Maria sits on the train to Stockholm. She will meet her father for the first time.

Will he be what Maria imagined? She is nervous. Nevertheless, she has said on
the phone that she does not want him to meet her at the central station. She
finds her way to his apartment herself. With butterflies in her stomach, she
walks up the stairs to the third floor. Soon she stands in front of the door with
the name Lindroth. She raises her hand and rings the bell.
OCH STOCKHOLM NEXT! Stockholm-yeah. Maria looked at the clock. There was
only a little while left now.
The uneasy feeling in my stomach grew stronger with every thump the train
sang. Thump, thump, thump - didn't the feeling peak soon? She sighed deeply
and thumbed the letter she held in her hand.
She had to look at it again. Read it. The letter was incomprehensible, she did
not understand it. She had been waiting for this letter all her life - it felt like
that, and that was enough - yet she didn't recognize it at all. In her mind she
had formulated the letter a thousand times - here it was now, and completely
unlike her imagination. Just as she had portrayed her father, painted him in her
own colors in all her dreams and fantasies. Would he also be different than she
had imagined?
Probably. But even though she almost knew it was, she couldn't let go of the
image she had of him.
She opened the envelope and unfolded the letter.
THE MEETING
189
Maria!
You must be sixteen now? It is unbelievable. When I last saw you, you were a
little crawling baby.
We haven't seen each other in many, many years, and I guess you've
sometimes wondered how your father is. I've thought about you quite often.
Curious - but above all with a very guilty conscience.
After the divorce with Marianne, I have lived together with a couple of other
women. (But I don't have any more children than you.) Right now I live alone in
an apartment in Stockholm and work at the film magazine Chaplin.
How are you? I often wonder about your life. Shouldn't we finally meet? I
suggest that you come to my place one day during the summer holidays, so we
can talk and be together. Not as some compensation for the fifteen years, but
as—well, take it for what it is.
I've been meaning to write this letter for a long time but haven't dared or been
able to. Can you forgive me?
Call and we will decide in more detail when we will meet.
My number: 08/39 07 14 Greetings! Lasse
She didn't quite know how to react. Get angry - because she probably had a
right to. He had left and betrayed her for absolutely no reason it seemed. Or
happy – that he finally took the step, at the trust: he gave a piece of himself -
Lasse, her father! - when he sent her the letter. Sorry. Not dared or able.
Replacement.
It tingled in the stomach. Now the train pulled into Stockholm. She saw the
water, the bridges, the churches... Aftonbladet's clock showed half past ten,
yes, now she was right there.
190
ANNA STRÖM
1
f
Such luck that he didn't come to meet her! She avoided meetings on platforms,
they were so embarrassing and difficult. Everything felt much better in a home
environment. On the phone, she had managed to convince him that she would
definitely be able to get to his apartment. She had liked his voice, but of course
it had not matched the image she had of her-
nom.
The train stopped and she got off. The air hit her, summer light. She started
walking towards the T-central.
He lived on Rörstrandsgatan - it wasn't that far, just the subway to St Eriksplan.
Maria got into the subway car. At this time of day there weren't many people
out - mostly housewives on their way to the store. A few men, however,
loomed. Who was most like her father - Maria's childish pondering that she
had at the age of five suddenly came back. Yes, just like that, yes- of course,
that's what she had always thought then. The man she was attached to almost
always looked the same - big and confident with a beard and a boisterous
laugh.
The subway car started. Now Maria really had a stomach ache. Why was she so
nervous? She tried to tell herself that this would be no big deal at all. Nothing
dangerous. She actually used to handle most situations! But it sounded hollow.
And now she was at St Eriksplan.
The sun shone straight in her face when she rose from the underground. Was
it not a friendly sign - a good omen'? She turned onto Rörstrandsgatan. Looked
in the windows as she passed: there
went Maria Lindroth, fatherless - but not for long. She saw again the image of
her bearded, boisterous father within her.
1427 - that was the number code. He had said that on the phone
THE MEETING
191
nen. And the third floor. She pushed open the gate and started up the stairs.
