FROM HER JOURNAL MY MUM produced a newspaper clipping. She held it up for inspection, her cracked nail slicing across the head of Håkan Greggson. I’d seen him before, in the photograph my mum had emailed—the tall stranger in conversation with my dad.
The clipping is from the front page of Hallands Nyheter. The majority of people in the region subscribe. When we refused, because we couldn’t afford the cost, there was malicious chitchat about why we’d snubbed a local institution. There was no option but to subscribe. Chris was furious. I explained to him that you can’t put a price on fitting in. Anyway, I’m showing this to you because you need to understand the power of the man I’m up against.
Håkan’s in the center.
To his right is the tipped-to-be leader of the Christian Democrats, Marie Eklund. A stern woman, one day she’s going to be a great politician, by “great” I mean successful rather than decent. She failed me. I went to her in person, with my allegations, at the height of the crisis. Her office refused to grant me an audience. She wouldn’t even hear me speak.
On Håkan’s left is the mayor of Falkenberg, the seaside town nearest our farm. Kristofer Dalgaard. His friendliness is so excessive you can’t help but question it. He laughs too loudly at your jokes. He’s too interested in your opinions. Unlike Marie Eklund, he doesn’t have any ambition except to stay exactly where he is, but maintaining the status quo can be as powerful a motivation as wanting to climb upwards.
And finally there’s Håkan. He’s handsome. I don’t deny it. He’s even more impressive when you meet him in person. Tall with broad shoulders, physically he’s immensely powerful. His skin is tough and tanned. There’s nothing soft about his body—nothing weak. He’s rich enough to employ an army of people while he could act like a decadent emperor, issuing orders from his veranda. That’s not his way. He wakes at dawn and doesn’t finish work until the evening. When you’re in his presence it’s hard to imagine him ever being vulnerable. When he grabs you his grip is unbreakable. Though fifty years old, he has the vigor of a young man, with the cunning of an older man—a dangerous combination. I found him intimidating, even on that first day.
As he emerged from the gloom of his underground lair, I hastily launched into my introduction. I said something like—“Hello, my name is Tilde, it’s wonderful to meet you, I’ve moved into the farm down the road”—and yes, I was nervous. I spoke too much, and too quickly. In the middle of my good-natured babble I remembered the flag tied in my hair. I thought: how ridiculous! I blushed like a schoolgirl and tripped over my words. And do you know what he did? Think of the cruelest response.