Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 13: Summer Nights

She was to arrive at Heathrow Airport at three-fifteen in the afternoon on the 28th of June. All arranged. Cecil was nothing if not efficient. The plane landed on time, and I stood, flowers in hand, simmering with anticipation, by the gate to greet her.

By four o’clock the plane had emptied, but no Harriet.

By four-thirty all they could tell me was that she had indeed been booked on the flight, but they could not verify whether she had actually boarded in New York. It would appear she had not.

By five they got word, Harriet never got on the plane.

I drove back into London a very concerned son.

I called her, but no answer.

I tried to call her again the following morning, still no answer.

Later that afternoon Claire picked up.

“Is Harriet home?” I asked.

“No, she went to London.” A brief pause. “She’s not with you?”

“No. She never arrived. She didn’t board the plane in New York.”

“Oh, my God,” she said. Then, more vexed than concerned, “What is that woman up to now?”

“You think she’s all right?” I asked.

“She’ll always be all right,” said Claire. “But I wish she’d let others in on it now and then.”

“Perhaps you could check with the airport,” I said. “See if they know anything.”

“I will do that.”

“And I will call if I hear anything this end,” I said.

“You do that,” she said.

Claire called the next day. “Sweden,” she said. “She went to Sweden.”

It was not until that moment that I realized how worried I had actually been. I felt a constriction leave and finally I could breathe freely again, as if a weighty band had just taken wing.

“Well, thank God for that,” I said.

“I tell you,” she replied, “that woman.”

“Thanks so much for letting me know,” I said.

“No problem. I’m sure she’ll call, eventually.”

“Thanks again,” I said and we hung up.

Finally, she called.

“Nachiketa?”

“Harriet. Why didn’t you call?”

“I’m in Sweden,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “Claire told me.”

“Claire? How did she know?”

“She found out for me. We were worried about you.”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” she said. “But I had to find out.”

“You should have called,” I said again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot.”

“Find out what?” I asked.

“About Oskar.”

“What about him?”

“Was he real or not?”

“Of course he was real. He wrote the song. I played it for you. His name is on the record. Both as composer and organist.”

“I know. But I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t know. How could I know for sure? A name is just a name. A word. It’s not the person. And I’m still not so sure what is real and what is not real.”

“Where are you now?” I asked.

“I’m in Sweden.”

“Yes, I know, but where in Sweden?”

“I’m in a little place called Gagnef. It’s where Oskar grew up.”

“Ganjof?”

“No, Gagnef.”

I could not picture anything sounding like that. “Where is that?”

“About a day north of Stockholm,” she said.

“And Oskar Lindberg lived there?”

“He grew up here, he lived here, he had a summer cottage here. All very real.”

I didn’t answer. I was still mad at her for not calling, for leaving me at Heathrow Airport. It was as if she noticed.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Really. I’m not sure what came over me. I had my ticket to London and everything, Cecil had arranged all that. But the ticket to Sweden was only another two hundred dollars, and they were very helpful at the airport.”

“And I am glad you’re fine,” I said.

“I’m fine,” she confirmed.

“How long are you going to stay? Can you come here?”

“No, Nachiketa. I want you to come here. That’s why I called. I’ve booked you a flight, well, Cecil has, and a friend of mine, his name is Einar Nerman, will meet you at Bromma Airport.”

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. Afternoon.”

“Leaves or arrives?

“I think the plane leaves Heathrow airport around three o’clock. Cecil will know for sure. Give him a call.”

Ah, the always helpful Mr. Beaton.

“And you, please, don’t go anywhere,” I said. Almost joking.

Cecil Beaton called me before I had a chance to call him. With all the details.

This was my third time in the air. The plane — it was an old BEA DC-3, I know because I asked — was nearly empty, and quite comfortable. Noisy though, as I was seated just by the wing and the large prop engine. I asked to move, and they were nice about it. It was quieter further up front.

It was an uneventful flight, which over the years I have come to appreciate as an excellent adjective where flying is concerned. What I also recall is that the pilot made an absolutely perfect landing: I could not tell the actual moment of touching down, it was so smoothly done. I thanked the hostesses and the pilot for a nice flight and departed into a windy — and far cooler than London — Stockholm.

Clearing passport control and customs must have taken all of five minutes. Very efficient, these Swedes.

Mr. Nerman was a rather short man who had spelled my name correctly. The sign he held up, which was beautifully lettered — and which, by the way, was also pretty much unnecessary seeing as I was one of perhaps a dozen passengers and definitely the only such with an Indian complexion — clearly read Nachiketa, and I walked over to him and said, “Yes.”

He held out a fine hand. “Welcome to Sweden,” he said. I shook it. He had a stronger grip than I had expected from such delicate fingers. “Luggage?” he asked as he let go of mine.

“No, only this,” I said. I held up my small carry-on.

“Ah,” he said. Not sure what he meant by that.

