had been shut down years before. She had tried to get help from the embassy, but that proved difficult. There was no information about her. All she had was the address where the orphanage had once been located. And her adoptive parents had convinced her that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go there. She wouldn’t find what she was looking for. Sorrow and a nostalgia for her origins and her grandmother’s hands had settled like a dark weight inside of her, casting a shadow over her life.
    She tried to gloss over it, to think about how fortunate she had been. She could have easily died of starvation on the streets or been sold to oneof Hanoi’s many brothels. Instead, she had enjoyed a secure and sheltered life and never lacked for anything.
    Her adoptive parents were calm and nice, although slightly reserved in a way she had never been able to understand. They always kept a certain distance; it felt as if deep in their hearts they regarded her as a stranger, no matter how much they tried to show that they loved her, that she was their very own daughter. Really and truly. They treated her well and with respect, but their good-night hugs had seemed more obligatory than heartfelt. Her adoptive mother frequently said that she loved Stina, but there was no warmth in her voice. Her maternal solicitude was marked by an uncertainty that Stina was aware of throughout her childhood. Sometimes she would catch her mother surreptitiously studying her. On those occasions, the look in her eyes was surprised, almost frightened, with even a trace of aversion. That look told Stina more than all the years filled with assurances of love, the splendid birthday presents, and generous pocket