The Blood Spilt Page 13

  They glanced through the letters. Most were from parishioners with problems. There were divorces and bereavements, infidelity, worries about the children.

  Anna-Maria held up one letter.

  “This is just impossible,” she said. “Look, you just can’t read it, it looks like a tangled telephone wire sprawling across the pages.”

  “Give it here,” said Fred Olsson, stretching out his hand.

  First of all he held the letter so close to his face that it was touching his nose. Then he moved it slowly away until in the end he was reading it with his arm stretched right out.

  “It’s a question of technique,” he said as he alternated between screwing his eyes up and opening them very wide. “First of all you recognize the little words, ‘and,’ ‘I,’ ‘so,’ then you can move on from them. I’ll look at it in a minute.”

  He put the letter down and went back to the one he’d been reading before. He enjoyed this kind of work. Searching databases, getting hits, linking registers, looking for people with no fixed abode. “The truth is out there,” he always said as he logged on. He had a lot of good informers in his address book and a wide network of social contacts, people who knew about this and that.

  “This one’s not very happy,” he said after a while, holding up a letter.

  It was written on pale pink paper; there were galloping horses with flying manes up in the right-hand corner.

  “ ‘Your time will soon be UP, Mildred,’ ” he read. “ ‘Soon the truth about you will be revealed to EVERYONE. You preach LIES and are living a LIE. MANY of us are tired of your LIES…’ blah, blah, blah…”

  “Put it in a plastic pocket,” said Anna-Maria. “We’ll send anything interesting to the lab. Shit!”

  “Look!” she said. “Look at this!”

  She unfolded a sheet of paper and held it up to her colleagues.

  It was a drawing. The picture showed a woman with long hair, hanging from a noose. The person who had done the drawing was talented. Not a professional, but a skillful amateur, that much was obvious to Anna-Maria. Tongues of fire curled around the dangling body, and a black cross stood on top of a grave mound in the background.

  “What does it say down at the bottom?” asked Sven-Erik.

  Anna-Maria read out loud:

  “ ‘SOON MILDRED.’ ”

  “That’s…” began Fred Olsson.

  “I’ll send it to the lab in Linköping right away!” Anna-Maria went on. “If there are prints…We must ring them and tell them this has to have priority.”

  “You go,” said Sven-Erik. “Fred and I will go through the rest.”

  Anna-Maria put the letter and the envelope in separate plastic pockets. Then she dashed out of the room.

  Fred Olsson bent dutifully over the pile of letters again.

  “This is nice,” he said. “It says here she’s an ugly man-hating hysteric who needs to be bloody careful because ‘we’ve had enough of you, you fucking slag, be careful when you go out at night, look behind you, your grandkids won’t recognize you.’ She didn’t have any children, did she? How could she have grandchildren, then?”

  Sven-Erik was still staring at the door Anna-Maria had disappeared through. All summer. These letters had been lying in the locker all summer, while he and his colleagues fumbled around in the dark.

  “All I want to know,” he said without looking at Fred Olsson, “is how the hell those priests could not tell me Mildred Nilsson had a private locker in the parish office!”

  Fred Olsson didn’t reply.

  “I’ve got a good mind to give them a good shaking and ask what the hell they’re playing at,” he went on. “Ask them what they think we’re doing here!”

  “But Anna-Maria’s promised Rebecka Martinsson…”

  “But I haven’t promised anything,” barked Sven-Erik, slamming the flat of his hand down onto the table so hard it jumped.

  He got up and made a hopeless gesture with his hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to run away and do anything stupid. I just need to, I don’t know, sort myself out for a bit.”

  With these words he left the room. The door slammed behind him.

  Fred Olsson went back to the letters. It was all for the best, really. He liked working alone.

  Bertil Stensson and Stefan Wikström were standing in the little room inside the parish office looking into Mildred Nilsson’s locker. Rebecka Martinsson had handed in the key to the house in Poikkijärvi and the key to the locker.