Then he turned and led the way out to his car, a brand new Volvo Amazon P120 with a white roof, which I was to learn all about — his English was excellent — during our three-hour or so drive from Stockholm to Dalarna. He had bought it two weeks earlier and would not rest until I was well indoctrinated about every last detail. It was a nice car, and I told him that several times by way of perhaps slowing him down, but that just set him off again. When I bought my own first new car some years later I finally got an inkling about his feelings. Pride does not even begin to describe it. I think car ownership — especially when it comes to new cars — is its own emotion, and Mr. Nerman had it in spades (as they say in America).

Harriet looked happy and healthy when she met us outside what must have been the only hotel in the small town of Gagnef, or village rather, for it was not much more than that. And though I say hotel, it was more like a large, red house with three guest rooms, run by a grim lady who, as it turned out, was an excellent cook — especially when it came to waffles, which, as I came to discover, was Harriet’s favorite dish.

“Did Einar tell you about his new car?” Harriet asked with a smile. Apparently he had told her all about it, too.

“He did mention something about it,” I said, at which she laughed and he did too, even if, albeit deserved, at his own expense.

It was nearly ten o’clock at night by now, but it was still very light outside.

“Are you tired?” she asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

She looked over at Mr. Nerman. “How long can you stay?” she asked him in English, perhaps for my benefit.

“A couple of days,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Then we go tomorrow night, and Nachiketa can get some rest.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Oh, that will be a surprise,” she said, and seemed very pleased with herself.

Then she took a good look at me and came over and threw her arms around me. “It’s about the song,” she whispered.

When I awoke the following morning, after an absolutely fantastic and dreamless sleep, Harriet and Mr. Nerman were already gone somewhere. The landlady did not speak much English but managed to indicate, by pointing at the numbers of a large kitchen clock, that they had left about nine o’clock in the Volvo Amazon car. It was now a little after ten.

Food, I have come to learn about the Swedes, is one of their major modes of communication. The landlady, who pointed to herself and said “Karin” over and over until I realized that she wasn’t “caring” but that it was her name, knew how to talk food.

“Caren?” I said.

“Caareen,” she said, which Harriet later spelled for me, K-a-r-i-n.

“Caareen?” I said.

She nodded, and smiled. A big smile, all the more stunning as it took place in such a stern face. “Sit you down,” she said. “Sit you down.”

And that I did, by a large, polished-to-a-shine oak or birch table while she poured me some coffee into a small cup on a saucer without asking if I, the quintessential tea drinker, wanted any. She simply placed it in front of me without comment. Just that oddly out of place smile. It smelled so fresh though, and so invigorating, that I had to taste it.

It was so hot it burned my upper lip, but I have to say it was delicious. Strong — you could probably stand a spoon in it — but oh, so excellent.

“Which coffee?” I asked, wondering about the brand.

“Yes,” she said.

“Coffee, the coffee, which make?”

“Yes, I make,” she said.

“No,” I said, “what brand, who manufactured it?”

“Yes,” she said.

Harriet later told me that the brand was Gevalia, and was made almost locally, as she put it, in Gavle, a couple of hours to the east. Of course, they imported the coffee beans from God knows where — they didn’t grow coffee in Sweden, she explained to me. Too cold.

It tasted really great, I told her. Naturally, she said. It’s Swedish. We know good coffee. It’s what we run on. Our petrol.

I abandoned my fact-finding mission with the landlady, however, and savored the coffee in silence, blowing on the surface now and then to cool it. Karin, by now, was busy making waffles on the large black stove and the aroma, once it reached my nostrils, let me in on the fact that I was starving.

Within minutes the first waffle arrived: golden and brown, on a large blue and white plate, upon which she added whipped cream and topped with what she called, with the same smile, “yortran” preserve. Hjortron, Harriet explained later, are cloudberries. They only grow in the northern marshes.

Well, for me it was “yortran” while I disappeared into the best-tasting breakfast I’ve ever had. Karin was happy to provide replacements for every waffle I finished. Not that it became a contest, or anything, but when I finally had to give up — really, there wasn’t room for another single cloudberry — and waved an illusory white flag in her direction with a shaking head and guilty smile, she looked quite proud, and very happy with herself. Victorious.

I thanked her profusely, bowed several times, Indian style — which she found so amusing she mimicked me and bowed in return — went out into the sunshine, found a low wooden bench among several fragrant lilacs by the side of house, sat down, leaned back against the warm wall, and promptly fell asleep.

I stirred awake an hour later by someone touching my shoulder. I looked up and into Harriet’s smiling face, dark against the blue sky.

“I see Karin got to you,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Eight,” she said.

“Eight?”

“She was very proud of herself. Not many of her guests have managed eight for breakfast. No wonder you fell asleep.”

When she saw the question on my face, she added, “Waffles.”

Then I understood. “I had eight waffles?”

“That’s what she says.”

