A Question Mark is Half a Heart

  A QUESTION MARK IS HALF A HEART

  Sofia Lundberg

  Translated by Nichola Smalley

  Copyright

  The Borough Press

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021

  Copyright © Sofia Lundberg 2021

  English Translation by © Nichola Smalley 2021

  Sofia Lundberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  Nichola Smalley asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this translation

  Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008277970

  Ebook Edition © 2020 ISBN: 9780008277994

  Version: 2020-11-11

  Epigraph

  We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

  Oscar Wilde

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, Sweden, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1979

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1982

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1982

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1982

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1982

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Heivide, Gotland, 1982

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Stockholm, 1982

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Stockholm, 1984

  Now: New York, 2017

  Then: Stockholm, 1984

  Now: Visby, 2017

  Then: Paris, 1984

  Now: Visby, 2017

  Then: Paris, 1986

  Now: Visby, 2017

  Then: Paris, 1999

  Now: Heivide, Gotland, 2017

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Sofia Lundberg

  About the Publisher

  NOW

  NEW YORK, 2017

  It’s dusk. Outside the industrial windows, the sun is setting behind the tall buildings. Stubborn rays wedge their way in between the facades; like golden spearheads they penetrate the encroaching darkness. Evening again. Elin hasn’t eaten dinner at home in several weeks. She won’t tonight, either. She turns to look at the building just a few blocks away, where she can see the luxuriant vegetation on her very own roof terrace, the red parasol and the barbecue that’s already been lit. A narrow column of smoke rises towards the sky.

  She catches a glimpse of someone, probably Sam or Alice. Or maybe a friend who’s come over to visit. All she can see is a figure moving about purposefully between the plants.

  They’re sure to be waiting for her again at home. In vain.

  Behind her, people move back and forth across the studio floor. A grey-blue backdrop hangs from a steel fixture, swooping from wall to floor. A chaise longue upholstered in gold brocade has been placed in the centre. On it, a beautiful woman reclines with strands of pearls around her neck. She’s wearing a wide, flowing white tulle skirt that spreads across the floor. Her upper body is glossy with oil, and the chunky pearl necklaces cover her naked breasts. Her lips are red, her skin smoothed to perfection with layers of make-up.

  Two assistants are correcting the light: they raise and lower the big lightboxes, click the camera shutter, read the meters, start again. Behind the assistants stands a team of stylists and make-up artists. They carefully observe every detail of the image that’s in the process of being created. They’re dressed in black. Everyone is dressed in black, everyone but Elin. She’s wearing a red dress. Red like blood, red like life. Red like the evening sun outside the window.

  Elin is torn from her thoughts as the beautiful woman’s irritation begins to take the form of dissatisfied noises.

  ‘What’s taking so long? I’m not going to be able to hold this pose much longer. Hey! Can we get started now?’

  She sighs and twists her body into a more comfortable position and the necklaces fall to the side and reveal her nipple, which is hard and blue. Two stylists are on the spot immediately, patiently and carefully rearranging the pearls to cover it. Some of the necklaces are stuck down with clear double-sided tape and the woman’s skin rises in goosebumps from the contact. She sighs audibly and rolls her eyes, the only part of her body she’s free to move.

  A man in a suit, the woman’s agent, walks over to Elin. He smiles politely, leans towards her and whispers, ‘We’d better get started, she’s getting impatient and it won’t end well.’

  Elin shakes her head vaguely and turns her eyes back to the window. She sighs.

  ‘We can stop now if she wants. I’m sure we have enough pictures already, it’s just a spread this time, not a cover.’

  The agent holds up his hands and stares at her hard.

  ‘No, absolutely not. We’ll do this one too.’

  Elin tears herself away from the view of her home and walks towards the camera. Her telephone vibrates in her pocket; she knows who’s trying to reach her but doesn’t respond. Knows the message will just play on her conscience. Knows the people at home are disappointed.

  As soon as Elin gets behind the camera a thousand tiny stars light up in the woman’s eyes, her back straightens, her lips pout. Her hair falls back as she lightly shakes her head, and it ripples in the gentle breeze from the fan. She’s a star, and Elin is too. Soon only the two of them exist, they’re absorbed in one another. Elin shoots and instructs, the woman laughs and flirts with her. The team behind them applaud. The rush of creativity pounds through Elin’s veins.

  Several hours have passed when Elin finally forces herself to leave the studio and all the new shots requiring her attention on the computer. Her phone is full of missed calls and annoyed texts. From Sam, from Alice.

  When are you going to be here?

  Where are you Mom?