  “Just calm down,” said Bertil Stensson. “Think about…”

  He ended the sentence with a nod in the direction of the office where the clerks were sitting.

  Stefan Wikström glanced at his boss. The parish priest’s mouth contracted into a thoughtful expression. Smoothed itself out, contracted again. Like a little hamster mouth. The short, stocky body in a beautifully ironed pink shirt from the Shirt Factory. A bold color, it was the priest’s daughter who kitted him out. Went well with the tanned face and the silvery, boyish haircut.

  “Where are the letters?” said Stefan Wikström.

  “Maybe she burned them,” said the priest.

  Stefan Wikström’s voice went up an octave.

  “She told me she’d kept them. What if somebody in Magdalena’s got them? What am I going to say to my wife?”

  “Maybe nothing,” said Bertil Stensson calmly. “I need to get in touch with her husband. To give him her jewelry.”

  They stood in silence.

  Stefan Wikström gazed at the locker without speaking. He had thought this would be a moment of liberation. That he would hold the letters in his hand and be free of Mildred for good. But now. Her grip on the back of his neck was as tight as ever.

  What is it you want of me, Lord? he thought. It is written that you do not test us beyond our capability, but now you have driven me to the limit of what I can cope with.

  He felt trapped. Trapped by Mildred, by his job, by his wife, by his vocation, just giving and giving without ever getting anything back. And after Mildred’s death he had felt trapped by his boss Bertil Stensson.

  Before, Stefan had enjoyed the father-son relationship that had grown between them. But now he recognized the price that would have to be paid. He was under Bertil’s thumb. He could see what Bertil said about him behind his back from the way the women in the office looked at him. They put their heads on one side, and there was just a hint of pity in their eyes. He could almost hear Bertil: “Things aren’t easy for Stefan. He’s more sensitive than you’d think.” More sensitive as in weak. The fact that the parish priest had taken some of his services hadn’t gone unnoticed. Everyone had been informed, apparently by chance. He felt diminished and exploited.

  I could disappear, he thought. God takes care of the sparrow.

  Mildred. Back in June she was gone. All of a sudden. But now she was back. Magdalena, the women’s group, had got back on its feet. They were vociferously demanding more women priests in the parish. And it was as if Bertil had already forgotten what she was really like. When he spoke about her nowadays, there was warmth in his voice. She had a big heart, he sighed. She had a greater talent as a pastor than I myself, he maintained generously. That implied that she had a greater talent as a pastor than Stefan, since Bertil was a better pastor than Stefan.

  At least I’m not a liar, thought Stefan angrily. She was an aggressive troublemaker who drew damaged women to her and gave them fire instead of balm. Death couldn’t change that fact.

  It was a disturbing thought, that Mildred had set damaged people on fire. Many might say she’d set him on fire too.

  But I’m not damaged, he thought. That wasn’t why.

  He stared into the locker. Thought about autumn 1997.

  * * *

  Bertil Stensson has called Stefan Wikström and Mildred Nilsson to a meeting. Mikael Berg, the rural dean, is with him in his capacity as the person responsible for personnel issues. Mikael Berg sits bolt upright on his
chair. He’s in his fifties. The trousers he’s wearing are ten to fifteen years old. And at that time Mikael was ten to fifteen kilos heavier. His thin hair is plastered to his skull. From time to time he takes a deep breath. His hand shoots up, doesn’t know where to go, smooths his hair down, drops back to his knee.

  Stefan is sitting opposite him. Thinking he’ll remain calm. During the whole conversation ahead of him, he’ll remain calm. The others can raise their voices, but he’s not like that.

  They’re waiting for Mildred. She’s coming straight from a service in a school and has let them know that she’ll probably be a few minutes late.

  Bertil Stensson is looking out of the window. A deep furrow between his eyebrows.