“She’s a menace to society,” I said and smiled.

“Good cooks always are,” she answered.

I stood up and stretched, still feeling quite full. “Where did you go?” I asked.

“Oh, just for a drive. Einar wanted to show me what his new car could do. Again.”

“The Amazon,” I said.

“Oh, yes. The amazing Amazon. He’s like a boy with a new toy.” Then, on reflection, added, “He is a boy with a new toy.”

And speaking about the boy, he came walking on the pebbly walkway making little pebbly rustles with every step.

“Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not only that,” said Harriet before I had a chance to reply. “Then Karin got to him and put him right back to sleep.”

“She’s lethal,” I said, meaning Karin.

“Lethal?” said Einar.

“Dangerous. Careen.”

“Oh, yes, very dangerous.” He smiled at what must have been the cream and cloudberry thoughts of his own waffles, then cast a glance back to the parking lot, as if to make sure that the amazing Amazon hadn’t run off or anything since he left had left it all those several seconds ago.

I stretched again. I felt good pretty much all over.

As I looked around, a big, billowing cloud sailed out over the lilacs and into view like an immense schooner, all business, and so low that I had an urge to duck. I stepped away from the sweet-smelling bushes and looked up and around into this almost dark blue sky to find a whole fleet of them, all sailing low: perfectly white perfections.

“Why are they so low?” I asked.

“The clouds?” said Harriet, and looked up too.

“Yes.”

Einar joined the survey team.

“It’s normal,” said Harriet. “These are Swedish clouds.”

“In India,” I said, “our clouds, even these billowy ones, I think they’re called cumulus, are higher, they sail higher.”

They were both looking up with me. “In Los Angeles,” she said, “the clouds were always thinner and much higher than these, almost like thin watercolor clouds way up.”

“How high do you think they are?” I asked. Neither answered for some time.

“I have no idea,” Einar said in the end. “I never thought about it. They are just clouds, normal Swedish clouds. But you are right, there is something about them.” With that he vanished towards his car and for a moment I thought he was going for another drive, perhaps to chase the clouds, but he returned a minute or so later with pencil and a sketch book. Two minutes later the sky was down on paper.

“Why are they so low?” I still wondered, but neither answered, and it’s a question that to this day remains unanswered.

“Isn’t he something?” said Harriet and nodded at Einar, now busy sweet-talking another patch of sky down on paper.

I followed his rapid traces and had to agree, he was amazing. You could almost see the colors in the black and white of his sketch. And he even worked the sense of height into the image, the low-sailing majesty of these massive things.

“You are right,” he said, looking up at the sky, then down at his sketch again, comparing, “they are low, not like London or New York.”

“That’s how we met,” said Harriet, still admiring his drawing skills. “He drew the cover for a Swedish biography about me. I didn’t much care for the book, to be honest, but the cover was delightful. So I asked the publisher to meet this man who had drawn this nice picture of me.”

She looked up from Nerman’s sketching, and smiled at me. “He’s an artist.”

“That he is,” I agreed, admiring the second drawing, as vivid and as beautiful as the first. As alive.

“You take them for granted,” he said, “until someone who does not, comes along and points them out to you.” He was now surveying the sky for another vignette and, finding one, flipped over to a clean sheet, and began anew.

Harriet and I both stood silently behind him and watched the wonder take place, the base of a cloud almost exploding into billow with quick strokes of soft lead. With perhaps ten or fifteen lines he had captured the rim of forest over to our right, and another few strokes had a second cloud sailing out over it and into the sea of sky. There was nothing for us to do but admire. Harriet took my arm and squeezed with delight as he put a finishing touch, or two, to the drawing. I had never seen it done before, not this well, and if not shocked, I was pleasantly stunned by his skill.

“That’s really wonderful,” I said.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said. “Just a placeholder.”

“That’s what he calls them,” said Harriet. “Placeholders.”

I didn’t get to ask him to elaborate, for that was the moment Karin’s search for us brought fruit.

“Maaten aer claar,” she said, quite loudly. A phrase I got to know well.

“Food’s ready,” translated Harriet.

Food? I was almost incredulous. I had just eaten myself to sleep. Harriet still held my arm, and now pulled me along. “Mustn’t keep her waiting,” she said.

I managed to stay awake after what turned out to be a three-course feast. I went easy, though — which you could not say about Harriet and Mr. Nerman: they indulged.

The obligatory coffee still tasted as great, and the cinnamon rolls that I had to try — lest I upset Karin, Harriet informed me — were amazingly good too. This woman could open a restaurant in any part of the world, I was convinced of it, and make a fortune. When I later mentioned that to Harriet, she laughed. They all do, she said. This is a country where everyone can cook.

“Not like that?” I said, a little incredulous.

“Perhaps not like that,” she agreed. “Karin is special.”

We then went for a long walk, which did me good, must have, since toward the end of it I caught myself wondering what this woman would conjure up for dinner. She’d certainly found another disciple in me.

