either.
Eriksson was small and strong and the colour of the landscape, except that his eyes were blue. When people talked about him or thought about him, it seemed natural to lift their heads and gaze out over the sea. He was often unlucky and was plagued by bad weather and engine trouble. His herring nets would rip or get caught in his propeller, and fish and fowl would fail to turn up where he had expected them. And if he did have a good catch, the price would go down, so it was always six of one or half a dozen of the other. But beyond all these routine troubles that can spoil a person’s livelihood, there were other, unexpected possibilities.
The family had long realised, without ever discussing it, that Eriksson didn’t especially like fishing and hunting and motorboats. What he did like was harder to put your finger on, but perfectly understandable. His attention and his sudden wishes raced here and there across the water like ocean breezes, and he lived in a perpetual state of quiet excitement. The sea is always subject to unusual events; things drift in or run aground or shift in the night when the wind changes, and keeping track of all this takes experience, imagination, and unflagging watchfulness. It takes a good nose , to put it simply.
The big events always take place far out in the skerries, and time is often of the essence. Only small things happen in among the islands, but these, too – the odd jobs that arise from the whims of the summer people – have to be dealt with. One of them wants a ship’s mast mounted on his roof, and another one needs a rock weighing half a ton, and it has to be round. A person can find anything if he takes the time, that is, if he can afford to look. And while he’s looking, he’s free, and he finds things he never expected. Sometimes people are very predictable: they want a kitten in June, for example, and come the first of September they want someone to drown their cat. So someone does. But other times, people have dreams and want things they can keep.
Eriksson was the man who fulfilled these dreams. No one knew exactly what he found for himself along the way – probably a lot less than people thought. But he went on doing it anyway, perhaps for the sake of the search.
One of the mysterious and attractive things about Eriksson was that he didn’t talk about himself. He never seemed to feel the urge. Nor did he talk about other people; they didn’t interest him very much. His infrequent visits might occur at any time of the day or night, and they never lasted long. Depending on when he arrived, he might have a cup of coffee or a meal or even take a drink just to be polite, but then he would turn quiet and uneasy, he would start listening, and then he would leave. But as long as he stayed, he had everyone’s undivided attention. No one did anything, no one looked at anything but Eriksson. They would hang on his every word, and when he was gone and nothing had actually been said, their thoughts would dwell gravely on what he had left unspoken.
He might pass by early in the morning and throw ashore a present – a small salmon or some cod, a wild rose with roots and soil in a paper carton or a nameplate that said “Captain’s Cabin”, a pretty metal box or a couple of glass floats with the glassblower’s mark. Many of these gifts were appreciated later in the form of trivial sums of money. It was the only chance the family had to try and put a price on their dreams. And dreams burn a lot of petrol.
Sophia adored Eriksson. He never asked her what she did or how old she was. He greeted her just as solemnly as he greeted the others and said goodbye the same way – with a short nod and no smile. They would all go down to his boat to see him off. The boat was big and old and hard to start, but once it was running, it ran. He didn’t take very good care of it. There was all sorts of rubbish washing around in the bilge water and the gunwale was cracked. But all the
Eriksson was small and strong and the colour of the landscape, except that his eyes were blue. When people talked about him or thought about him, it seemed natural to lift their heads and gaze out over the sea. He was often unlucky and was plagued by bad weather and engine trouble. His herring nets would rip or get caught in his propeller, and fish and fowl would fail to turn up where he had expected them. And if he did have a good catch, the price would go down, so it was always six of one or half a dozen of the other. But beyond all these routine troubles that can spoil a person’s livelihood, there were other, unexpected possibilities.
The family had long realised, without ever discussing it, that Eriksson didn’t especially like fishing and hunting and motorboats. What he did like was harder to put your finger on, but perfectly understandable. His attention and his sudden wishes raced here and there across the water like ocean breezes, and he lived in a perpetual state of quiet excitement. The sea is always subject to unusual events; things drift in or run aground or shift in the night when the wind changes, and keeping track of all this takes experience, imagination, and unflagging watchfulness. It takes a good nose , to put it simply.
The big events always take place far out in the skerries, and time is often of the essence. Only small things happen in among the islands, but these, too – the odd jobs that arise from the whims of the summer people – have to be dealt with. One of them wants a ship’s mast mounted on his roof, and another one needs a rock weighing half a ton, and it has to be round. A person can find anything if he takes the time, that is, if he can afford to look. And while he’s looking, he’s free, and he finds things he never expected. Sometimes people are very predictable: they want a kitten in June, for example, and come the first of September they want someone to drown their cat. So someone does. But other times, people have dreams and want things they can keep.
Eriksson was the man who fulfilled these dreams. No one knew exactly what he found for himself along the way – probably a lot less than people thought. But he went on doing it anyway, perhaps for the sake of the search.
One of the mysterious and attractive things about Eriksson was that he didn’t talk about himself. He never seemed to feel the urge. Nor did he talk about other people; they didn’t interest him very much. His infrequent visits might occur at any time of the day or night, and they never lasted long. Depending on when he arrived, he might have a cup of coffee or a meal or even take a drink just to be polite, but then he would turn quiet and uneasy, he would start listening, and then he would leave. But as long as he stayed, he had everyone’s undivided attention. No one did anything, no one looked at anything but Eriksson. They would hang on his every word, and when he was gone and nothing had actually been said, their thoughts would dwell gravely on what he had left unspoken.
He might pass by early in the morning and throw ashore a present – a small salmon or some cod, a wild rose with roots and soil in a paper carton or a nameplate that said “Captain’s Cabin”, a pretty metal box or a couple of glass floats with the glassblower’s mark. Many of these gifts were appreciated later in the form of trivial sums of money. It was the only chance the family had to try and put a price on their dreams. And dreams burn a lot of petrol.
Sophia adored Eriksson. He never asked her what she did or how old she was. He greeted her just as solemnly as he greeted the others and said goodbye the same way – with a short nod and no smile. They would all go down to his boat to see him off. The boat was big and old and hard to start, but once it was running, it ran. He didn’t take very good care of it. There was all sorts of rubbish washing around in the bilge water and the gunwale was cracked. But all the
Similar Books
