First published in English in 2016 by
New Internationalist Publications Ltd
The Old Music Hall
106-108 Cowley Road
Oxford
OX4 1JE, UK
© Anna Borgeryd
The right of Anna Borgeryd to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from the Publisher.
Originally published in Sweden as Tunna Vāggar by Pärspektiv Förlag in 2013.
Translated by Cindy Kite
Translation editor: Jo Lateu
Edited by Chris Brazier
Front cover design: Andrew Smith
Design: New Internationalist
Lyric to ‘Fix You’ by Coldplay © Universal Music Publishing Ngb Ltd.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data.
A catalog for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
eISBN 978-1-78026-236-9
To Emma, Nina and all the others who are going to grow up.
Contents
Mayday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgements
Mayday
‘Confianza.’ That’s what he had said. He who wanted to be called Juan.
She lay awake in the darkness and felt the breeze from the northern Colombian rainforest blowing through the mosquito net. The scent of vegetation and life blended with more pungent fumes reminiscent of death. The singing of the cicadas didn’t disturb the calm breathing of her colleagues. They usually fell into bed and slept deeply, exhausted from their long workdays. But tonight she lay fully awake. Memories of the last 33 hours played like a film in her head.
The blindfold had prevented her from seeing where he was taking her. First towards the northeast, she guessed, down into the lush ravine where the leaves steamed and the birdsong was most intense, but then south again along meandering paths, upwards. She had understood that they were in a real hurry. But when he had removed the blindfold from her eyes, he had nonetheless taken the time to look at her with respect: ‘Your trust is good.’
Yes, that’s probably true. She had been rewarded with hours during which she had felt extraordinarily alive. That passion for life and the adrenaline kick that comes just when you need to fight for it. Anxiety that her efforts wouldn’t be enough. Would she be able to stop it – would Juan’s trust in her prove to be well founded? Or would the newborn baby boy’s mother die from blood loss despite her efforts? What had he really meant, the new grandfather who anxiously gesticulated towards the fantastic view? And who were these people – the white-clad indigenous group who had built tidy stone roads and steps that crisscrossed the steep mountainsides in the jungle?
Their huts and gardens; their respectfully offered, peculiar food and unfamiliar language; last night in a surprisingly comfortable hammock – everything spun around in her head until her thoughts returned to the most important question: would the patient survive the difficult birth? She thought so. She had had the presence of mind to take the station’s best flashlight and a broad-spectrum penicillin in addition to the standard equipment. She had needed to use 27 stitches. They were not as perfect as if Adam had done them, but they were properly placed and, judging from the flow of blood, she had done them in the right order.
Now she was back in her bed in the greying wooden building that housed the aid organization’s maternity clinic. She ought to be dead tired, but the life-affirming experience of having felt so fully giving and receiving pulsated through her body. Such a beautiful world, and, strangely enough, she had fitted in, had been filled with purpose.
Unforgettable, she thought, smiling, yet at the same time irritated because she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t get the rest she so desperately needed. Because who knows what I might be needed for tomorrow?
Suddenly, threatening male voices broke through the chorus of insects outside. They weren’t speaking loudly, so they must be close! She sat up in an instant, filled with a chilling feeling of danger. She had just put her feet down on the old missionary