Mr. Nerman, who had brought his pencil and pad, stopped a few times during the walk to draw scenes, each time with the same stunning skill: barns like log cabins, so old they had turned gray and leaning; cows mulling about in the tall, green grass; the glitter of sun on a small, rippling lake. He was so good at catching the swallows’ darting dances that you could almost hear them.

It was a wonderful walk, and I’ve rarely seen Harriet so happy.

“Tonight we go to Knipbuan,” she said.

I could not pronounce that. “Where?” I said.

“Knipbuan,” she said again. “It’s a beautiful shieling by a lake called Insjon.”

“Shieling?” I asked, not so much embarrassed as surprised to hear Harriet speak a word I did not recognize.

“You don’t know shieling? It’s a mountain pasture,” she said.

“We don’t have any shielings in London,” I said. “Nor in India.”

“I know,” she said. “They’re a very Swedish thing. You’ll see.”

Then, after a moment or two of silence, she added, “It’s where the song was born.”

Dinner was what Harriet called an oven pancake, a thick, doughy thing replete with bits of bacon and oh, so delicious. Sweden was a country, I realized, where I would have serious trouble with my waistline. Karin, for some reason, seemed to have made me her special charge, or mission, or target, something like that, for even though it was my third helping of this chewy, savory wonder, she made sure I ate everything off the plate, clean.

And then the coffee again.

Mr. Nerman was ready to go now, and said as much by fidgeting and a couple of muttered it’s getting lates. Harriet leaned over to me and whispered, loud enough for Mr. Nerman to hear, surely, “He just wants to drive his new car.” I looked over at him — shifting again, very ready to leave — and I had to agree: a kid and his toy, he was in it for the journey, not the destination.

So we thanked Karin — I, again, profusely — and off we went. It was now nearly ten at night, but still almost as light outside as on a cloudy London afternoon. Harriet, sitting up front with Mr. Nerman, had a folded map on her knee. I was sitting in the back, behind Harriet, looking out at the dusky forest to our left and at the sleepy cows to our right.

Apparently Mr. Nerman had managed to tell us all there was to tell about his new car, for he drove in silence.

“Why is it your steering wheel is on your left when you drive on the left-hand side of the road?” I asked. It was a question I’d had, but didn’t get a chance to voice, on the drive from Stockholm.

“What?” asked Mr. Nerman, briefly glancing back at me over his right shoulder.

“Your steering wheel,” I said, “it’s on the left hand side of the car. In England it’s to the right. So that you can see the other side of the road better, especially when you overtake other cars.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding the question now. “It’s because we’re soon going to switch from the left-hand side of the road to the right,” he said. “Well, in about ten years, nine now. They build all cars to be ready for that.”

He turned again to see if I had heard and understood. I nodded. He looked back ahead, and added, “Meanwhile, well, I guess we have to be careful when we overtake other cars.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“That’s why it’s good to have a passenger,” added Harriet. “A lookout.”

Then I remembered him asking me several times on the way from Stockholm to see if there were any oncoming cars, before he overtook the slower driver in front. I nodded. “I see.”

“Riding shotgun,” said Harriet.

That earned her a brief glance from Mr. Nerman. “What?”

“That’s what they call it in America,” she said. “Riding shotgun.”

“Riding shotgun?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Harriet. “Something to do with old cowboys, I think.”

I could picture that, actually. The stagecoach driver, and the armed defender by his side, looking out for bandits. Riding shotgun.

“In America everyone drives on the right side of the road,” Harriet informed us.

Mr. Nerman nodded, but said nothing. Harriet looked back at me and I nodded too.

An hour later we were lost.

“Maybe we should have turned at the last sign,” said Harriet.

“You’re the map reader,” said Mr. Nerman.

“I’m pretty sure we should have turned at that last sign,” she said again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure then.”

“Are you sure now?” he asked, slowing down and looking over at her.

“No,” said Harriet. “I’m not sure. What do you think, Nachiketa?”

I, not surprisingly, had no idea. Still, Mr. Nerman looked up and back at me through the rearview mirror to see what I was about to answer, as if I were going to contribute something constructive.

“I have no idea,” I said.

That lost Mr. Nerman’s interest in me. We drove in silence for another minute perhaps — the car was nice and warm and I felt a little like going to sleep.

Then he slowed further, and came to a full stop by a road sign. “Can I see the map?” he said to Harriet.

She did not give it to him. Instead she looked out at the sign and asked, “Where are we? Do you know? What does it say?”

There were actually two signs, both yellow with black letters. One told us that we were heading for Skeberg, which we would find 8 kilometers farther down the road. The other informed us that turning left would take us go Norrbysjön, 12 kilometers on.

“Lost,” said Mr. Nerman.

“I know that,” said Harriet, and to me they began to sound a little like a married couple. She was now unfolding the map further and spreading it across her knees. She asked Mr. Nerman to turn on the dome light, which he didn’t. Instead he reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a small flashlight.

