Free The Double Silence by Mari Jungstedt Page B

well-nourished cows were grazing, and she caught glimpses of the sea. Here and there she saw a summer cottage. All of a sudden she found herself right outside a farm. Too late she discovered that it was private land, and a furious Doberman came rushing towards her as if shot out of a cannon, barking wildly. She froze in terror. The dog would reach her in a matter of seconds. She deeply regretted setting out at all. What business had she being here? At the very moment when she thought the dog was going to take a bite of her bare leg, she heard a sharp whistle. Like a remote-control robot, the dog stopped in mid-air and took off in another direction.
    She breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t want to stay here a second longer than necessary, so she pedalled as fast as she could, leaving behind the dog that didn’t like strangers. The owner shouted after her, but shepretended not to hear. The road became smaller and smaller, and she jolted over cattle grids, through patches of woodland, and along expanses of shoreline. Several times flocks of sheep blocked the road, but they moved aside, bleating protests as their matchstick legs carried them in all directions. She continued on, even though by this time she had begun to have serious doubts that she was going the right way. Who cares if I’m lost, she thought. At least it’s beautiful here.
    Suddenly the road split in two, and she ended up in front of a high gate with signs that said: ‘Private’, ‘Beware of the dog’, ‘Security’. Plus the name and phone number of the security company. Her mouth went dry. Was she in luck? Who else would have this kind of gate on Fårö?
    Hesitantly she got off the bicycle, unsure what to do next. She looked around. There was no one in sight. The only sounds were a faint roar from the sea, a few chirping birds in the bushes and her own footsteps on the gravel.
    Cautiously she pushed down on the gate’s handle. It gave a reluctant creak and seemed to resist, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. She stood on the gravel path, listening intently, but everything seemed calm. Slowly she moved forward, her steps uncertain. Someone might be here, since it was the Bergman festival week and all. But the place seemed completely dead. Desolate and abandoned. With each step, the roar from the sea grew louder.
    Then she stopped. Several cars were visible between the trees. Damn it, she thought. Somebody’s here after all.
    She glanced around, straining to distinguish other sounds besides the roar of the sea, the chirping of the birds, the rustling of the leaves in the trees and bushes. Her own breathing.
    She didn’t know whether she dared go any further. Frantically she thought about what to say if she got caught. Maybe it would be a good idea to speak English, pretend to be a lost tourist who didn’t understand a thing. Or maybe it would be best to tell the truth. Put her cards on the table and confess. ‘Yes, I was curious. Who could blame me?’ But presumably what she was in the process of doing right now was a punishable offence. Illegal entry.
    As she got closer, it became clear that the vehicles parked outside the house were anything but new. Red, dusty old Volvos that looked as if they were at least twenty years old. Probably cars that Bergman had used for his excursions around Fårö, she thought. They didn’t look as if they’d been driven in a long time. That gave her renewed courage, and she picked up her pace.
    Finally she reached the house itself. A long, narrow wooden structure painted grey with blue window frames. Actually quite modest-looking. To prevent anyone from looking in, a high stone wall ran along both sides of the house. Now she began to feel certain that no one was here. The place looked as if it was locked up.
    She paused for a moment to weigh up her next move. Should she make do with this and turn around? She had reached her goal; she had located the house and gone close enough to see it, although she