  Mildred arrives. Walks in through the door at the same time as she knocks. Red cheeks. Her hair slightly frizzy from the damp autumn air outside.

  She chucks her jacket onto a chair, pours herself a coffee from the flask.

  Bertil Stensson explains why they’re there. The community is being split in two, he says. A Mildred-section and, he doesn’t say a Stefan-section, and the rest.

  “I’m delighted with the sense of involvement you spread around you,” he says to Mildred. “But this is an insupportable situation for me. It’s beginning to resemble a war between the feminist priest and the priest who hates women.”

  Stefan nearly leaps out of his seat.

  “I most certainly don’t hate women,” he says, upset.

  “No, but that’s the way it looks,” says Bertil Stensson, pushing Monday’s newspaper across the table.

  Nobody needs to look at it. Everybody has read the article. “Woman Priest Answers Her Critics,” says the headline. The article quotes Mildred’s sermon from the previous week. She said that the stole was in fact a Roman female garment. That it’s been worn since the fourth century, when liturgical costume was first worn. “What priests are wearing today is actually women’s clothes, according to Mildred Nilsson,” says the article. “I can still accept male priests, after all it says in the Bible: there is neither female nor male, neither Jew nor Greek.”

  Stefan Wikström has also had the opportunity to express his views in the article. “Stefan Wikström maintains that he doesn’t see the sermon as a personal attack. He loves women, he just doesn’t want to see them in the pulpit.”

  Stefan’s heart is heavy. He feels he’s been tricked. True, that is what he said, but it’s come out completely wrong in that context. The journalist asked him:

  “You love your brothers. What about women? Do you hate women?”

  And he’d naïvely answered absolutely not. He loved women.

  “But you don’t want to see them in the pulpit.”

  No, he’d replied. Broadly speaking that was true. But there was no value judgment in that, he’d added. In his eyes the work of the deaconess was every bit as important as that of the priest.

  The parish priest is saying that he doesn’t want to hear any more comments like this from Mildred.

  “And what about Stefan’s comments?” she says calmly. “He and his family don’t come to church when I’m preaching. We can’t hold a joint confirmation, because he refuses to work with me.”

  “I can’t go against what it says in the Bible,” says Stefan.

  Mildred makes an impatient movement with her head. Bertil clothes himself in patience. They’ve heard this before, Stefan realizes, but what can he do, it’s still true.

  “Jesus chose twelve men as his disciples,” Stefan persists. “The chief priest was always a man. How far can we move away from the word of the Bible in our attempt to fit in with the values prevalent in modern society before it stops being Christianity at all?”

  “All the disciples and the chief priests were Jews as well,” replies Mildred. “How do you get round that? And read the epistle to the Hebrews, Jesus is our chief priest today.”

  Bertil holds up his hands in a gesture that means he doesn’t want to get involved in a discussion they’ve had several times before.

  “I respect you both,” he says. “And I’ve agreed not to place a woman in your district, Stefan. I want to stress once again that you’re placing both me and the church in an extremely difficult position. You’re shifting the focus to a conflict. And I want to ask you both not to get involved in polemics, above all not from the pulpit.”

  He changes the expression on his face. From stern to forgiving. He almost winks at Mildred, as if they share a secret understanding.

  “I’m sure we can make an effort to concentrate on our common goals. I don’t want to have to hear words like male power and the power balance between the sexes being bandied about in church. You have to believe Stefan, Mildred. It isn’t a value judgment if he doesn’t come to church when you’re preaching.”

  Mildred’s expression doesn’t alter at all. She stares Stefan straight in the eye.

  “It’s what the Bible says,” he maintains, staring right back at her. “I can’t find a way around that.”

  “Men hit women,” she says, takes a deep breath and carries on. “Men belittle women, dominate them, persecute them, kill them. Or they cut off their genitals, kill them when they’re newborn babies, force them to hide behind a veil, lock them up, rape them, prevent them from educating themselves, pay them lower wages and give them less opportunity to take power. Deny them the right to become priests. I can’t find a way around that.”