“Here,” he said. “Let’s see.”

“I can do it,” said Harriet.

“Fine, okay,” said Mr. Nerman.

He gave her the flashlight and Harriet studied the map closely in the sharp yellow light, then looked out again at the road signs. “We must turn around,” she said.

“That’s what I thought,” said Mr. Nerman.

“Well, I couldn’t read it,” said Harriet.

“Couldn’t read what?”

“The sign back there.”

Mr. Nerman didn’t answer.

“Sorry,” said Harriet.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said then. “We have all night.” To which Harriet did not respond.

Ten minutes back the way we had come, we arrived at the correct turnoff and swung left down an even worse dirt road. This one was pitted here and there, which made Mr. Nerman slow down to a near crawl, lest he damaged the suspension of his amazing Amazon.

Harriet turned to me and said, “We’re on the right road now.”

The road now headed into a forest and here the night turned considerably darker. Mr. Nerman turned on his headlights and slowed even more. Still, it was a little faster than walking, said Harriet, with a smile. Mr. Nerman smiled as well, and the slightly frayed harmony seemed healed again.

I looked out and saw nothing but dark, very straight trunks of tall spruces to either side. Silent sentries, very straight-backed indeed. I could make out maybe four or five deep, after that there was only the dark heart of forest.

The little road wound its way deeper and deeper into the woods and then began to climb as well. A while later — it may have been as much as an hour, I’m not sure, I might even have fallen asleep for a bit — the spruces finally gave way a little, and then we suddenly found ourselves in a small village. Well, not a village precisely — I could count half a dozen or so cabins huddled just ahead, if that makes a village.

Down a wide pasture to our right I could see another cabin, and just beyond it a small lake, dark and still. Beyond the lake rose a mountain, entirely covered with spruce. The moon, waxing and a little over half, was rising into pale sky from behind that enormous, spruced hedgehog to reflect in the lake.

“This is it,” said Harriet.

“You sure?” asked Mr. Nerman.

She studied the map again. “Yes,” she answered.

The scene seemed strangely familiar, though something was missing. Things were too still. “I don’t see any cows,” I said.

Harriet turned to face me. “I don’t think this shieling is used anymore, not for livestock anyway.”

“Did you tell him we were coming?” asked Mr. Nerman.

“No, how could I?”

“No telephone?” he asked.

“Not alive,” she answered.

“But,” he said, obviously perplexed. “But you said.”

“I know what I said. I said nothing about meeting him.”

Mr. Nerman seemed to briefly re-listen to an earlier conversation. “Well, strictly speaking, no,” he said. “But you surely implied.”

“I know what I said,” she repeated.

“So why are we here then? And at midnight?” he wanted to know.

“Well, that,” said Harriet with a smile in my direction, “is Nachiketa’s and my little secret.”

Mr. Nerman didn’t understand, and said so.

“We didn’t come here to see anyone. We came here for the atmosphere,” she said. “Could you wait here for a while?”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” she said. “Will you be okay here?”

“Sure,” he said. He then adjusted the back of the seat to allow him to stretch a little, settling in for a wait.

“Maybe catch a few winks,” she said to him. Then to me, “Come, Nachiketa.”

She climbed out and folded the front seat forward to let me out as well. It was no longer warm outside, and a faint mist had begun to form on the lake, blurring the reflected moon.

She smiled at me but said nothing. Then she set out down the path toward the cottages ahead. I caught up with her.

“Well, this is where he wrote it,” she said. “In one of these cabins.”

The night was quiet. Not like the Indian summer night, which is almost as loud as the day with its bustling millions of lives, crickets mainly. No crickets here. Only birds. I stopped to listen. Voices, all calling each other like echoes.

A loud cry came from what sounded miles away.

“The cuckoo bird,” said Harriet.

And again.

I also thought I recognized what sounded like a rose finch, but I doubted they lived this far north. A cousin perhaps, some other sort of finch, involved in a conversation with itself or its mates.

Another bird sounded like a jay, several actually, a discourse spread over miles. Then there was the cuckoo again. I found myself listening for crickets, but there were none. Only birds. Hundreds perhaps, coming alive one by one, ten by ten, as my ear grew attuned to them.

“There are no crickets here,” I said to Harriet.

She looked at me, not understanding.

“In India,” I began.

Then she understood. “Oh. Yes. In California, too. I remember the summer nights there. All you could hear throughout the canyons were crickets. Millions of them. All summer and well into fall.”

“Not here, though,” I said.

She stopped and listened. “No. Here there are only birds.”

As if to underscore this fact the cuckoo sounded again. This was a different one, though, closer. And, as if to settle this once and for all, the long hoot of an owl from not too far away ahead of us. Like a wind.

Only birds, I thought. Or said.

Harriet took my arm. For warmth perhaps. For the nearness.

