by the crossroads where they had to part company.
"I would like to do more for God," she said. “But the children. They take all the strength I have, and a little bit more.”
The snow was whirling around them like a hail of sharp arrows. Made him blink. An archangel with dark curly hair wearing a blue padded jacket made of some kind of synthetic crackling material that looked cheap. Jeans tucked into high-heeled leather boots. Knitted cap, homemade, with an Inca pattern. She wondered if it was Maja who was so creative. Maja, who didn’t want children.
“But, Karin,” he said, “don’t you understand that you are doing exactly what God wants? Looking after the children. That’s the most important thing of all right now. He has plans for you, but right now… right now you must be with Anna and Andreas.”
Six months later he had held the first summer church. A little flock of newly saved children waddled behind him like ducklings. Imprinting him as their spiritual parent. One of them was Viktor Strandgård.
She, Gunnar, Vesa Larsson and his wife, Astrid, were invited to share in the happiness when they held a baptism for the believers. Gunnar swallowed his bitter jealousy and went along. He knew how to join the winning team. At the same time he started the endless comparisons. The desire to try to shine himself. His face took on a cunning expression.
She wasn’t without blame herself. Hadn’t she said to her husband a thousand times: “Don’t let Thomas walk all over you. He can’t be allowed to decide everything.”
She had convinced herself that she was supporting her husband. But wasn’t the truth that she’d actually wanted him to be someone else?
Thomas Söderberg got up and walked over to the gospel choir. He was wearing a black suit. Normally his ties were colorful, verging on bold. This evening it was a discreet gray. An upside-down exclamation mark inside his jacket.
He carried his wealth as easily as he had once carried his—not poverty, she thought, his lack of money. Two people living on a pastor’s wage. But it never seemed to bother them. Not even when they had children.
Then things changed. He stood there now in his fine wool suit, talking to the choir. Said what had happened was terrible. One of the girls began to sob loudly. Those standing closest to her put their arms around her.
It was okay to cry, said Thomas. It was all right to grieve. But—and here he took a deep breath and uttered each word separately, with a short pause in between—it was not okay to lose. Not okay to go backwards. Not okay to sound the retreat.
She couldn’t face listening to the rest. Knew more or less how it would sound.
“Hi, Karin. Where’s Gunnar?”
Maja, Thomas Söderberg’s wife, sat down beside her. Long, shiny, sandy-colored hair. A little discreet makeup. No lipstick. No eye-shadow. Just a little bit of mascara and blusher. Not that Thomas had anything against women wearing makeup, but Karin guessed that he preferred to see his own wife without. A few years ago Maja had wanted to have her hair cut short, but Thomas had put his foot down.
“He was here a minute ago. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”
Maja nodded.
“And where are Vesa and Astrid?” she asked.
Taking a tough line on attendance tonight. Karin raised her eyebrows and shook her head in reply.
"It’s really important that everyone sticks together at a time like this," said Maja quietly.
Karin looked at the red rose lying on Maja’s knee.
“Are you going to put that with the others?”
Maja nodded.
“Yes, but I’ll wait until the meeting is under way. I can’t grasp what’s happened. It’s just so unreal.”
Yes, it is unreal, thought Karin. What’s going to happen without Viktor?
Viktor, who refused to cut his hair or wear a suit. Who turned down a pay raise and made Thomas give the money to Médecins Sans Frontières instead. She remembered seven years ago, when she’d gone to a conference in Stockholm. How surprised she’d been when she saw so many young men who looked exactly like Viktor. On the underground and in cafés. Ugly knitted or crocheted hats. Soft shoulder bags. Jeans slung low on narrow hips. Suede jackets from the sixties. The slow, nonchalant walk. A kind of anti-fashion reserved for the good-looking and the confident.
Viktor had belonged to the court surrounding Thomas Söderberg, but he had never become a copy of Thomas. More his opposite. Without possessions, without ambition. Abstemious. Although the latter