  There is complete silence for about three seconds.

  “Now, Mildred,” ventures Bertil.

  “She’s sick in the head,” yells Stefan. “Are you calling me…Are you comparing me with men who abuse women? This isn’t a discussion, it’s slander, and I don’t know…”

  “What?” she says.

  And now they’re both on their feet, somewhere in the background they can hear Bertil Stensson and Mikael Berg: calm down, sit down.

  “What part of that was slander?”

  “There’s no room to maneuver,” says Stefan, turning to Bertil. “There’s no common ground. I don’t have to put up with…it’s impossible for us to work together, you can see that for yourself.”

  “You never could work with me,” he hears Mildred saying behind his back as he storms out of the room.

  * * *

  Bertil Stensson stood in silence in front of the locker. He knew his young colleague was waiting for him to say something reassuring. But what could he say?

  Of course she hadn’t burned the letters, or thrown them away. If only he’d known about them. He felt very annoyed with Stefan because he hadn’t said anything about them.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.

  Stefan Wikström looked at his hands. The vow of confidentiality could be a heavy cross to bear.

  “No,” he said.

  To his amazement, Bertil Stensson discovered that he missed her. He had been distressed and shocked when she was murdered. But he hadn’t thought he’d miss her. He was probably being unfair. But what had seemed good about Stefan before, his helpfulness and his…oh, it was a ridiculous word, his admiration for his boss. Now Mildred was gone, it all seemed somehow coquettish and irritating. They had balanced each other out, his little ones. That’s how he’d often thought of them. Although Stefan was over forty and Mildred over fifty. Perhaps because they were both the children of parish priests.

  She’d certainly known how to annoy a person. Sometimes in the smallest ways.

  The Epiphany dinner, for example. Looking back now, he felt that it was petty of him to have got so annoyed. But then he hadn’t known that it would be Mildred’s last.

  * * *

  Stefan and Bertil are staring at Mildred’s advance down the table in front of them as if they are under a spell. The church is holding its Epiphany dinner, a tradition that’s been established for a few years now. Stefan and Bertil are sitting next to one another opposite Mildred. The staff are clearing away the main course and Mildred is mobilizing her troops.

  She started by re
cruiting soldiers for her little army. Grabbed the salt cellar in one hand and the pepper mill in the other. Brought them together, then took them for a bit of a march around while she followed the conversation, apparently lost in thought; it was probably about how busy things had been over Christmas, but now at least it was over, and maybe about the latest winter cold that was doing the rounds, that sort of thing. She was pushing down the edges of the candle too. Even at that stage Bertil could see how Stefan was almost having to hold on to the edge of the table to stop himself snatching the candle off her and shouting stop fiddling with everything!

  Her wineglass still stood by her side like the queen on a chess-board, waiting for her turn.

  When Mildred starts talking about the wolf that was in the papers over Christmas, she distractedly pushes the salt and pepper over to Bertil and Stefan’s side of the table. The wineglass is on the move as well. Mildred says the wolf has made its way across the Russian and Finnish borders, and the glass makes great sweeps across the table, as far as her arm can reach, crossing all possible borders.

  She keeps talking, her cheeks rosy from the wine, constantly moving the objects on the table. Stefan and Bertil feel crowded and strangely disturbed by her advance across the tablecloth.

  Keep to your own side, they want to shout.

  She tells them she’s been thinking. She’s been thinking they ought to set up a foundation within the church to protect the wolf. The church owns the land, after all, it’s part of the church’s responsibility, she thinks.

  Bertil has been somewhat affected by the one woman game of chess on the tablecloth, and comes back at her.

  “In my opinion the church should devote itself to its main task, working within the community, and not to forestry. Purely as a matter of principle, I mean. We shouldn’t even own any forest. We should leave the administration of capital to others.”