We were approaching the cabins. They were all dark. Asleep.

As we drew closer, I could see, a little farther down the path, two more cabins. One to the left, one to the right. The one to the right looked more like a barn. A little larger than the rest. Gray.

Occupied.

For sounds came from it. Indistinct, but unmistakable. I listened harder.

Hoofs, perhaps, shifting on wood. Could be a cow. Or a horse. Or anything with hoofs. It moved again, yes, definitely hoofs. And again. A horse, for sure.

I looked over to see if Harriet had noticed.

“He built himself an organ here,” she said.

Then the animal moved again. I could hear the soft creak of boards — the creak of a large horse shifting his weight in his sleep, or awake, I thought.

“Organ?” I said.

“Lindberg,” she said. “He had an organ built for himself in one of these cottages.”

“Ah.”

“This is where he did his composing,” she continued. “He lived and worked in Stockholm, but seldom composed there. He spent his summers here, in this magical place, and this is where he wrote most of his work.”

“Do you know which cottage?”

“No,” she said. “They didn’t know, or they didn’t want to tell me.”

“Oh, I’m sure they would have told you if they knew.”

“I didn’t get that feeling,” she said.

“Who did you ask?” I wondered.

“Karin, for one.”

Then the horse moved again, loudly this time, and next we both froze at the soft scream of rusty hinges. A large door opened.

“Something’s in there,” she said.

“Or someone.”

She did not answer.

Next he stepped into full view: the white horse. Huge, just as I remembered him, majestic. Dark intelligent eyes. Watching us hesitate at first, and then approach. Waiting for us. Shifting again, silently this time on the dewy grass. Waiting. For us.

Though he was only twenty or so meters away, it seemed to take hours to reach him. Approaching a dream, you tread carefully lest you wake up. And slowly. But I heard him clearly, shifting again, breathing. Waiting. Some dream.

As we finally reached him he raised his head in salutation, then lowered it toward Harriet, who, seemingly more accepting of the impossible than me, touched him gently. Perhaps to make sure, perhaps by reflex, I don’t know. But finding him real, she patted him on the neck. He snorted softly and swung his tail once or twice in response.

Then, as before, he lowered himself to the ground in invitation.

Harriet turned to me, not quite sure.

I, still toiling to accept what I saw, was no more sure than she, and had nothing to offer by way of advice. Harriet looked back at Phantom and made up her mind. She moved to get on.

Which made my mind up too.

I helped her on, then swung up behind her. Settled. Then he rose, swiftly and without effort. As if we had no mass. As if he had no mass.

He set off at a soft trot down the road, past two final cottages and one last barn and back into the forest. The road became path and swung to the right. Then ceased to path altogether and became forest floor, soft and quiet.

At first the horse picked his way between the tall and silent trunks, but soon it seemed the trunks got the idea and begun to move aside for him, and as they did he picked up the pace to a canter. Then to a faster canter. Then, once the trunks got the full hang of it, sweeping a trunky avenue — or more like a tunnel — before him, he opened up to a flat-out gallop.

Harriet hung on to his mane with both hands and I hung on to her waist. We both leaned forward to avoid low-hanging branches that should have punished us for this reckless intrusion but instead rose to form a roof, never touching us.

Then the tunnel opened to true avenue, allowing Phantom to glide over the forest floor, to rise over the forest itself, and up into and out of mist, over a small lake, dark as a pupil below us, across a snowy field and above a large and wintry woods. Moonlit lands, silent mountains, and into moonless though starry night sky.

Into mist.

Out of mist. His hoofs glowed beneath us. Then they touched forest floor again. Summery. Moonlit. Then he slowed, and slowed again, returning, for all I could tell to the shieling we had left, path at first, then grassy road. The last two cottages and the final barn. Then the other barn, where he had waited. Then to where Mr. Nerman’s car should have been but wasn’t.

He passed the huddled cottages and veered left down the wide pasture and made for the little house by the lake, soft lights in the windows. Lived in.

And arrived. Here he stopped and lowered himself to let us off.

It could have been the night we had just left. The same birds were calling each other across the same stillness. The same almost half moon — though I noticed with a shiver that it was no longer waxing, but waning — looked down upon us. The same spread of mist, torn in places, roamed the lake. But where this cottage had been dark the last time I saw it, and of that I’m sure, it was now lit, and where no one had stood, an old man now did, to greet us.

“Welcome,” he said.

He was tall and thin. Bespectacled and bordering on formally dressed: white shirt and a necktie.

When neither of us answered, he held out his hand to Harriet and said it again. “Welcome.” Then added, “I’m Oskar.”

Again, Harriet accepted the impossible before I could, and shook his hand. Like you would someone’s you haven’t seen for a while.

“You knew we were coming,” she said.

“I knew someone was coming.”

“The horse?”

“The horse,” he agreed.

“You have grown old,” she said.

“So have you.”