The steps had the same function as the train thump - bringing her closer to the
goal all the time, while increasing the feeling in her stomach. There was the
door. Lindroth. She pushed the doorbell button. Now it was done. Now she
would get to meet him. Dad.
Afterwards she remembered the rest as if in a haze. Everything seems unreal.
What actually happened? When she sits on the train home, it feels like always
when she experienced something dizzying and big - everything is gone. Only
what happened just before and just after remains, and that extra clearly. Like
etched.
Outside the door when she just called. She remembers that best. The
nervousness and the eternity before someone opened. Before someone - he -
her father came.
Maria is sitting on the train. It is dark in the landscape as the train whizzes past,
she sits alone in the compartment. She stares out. Yes, of course she
remembers. How he came and opened. He, her father
―
and yet not. The image she had of him was completely shattered. He was tall
and lean and dark-haired. Long hands and long neck. Warm eyes, a little flat
and worried. He was wearing dark blue pants with a shirt.
What did he say? - Hello, he said first, and she recognized the voice from the
phone. And then: - Come in, get on! I don't recognize you at all. And then he
smiled and said: - And not me, I suppose. Not surprising given the
circumstances.
J
She liked his smile. She no longer remembered that image she had - now she
was reset. Total. Everything felt a little unreal.
And what did they do next? Went into the living room, sat down on a sofa and
drank tea. She looked at him expectantly, he was a complete stranger but still
a part of her, that was it
THE MEETING 193
+
strange All the time she was looking at him, but at the same time she was
keenly aware of the room, the furniture, the paintings, the mats - of the
softness of the sofa and the scent of the tea... All impressions were reinforced.
It was like a dream.
She liked his voice. He talked a lot, with different words, and all the time she
could sense the honesty. As in the letter -- he opened himself, hid nothing.
—
Maria leans her head back against the rough velvet of the train armchair. What
were they really talking about? His warm voice, his gestures with the long
hands that touched dramatized what he said - it was almost enough for her,
but words must also have
said. It's always the case that she can't remember—why, it was such an
important conversation! And she thinks back, closes her eyes and sees herself
in the apartment again. Seeing all the details: the bare windows with books on
the window sill, the palm tree in a corner ... Well, he told about himself. And
he asked a lot, about her, questions all the time, but mostly he wanted to give
her a picture of himself.
Of his life. Of his childhood and upbringing.
When he was young, he said, he had such dreams. He believed in himself
incredibly. Be sure he would be great and famous one day. Like what was less
important - something artistic writer, actor, film director,
artist ...
At school I was quite good. Also in maths and science subjects - but those

things bored me. Everything was so regular, everything matched and could be
calculated. After secondary school, I chose to study languages - I liked that. It
fascinated me. Communication is the most important thing in life!
And so on... - I studied French and literary history at
194
ANNA STRÖM
university - and after that I didn't really know what I wanted to do. I started as
a journalist at a cultural newspaper. It was interesting, but perhaps a bit
intellectual. Only enthusiasts worked there - for starvation wages. I didn't fit in.
Yes - that's when I met Marianne ........
It was the first time he mentioned her mother's name. Did he notice the shift in
her eyes? From having started to get carried away, having been engaged and
interested, a bit of vigilance came into them. She again became tentative. Yes,
what would he say about her mother? Would he tell why he left her, with a
one-year-old baby - she, Maria?
We loved each other, very much - but we were different types. It didn't work,
maybe it was mostly my fault.
She could hear him straining to find the right words. -- She came just when I
was so tired of all intellectualism2, of thinking and constant philosophy, just
then she came - and showed that you could live too, that your own life was
important. Don't read your life away, she often said. Live it instead.
And he did with her.
During the first time we lived together, I almost stopped writing. But when I
was writing, things were different. Previously, I had mostly alluded to quotes
that others said, works that others wrote, famous poems, works of art and
pieces of music. Now everything came from myself.
It felt like standing on your own two feet for the first time in your life - can you
imagine that feeling? And it was all thanks to Marianne.
That's how you were born - he smiled at her. She felt strange. Perhaps here
she should have felt some sense of belonging or tenderness - but all she felt
was confusion. That's how you were born - think, he was her FATHER!