  She scrolls through them but doesn’t rea
d all the words. She hasn’t the strength. She lets the taxis pass her in the vibrant Manhattan night. The asphalt still feels warm from the sun’s heat as she crosses the street. She walks slowly, past beautiful young people who laugh loudly, intoxicated. Sees other people sitting on the street, dirty, vulnerable. It’s a long time since she walked home, even though it’s so close. A long time since she moved beyond the walls of the gym, the studio, her home. The paving stones are uneven beneath her heels and she walks slowly, noting every detail along the way. Her own street, Orchard Street, lies deserted in the night, empty of people, empty of cars. It’s grimy and rough, like all the streets of the Lower East Side. She loves it, the contrast between outside and inside, between shabbiness and luxury. She takes a step into the lobby, passes the slumbering doorman unnoticed, and presses the button for the lift. But when the doors open she hesitates and turns around. She wants to stay out, to linger in the pulsating night. The others have probably gone to sleep anyway.

  She unlocks her mailbox and takes the stack of letters with her to the restaurant a few doors down, the local she often goes to after late shoots. Once there, she orders a glass of 1982 Bordeaux. The waiter shakes his head.

  ‘1982, we don’t serve that by the glass. We only have a few bottles. That shit’s exclusive. A good year.’

  Elin shifts uncomfortably.

  ‘Depends how you look at it. But I’m happy to pay for a bottle. Give me the wine, thanks – I’m worth it. It’s got to be the 1982.’

  ‘All right, you’re worth it.’ The waiter rolls his eyes. ‘We’re closing soon, by the way.’

  Elin nods.

  ‘Don’t worry, I drink fast.’

  She fingers the letters, laying the envelopes aside unopened until she finds one that catches her attention. The postmark is from Visby, the stamp Swedish. Her name has been written by hand in capitals, carefully spelled out in blue ink. She opens it and unfolds the sheet of paper within. It’s some kind of star chart and on it her name is printed, in large, ornate type. She holds her breath, reading the words above it in Swedish.

  On this day, a star was named Elin.

  She reads the line again and again in the unfamiliar language. A long string of coordinates denotes its precise whereabouts in the heavens.

  A star someone has bought for her. Her very own star, which now bears her name. It must be from … can it really be … him who sent it? She puts the brakes on her own thoughts, doesn’t even want to pronounce the name to herself. But she can picture his face clearly, his smile too.

  Her heart is hammering in her chest. She pushes the chart away. Stares at it. Then she gets up and runs out into the street to look up at the sky, but can only see a dark blue, featureless mass above the buildings. It’s never truly dark in New York, never enough to see the meandering muddle of the stars. The tall buildings of Manhattan almost touch the sky, but down on the streets it just feels distant. She goes in again. The waiter is standing by her seat, waiting, wine bottle in hand. He pours a splash into her glass and she downs it without noticing how it tastes. She indicates that he should refill it with an impatient wave of the hand, and takes two more large gulps. Then she picks up the star chart again and turns the shiny paper this way and that. In the bottom corner, against the dark background, someone has written in gold marker pen:

  I saw your picture in a magazine. You look just the same. Long time no see. Get in touch!

  F

  And underneath, an address. Elin feels her stomach cramp when she sees the place of origin. She can’t stop looking at it, her eyes filled with tears. She follows the contours of the letter F with her index finger and mouths his name. Fredrik.

  Her mouth feels dry. She reaches for the wine glass and empties it. Then she calls the waiter over, loudly.

  ‘Hello! Can I get a large glass of milk? I’m so thirsty, suddenly.’

  THEN

  HEIVIDE, GOTLAND, SWEDEN, 1979

  ‘One cup each. And no squabbling now.’

  Small hands gripped the red and white milk carton that Elin had just placed on the pine table. Two pairs of children’s hands with dirt under their fingernails. Elin tried to take the carton away from them, but the brothers barged her out of the way with sharp elbows. They were both talking at once.

  ‘Me first.’

  ‘You’re taking too much.’

  ‘Give it to me!’

  A stern voice rose over the quarrel.

  ‘No squabbling, I can’t take any more. Oldest first, you know the rules. One cup each. Listen to Elin!’

  Marianne was still turned away from them, bent over the sink.

  ‘See? Listen to Mama now.’ Elin pushed Erik and Edvin aside roughly. The boys fell off the kitchen bench without letting go of the milk carton. Silence filled the room as they took a brown china plate along with them. As though the air had suddenly become thick and time stood still. The crash and the splash that followed as the whole mess landed on the floor drew forth a roar.

  Then silence and wide eyes.