“So, you remember?”

“Yes, I do. It was the Sofia church, I believe. And you were only a little girl. Though quite tall, as I recall.”

“Yes, I was. Tallest in class.” Harriet smiled. “You have a good memory.”

“And not much more, nowadays,” he said.

Then he looked at me. Harriet spoke. “And, yes, this is Nachiketa.”

“Your son, then?”

When Harriet didn’t answer, I said, “We are friends.”

“Friends?” he said. “As you wish.”

“How do you know?” asked Harriet.

“Know what? Friend or son?”

“Both.”

“Athansor,” he said.

“Athansor?” I said.

“The horse,” he said.

“I thought his name was Phantom,” said Harriet.

Mr. Lindberg shook his head and wisps of long white hair echoed the motion.

“No, his name is not Phantom.”

“Athansor,” I said again, not a question this time.

“Yes,” he said, “Athansor. That is his real name. At least as far as I know.”

“Sounds like the name of some angel,” I said.

“Could be,” he answered.

“And he told you?” said Harriet.

“A mother and a son, he said,” said Mr. Lindberg. “He said he would bring me a mother and a son.”

Harriet wanted to say more, wanted to ask more, but I could tell she didn’t know what. Instead she turned in my direction, then looked around for the horse, who was no longer anywhere to be seen. She looked back at Mr. Lindberg.

Who said, “You have come, I believe, to see where I wrote the psalm.”

She nodded. And so did I.

“Well, then,” he said, and indicated the little house with a sweep of his hand. “This, of course, is not where it was written. I did not even own this cottage then, but this is where it has its roots.” At that his gesture grew to include the shieling and the lake, and the world surrounding.

“This is where I live, musically, spiritually. Stockholm, if you will, is my day job.”

I heard the distinctive hoot of an owl from somewhere across the lake. It seemed to disturb the mist. “I can see why,” I said.

“I come here every summer. To walk, to think, to wonder, to compose. I’ve had a small organ built for that purpose,” said Mr. Lindberg. “Would you like to see it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” said Harriet, but then turned again, looking back up at the little shieling, for traces of Athansor, my guess.

“How long have you know him? The horse?” she said, turning back to face our host, but only in time to catch his back as he stepped inside his cottage. He didn’t hear, or if he did, he gave no indication that he had.

“Please,” he said from inside. “Please come in. And watch your heads.”

We both ducked a little beneath the low transom, to find ourselves in a small kitchen. The floor of broad planks, walked to a gloss by two hundred or more years of feet, creaked a little under our weight.

“Coffee?” he asked. The obligatory Swedish question.

“Please,” said Harriet. “That would be nice.” I nodded as well.

“It’s through there,” he said and indicated another low door to our left. “The organ room.”

As I made to move towards the door, he added, “But let’s have coffee first. Please sit down.”

The table seemed to be made from wood left over from the floor. Broad planks, worn to a shine as well by generations of elbows and tablecloths. Mr. Lindberg placed small porcelain cups on saucers in front of us, with a small silver spoon for each. White with delicate blue flowers, the cups looked as formal as his clothing.

“I’m afraid I have nothing for you to dip,” he said.

“That’s fine,” said Harriet.

I looked out the window, still trying to accept the near-daylight outside. The mist had fully gathered itself above the lake now and so healed all seams. Now there was nothing but soft, white meadow where the lake had been.

The tall man stooped a little and followed my glance. “That’s Lake Insjon,” he said, with the tone of a travel guide.

“How can it be so light?” I asked, although I knew why.

“We are far north,” he said.

“The land of the midnight sun,” I said.

He laughed at that. A short, merry laugh. “Oh, no. That’s quite a bit higher up the country. A two-day drive from here.”

I thought of Mr. Nerman and whether he’d be up for that.

Harriet looked out the window too, though not at the lake. “Athansor,” she said. “How come you know him?”

He looked down at her and held her face with his eyes. A stern man suddenly, dressed for a sermon, about to answer, when the whistle on the coffeepot went off and he turned away to tend to our coffee.

“I didn’t say I knew him,” he said, when he returned with the pot.

“But you said,” she said.

“I know what I said,” he answered as he began pouring the brown, steaming beverage into our small, white cups.

He replaced the pot on the stove and sat down opposite us. Tall even sitting down, priest-like still. He poured a little coffee from his cup onto the saucer and brought the saucer to his lips, blew on the coffee to cool it, and sipped.

I had never seen anyone drink coffee like that before and looked over at Harriet for an explanation. She, however, didn’t even seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. A common custom, then.

He put the saucer back on the table and looked at Harriet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It is not my place to discuss him. I see him now and again. That’s all. He visits.”

“We’ve met him too,” she said. “Before, I mean.”

“So I gathered.”

“He’s an amazing animal.”

“I’m not so sure animal is the right word,” said Mr. Lindberg.

