The summer of 1968. The last one.
“How have you been this winter?”
“Not too bad. Much as ever. Been sitting in front of the TV.”
“I’m sure.”
“I keep busy with this and that. But I go to bed earlier now. I get tired quickly.”
“I see.”
“I didn’t really think I was going to come out here this year.”
“Really?”
“Not that I didn’t feel like it, but I do get tired. Then I decided I would come out anyway.”
“It’s nice to be here.”
“It is. Shall we have coffee?”
“I’d love some.”
“Will you make it?”
“Of course.”
“You’ll have to get some water first, I think.”
“The bucket isn’t empty yet.”
“Don’t bother then.”
“Do you still take sugar?”
“I do. Bring us cookies while you’re at it. Or there’s buns if you’d like.”
“A cookie will do.”
“They’re good. But my teeth are giving me grief.”
“Are they hurting you?”
“My three teeth? Not bloody likely. But they wobble around in my mouth. I can’t really bite properly.”
“Have you thought about dentures?”
“No. There’s no point.”
“Isn’t there?”
“No. I can’t be bothered.”
“You’ve bought a new pack of cards.”
“The old ones were looking bloody awful. They kept sticking together. They were cheap.”
“I think Öberg is now the only make.”
“Really?”
“I’ve never seen any others.”
“Is that right? It’s boiling now.”
“I’ll turn it off.”
“The radio’s on the fritz.”
“In what way?”
“It makes a scratchy noise. The sound’s so bad now I don’t turn it on all that often.”
“When did you come out this year?”
“About three weeks ago. It’s been cold.”
“Have you been in the boat at all?”
“It’s leaking. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Let’s go out tomorrow.”
“Do you think we’ll get any fish?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“We’re bound to catch something.”
“Are there any people out here yet?”
“I haven’t seen any. It’s a while yet before the holidays. Thanks for the postcard, by the way.”
“Oh, you got it.”
“It was just about the only mail I got this winter. But I had a bit of difficulty reading what you wrote.”
“Was it so unclear?”
“It must be my eyes.”
“Have they gotten worse?”
“Definitely worse, I’d say. But I’m not complaining.”
“The card was from London.”
“Blimey.”
“I spent a few weeks there.”
“I see.”
“It was nice.”
“Good.”
Coffee, coffee. Long, hot gulps.
“There’s a lot going on.”
“Yes. It’s good, what’s happening.”
“There’ve been demonstrations everywhere.”
“I’ve seen them on TV. Bloody police.”
“They’re rough.”
“I’d have liked to have been there. They’d think twice about beating up a disabled person.”
“Maybe.”
“It puts me in a good mood. You’d be up for it, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“That’s good. I’ve bought paint for the boat. Apparently, there’s some kind of plastic in it that stops the leaking.”
“Let’s deal with that tomorrow.”
“It’d be good if you could help me.”
“Shall we put out the nets tomorrow?”
“Will the paint be dry by then?”
“I think so.”
“I’ve been doing some mending on the nets. But they’re starting to get a bit fragile.”
“Let’s see if I can buy some at auction this summer.”
“That might be good.”
“They don’t usually cost all that much.”
“Shall we have some more?”
“I’ll pour it.”
“That’s enough.”
“It’s lovely to be out again.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Still a little cold though.”
“Let’s see how it turns out.”
“Shall we take a look at the roof again this year?”
“We probably ought to. The winters can be harsh out here. And the bed is broken.”
“Is it? What happened?”
“If you look underneath, you’ll see that the steel springs have come unstuck in one place. Perhaps you can prop it up with a plank of some sort.”
“I’ll do that. Have you bought a new blanket?”
“I brought one with me from town. My boy dropped it off. They’d bought some new ones for themselves.”
“Sounds good.”
“I like the green.”
“It’s time for me to go back to my place now. But we’ll see each other tomorrow.”
“Let’s do that. Will you take the coffeepot off the stove?”
“I’ll get some water too. Is there a lot in the well?”
“There is.”
“See you then.”
“Yes. Bye.”
“I’ll bring the water right away. Where’s the rope?”
“It’s lying on the lid of the well.”
Step across the cold ground of the island. Lift the lid of the well and look down into the brown water. Lower the bucket, watch it fill up. Go back to the cabin, set the gray bucket down on the floor inside the door. Oskar is sitting on the chair with his cane across his knees. He is wearing a tattered gray sweater over his shirt.
“See you tomorrow then. Bye.”
“Bye.”
Summer is approaching. Oskar Johansson, 1888–1969.