  A white pool of milk spread slowly across the lino, it dripped from the table and white rivulets made their way down the rough table legs. And then another roar. The rage in that cry sliced through the room.

  ‘You fucking brats. Out! Out of my kitchen!’

  Elin and her brothers took off without hesitating, running out through the door and cutting across the yard, chased by the curses that continued to fill every corner of the kitchen. They curled up close together to hide behind a heap of junk by the wall of the barn.

  ‘Elin, will we get no food now?’ her younger brother whispered in a voice that barely carried.

  ‘She’ll calm down soon, Edvin, you know that. Don’t worry. It was my fault the plate broke.’ Elin stroked his hair tenderly, held him tight and rocked him.

  After a while she let go of her brothers, stood up and walked tentatively back to the house. Inside she could see her mother’s hunched form picking the dirty pieces of china up off the floor, saw her taking each one between her thumb and forefinger as a pile of fragments slowly grew in her other hand.

  The kitchen door was ajar, and it creaked loudly in the strong wind. A few raindrops fell from the gutter. Plop, plop. Elin listened carefully. The house was silent. Marianne stayed crouched, head hanging, even when all the pieces had been picked up. Sunny was nosing around on the floor in front of her, licking up the spilt milk. She paid no attention to the dog.

  Elin was steeling herself to go in when suddenly, the bent figure straightened. Elin’s heart leapt in her chest and she turned and ran back to her brothers. Quick across the gravel, followed by more shouting. She crouched behind the junk heap. Marianne rushed over to the door and threw out the shards, sharp projectiles.

  ‘Stay out there, wherever you are, I don’t want to see you any more! You hear me? I don’t want to see you any more!’

  When there were no pieces of china left, Marianne turned around and around, looking for the children. Elin curled up in a ball, putting her arm around her brothers and letting them burrow their heads into her. They were afraid to even breathe, listening carefully for the slightest movement.

  ‘There’ll be no more food this month. You hear that? No food. Fucking brats! Filthy fucking brats!’

  Her arms whirled around, even though there were no more shards to throw. Elin watched her forlornly through gaps in the rubbish heap. Old furniture, planks, pallets, and other things that should have been thrown away a long time ago, but had piled up instead. In the end, Marianne turned and went back into the house, her hand to her chest as though her heart was contracting inside. Through the kitchen window Elin could see her rummaging impatiently in her handbag and the kitchen drawers until she found what she was looking for. A cigarette. She lit it, inhaled deeply and blew smoke rings up towards the ceiling. Perfect round rings that turned to ovals and then dissipated into a haze and vanished. When only the butt remained, she’d throw it into the sink and it would all be over.

  The siblings
stayed where they were a while, close together, Edvin with his head bent. He dragged a stick across the ground, drawing lines and circles, as Elin sat still with her eyes fixed on the house. When Marianne finally, after a long, silent pause, opened the dirty kitchen window, Elin stepped out and met her gaze. She smiled cautiously and lifted her hand in greeting. Marianne smiled weakly in response, but with her mouth closed and tense.

  Everything was back to normal. It was over now.

  On the windowsill there were two dry primulas with wrinkled little flowers. Marianne pinched out a few of the most shrivelled ones and threw the rubbish out into the flowerbed.

  ‘You can come in again. Sorry. I just got a bit angry,’ she called. Then she turned her back to them again. Elin saw her sit down at the kitchen table. She crouched down and played with a few pebbles on the ground, throwing them into the air and catching them on the back of her hand. One stone stayed there a while, but then rolled down and fell with the others to the floor.

  ‘You’re not going to have any children,’ Edvin teased.

  Elin glared at him.

  ‘Shut it.’

  ‘You might have one – one of them stayed a little while,’ Erik comforted her.

  ‘Oh please, do you really believe a handful of stones can predict the future?’

  Elin sighed and walked towards the house. Halfway she stopped and waved at her brothers.

  ‘Come on you two, let’s eat now, I’m hungry.’

  When they came back into the kitchen, Marianne was sitting at the kitchen window, deep in thought. She held a cigarette in her hand, the loose ash hanging, waiting to be flicked off. The ashtray on the table was full, butt after butt crushed down into the sand at the bottom. Marianne’s face was pale, her eyes stared emptily. She didn’t even react when the children took their seats on the kitchen bench.

  Elin, Erik, and Edvin ate in silence. Baloney, two thick slices each, and cold macaroni stuck together in big clumps. A huge dollop of ketchup helped separate them. Their glasses were empty, so Elin got up to fetch water. Marianne followed her with her eyes as she filled three glasses and set them on the table.