Harriet was about to ask a question, when he added: “As I said, he’s not for me to discuss. He comes and goes as he pleases.” Then he poured some more coffee onto his saucer and blew on it.

We savored our coffee in silence for some time. Harriet was now looking out the window again, but this time with more interest. Seemed she had laid her question about Athansor’s whereabouts to rest, or at least put it on the back burner for now.

“I would like to play for you,” said Mr. Lindberg.

“Oh, I would like that,” said Harriet. “Very much.”

He stood up, carefully, stooping again ever so slightly to avoid bumping his head on the ceiling, and stepped through to his organ. We followed.

“The organ room,” he said, as he sat down by the keyboard.

The organ room was much less a room with an organ, than an organ with places to sit. Lindberg flexed his fingers a little. Then he closed his eyes and took a very deep breath, as if not only to smell the instrument in front of him, but to inhale its essence. He then flicked a switch to his left, which spawned an almost imperceptible hum somewhere beneath us.

“Air,” he said.

I believe I understood. Some sort of pump to provide air for the pipes. Harriet, however, did not, and said so.

“There’s a small compressor underneath the floor,” he said, “to provide air for the instrument. I’ve had a soundproof compartment made for it.”

“Air?” she said.

“Air must pass through the pipes to make sounds,” he said.

When he saw that she still didn’t quite follow, he went on: “I’m sure you’ve seen a harmonium?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“The pedals, you’ve noticed the pedals?”

“Yes.”

“Those pedals are really a pair of bellows that provide air for the many reeds in the harmonium. Same principle here, the pipes need air to function. Same as whistles.”

“I see,” she said, and nodded.

Lindberg shut the switch off and all went quiet again, except for the calling of another bird outside. Then he flicked the switch again. The faint hum returned. “Not too loud, is it?” he asked, almost inviting praise.

“No,” I said. “Not at all.”

Harriet shook her head, no, not too loud.

“Once I play, I cease to be aware of it,” he said.

Then he closed his eyes, again, took another deep breath and began his most famous composition: a private gift to Harriet, and I guess to me, too.

In that little place, sitting almost inside the organ that played it, the psalm had the effect of vanishing the room, the organ, the night; replacing all with music.

Then I thought I saw Athansor rising, though more as white shadow than as horse, as if the psalm had conjured him, or called him. Then he vanished too. And after that, all there was, was music.

And the man making it.

His feet walked the lower notes with a gentleness that reminded me of ballet, touching, lightly, the wooden keys with his toes sometimes, with the side of his shoes sometimes, but always lightly, rolling, dancing slowly.

His fingers were long and strong, dancing the reversely colored keys, mostly black with white sharps, every now and then darting up to change the stops and with them the timbre of the note. Yes, it was a dance, a ballet, feet, legs, arms, fingers, head high and tilted back, eyes closed, as he steered his craft from star to star, with us his willing passengers.

There is no light in the depth of space. It is night surrounded by stars.

This is not entirely true, of course. The stars and galaxies — some so distant as to appear like stars — are visible, and so there is light, but not enough to shine the way: I race through darkness.

Can there be sound here? Logic tells me not, yet I ride his psalm at incalculable speed from one galaxy to the next, knowing full well that this is memory.

My eyes see him, dancing still with hands and feet. My ears hear the pipes, softly now, loudly now. I sense the soft and distant rumble of bass notes like earthy murmur. I smell the spruce and birch this room is made from. Yet, I travel too fast and too far to fathom. Does he know this, what is happening to me, this Oskar Lindberg? That I am no longer here, in this room, in this organ, with him. I am sure that on some level he does.

I look over at Harriet, who has her eyes closed too, away on her own private journey. Through space as well? I cannot tell.

Then I notice that he has stopped playing. For how long, I don’t know, but it is almost as if it the outside is lighter now, day approaching.

Harriet is still savoring echoes.

Lindberg watches us, silently. Waiting.

Once Harriet opened her eyes, he said, “You must go now.”

Harriet looked as if just awoken, eyes almost hissing with distance. “Why?” she asked.

“You have found what you came for,” he answered.

“Yes,” she said. Nodded. “Yes, I believe we have.”

Then we heard hoofs outside, arriving. Now waiting.

“Yes,” she said again. “I believe we have.”

Athansor brought us back through layers of forest and mist, from old to new, and I remember thinking as I held on to Harriet’s waist: if he can travel back in time, can he travel ahead, too?

He came out of the forest at the very point we had entered it earlier that night and brought us up to the little barn where we had first seen him — a few years there, and the same years back, ago. As he kneeled to let us off, I could not help but asking, “Who are you?” in snake tongue. He understood, and answered, but not in the same language:

“I was rendered cubistically in 1922 by Salvador Dali.”

“I don’t like that man,” said Harriet.

“I know,” said Athansor.

“You’re a painting?” I asked.

“No,” he said, and then not so much walked as awayed away.

© Wolfstuff