THE MEETING 195
Yes, you were born, and everything was confirmed. That the greatest
happiness was the most natural. Holding a child in one's arms - have you heard
that poem »Is it true that I hold a child...«<? But at the same time you meant a
change. Marianne had ..... rehabilitated me when I was tired and depressed -
but now I was healthy and strong again. And I started reading again, books and
all the cultural magazines that I had been allergic to. And I found more than
ever - it sounds contradictory, but ... It was like that. I began to dislike my job --
I had jumped in as a French teacher, then, during the time with Marianne.
Marianne was on maternity leave - suddenly I couldn't stand the little Santa car
we had created for ourselves. I didn't like it, didn't like it - we lived in a suburb,
we were twenty-two years old... All the uncomplicated and sober things that I
had liked so much about Marianne were now hard to live with. She was too
simple, too flat. It was like in school with maths and languages. Everything was
regulated, by laws and rules, and I was given no room to breathe.
—
Now she sat curled up on the couch, her arms around her knees. Those were
hard words to hear. She didn't want to understand them, but its meaning still
penetrated. How could he say that? Wasn't that a selfish mindset? And that he
left them—wasn't that unforgivable?
As if he heard what she was thinking, he said, now quietly and without
gestures:
What I did was unforgivable. I left Marianne alone with you, a one-year-old.
Perhaps the most difficult period in a woman's life to leave
alone --- then I betrayed her. But right then it felt necessary.
Egoist! She wanted to scream. You left Marianne, but also me. Mother had
chosen you, but not me. You were my papa-
196
ANNA STRÖM
www
bye! You are the father that I have longed for all my life, that I have needed.
That I've been waiting for to hear from, that I've fantasized and dreamed
about. As I told my friends: you are the one who lived in another country and
would soon come home with lots of presents for me. You're the one who
never, ever heard from you!
On the train. Maria feels the anger rising again. Did she say it or did she just
think it? It was anger that had been suppressed for several years. She couldn't
hold it back. Well, she said it all. She said it. She heard how the words hurt.
Every syllable was an arrowhead, but at the same time it felt like a wonderful
liberation to be able to say them. So incredibly nice. Like something pushed
and pushed and finally released.
Her father said: - -I knew this was coming. It was necessary. And what you say
is true. I hurt Marianne a lot, but you even more. It was indefensible and
unforgivable. But it has passed. Now we go and cook. She remembers laughing
in the midst of all the anger. Wasn't he quite lovely after all? >>Now we go and
cook<«<!
Spaghetti Carbonara, it was good - she's always enjoyed doing things like this
with others, cooking, raking leaves...
The rest of the day passed quite calmly. And now she talked about her future
dreams. He smiled when he heard how similar her dreams were to the ones he
himself once had.
High-flying dreams are a must, he said. Otherwise they would not be dreams.
Then he followed her to the train. They walked in silence the last bit. Thought
both.
Maria, he said as they stood on the platform. I was terribly nervous about this
day. I was the adult, I was the one who was responsible for it being successful.
How you have experienced
THE MEETING 197
I do not know. But I want you to understand: A daughter be-
you don't have to like because she's your daughter. But I like you very much.
What would she answer? He probably expected some kind of evaluation of the
day from her. Did he not understand that it was far too early to give?
14.
It's been a weird one
-I don't know what to say day. So many new impressions Now I have to go
home and be to myself. But... well, yes...
4
He seemed to understand, she was glad for that. They said goodbye and he
promised to be in touch. The train started and pulled out of the platform.
She sits alone in the compartment. She's crying. Why she doesn't know. She is
completely empty inside.
Fatherless not much longer, she thought as she reflected in the window on
Rörstrandsgatan. That's not true. Before, she had at least an illusion* of father.
A performance, she knew him to the letter. She has lost that father now. He
has been taken from her.
She's got something else. A friend maybe. Someone to recognize yourself a
little in. But a father No. Never one
dad.
She is not disappointed. But she is changed.
The train rushes into the night. The wheels thump against the rails. Nothing
will ever be the same again.
EXPLANATIONS
'omen notice, premonition
* intellectualism emphasizing the understanding
3rehabilitate readjust after illness
"illusion fantasy image
198