Page 10 of The Living and the Dead

He had Lundström to thank for being here. Lundström’s first name was John, but no one called him that. He was just Lundström. He came from Åled and was said to have been one of the best chess players in Halland as a teenager. He had made it all the way to Stockholm, and after he put away the chessboard to focus on other problems, heended up at the university. And there he stayed. Philosophy, apparently. He eventually returned to Halland, but who knew why.

Last fall, Sander’s class had him as a mentor and teacher of religion and Swedish, and Lundström had taken them to a lecture at the college. The lecture, which was on ethics and the law, was given by Magnus Ardelius, head of the Department of Law up in Stockholm and an old classmate of Lundström’s. The short man with bright blue eyes spoke about maxims and systems of belief, of golden rules old and new.

“The law,” he said, “functions as the barrier along the brink of society’s cliff. It demarcates the outermost point. Everything up to this point is negotiable, but past it…” He paused for effect. “Nothing. Right and wrong can be determined in an instant.”

A barrier, a limit. That was appealing. When Ardelius was finished, Lundström leaned toward Sander, who was in the row in front of him, and said, “You just wrote an essay about law and justice. You should go down there and talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Just about what you had to say.”

Sander shook his head, but Lundström pulled him down to the front and suddenly he was in front of Ardelius, Lundström at his side.

“This is Sander, one of my students. He’d love to talk to you a bit more.”

Ardelius, looking friendly, studied him.

—

Now here they sat, at a café close to the big auditorium. Sander had just finished explaining his essay.

“That sounds like an interesting topic. And I’m so glad to learn John has such gifted students. Are you interested in the law?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“You’re graduating next summer, aren’t you? What do you plan to do after that?”

“I don’t know. But my grades are pretty good.”

The man took a thick catalog from his briefcase. On the front it saidStockholm University. He opened it, found the right page, and dog-eared it before closing the catalog and placing it in front of Sander.

“In case this is of interest to you.” He smiled faintly. “Sweden is a big country. It has many faces. Stockholm is only one of them, and maybe, like John, you wouldn’t want to be there forever. But it’s not so bad for a little while.”

Sander blinked.

“What you said during your lecture, about the edge of the cliff. Or brink, you said the brink of the cliff.”

Ardelius raised a curious eyebrow.

“Yes?”

“You were saying that the legal system, or the law, is like a boundary for us. Or did I misunderstand you?”

“No, that’s more or less what I meant. The law marks an outer limit for human behavior.”

“But people break the law all the time. What’s beyond that boundary?”

Ardelius smiled.

“A very good question. But,” he added, “I’m afraid I have to go. My train.” He offered his hand. “You can bring that question to us in the fall, if you like.”

“Thank you,” Sander said. “I look forward to it. Very much.”

“Then we should be the ones thanking you for your trust. Many happy returns for the season.”

Many happy returns. Language Sander wasn’t used to. He wasn’t used to any of this. Ardelius was an important man, busy doing things so great and complicated that you probably had to be from Stockholm to comprehend them. Sander wished that the professor would remain in that chair. Would stay. Just for a little while longer, Sander wanted to experience that sense of gazing through a new window, of thinking new thoughts.

But everything must come to an end. Here he was, Sander Eriksson, in December of 1999. Here, perhaps, he would remain.