HE FAMILY had one friend who never came too close, and that was Eriksson. He would drive by in his boat, or he would think about coming but never get around to it. There were even summers when Eriksson came nowhere near the island and didn’t think about it, either.

Eriksson was small and strong and the color of the landscape, except that his eyes were blue. When people talked about him or thought about him, it seemed natural to lift their heads and gaze out over the sea. He was often unlucky and was plagued by bad weather and engine trouble. His herring nets would rip or get caught in his propeller, and fish and fowl would fail to turn up where he had expected them. And if he did have a good catch, the price would go down, so it was always six of one or half a dozen of the other. But beyond all these routine troubles that can spoil a person’s livelihood, there were other, unexpected possibilities.

The family had long realized, without ever discussing it, that Eriksson didn’t especially like fishing and hunting and motorboats. What he did like was harder to put your finger on, but perfectly understandable. His attention and his sudden wishes raced here and there across the water like ocean breezes, and he lived in a perpetual state of quiet excitement. The sea is always subject to unusual events; things drift in or run aground or shift in the night when the wind changes, and keeping track of all this takes experience, imagination, and unflagging watchfulness. It takes a good nose, to put it simply. The big events always take place far out in the skerries, and time is often of the essence. Only small things happen in among the islands, but these, too—the odd jobs that arise from the whims of the summer people—have to be dealt with. One of them wants a ship’s mast mounted on his roof, and another one needs a rock weighing half a ton, and it has to be round. A person can find anything if he takes the time, that is, if he can afford to look. And while he’s looking, he’s free, and he finds things he never expected. Sometimes people are very predictable: they want a kitten in June, for example, and come the first of September they want someone to drown their cat. So someone does. But other times, people have dreams and want things they can keep.

Eriksson was the man who fulfilled these dreams. No one knew exactly what he found for himself along the way—probably a lot less than people thought. But he went on doing it anyway, perhaps for the sake of the search.

One of the mysterious and attractive things about Eriksson was that he didn’t talk about himself. He never seemed to feel the urge. Nor did he talk about other people; they didn’t interest him very much. His infrequent visits might occur at any time of the day or night, and they never lasted long. Depending on when he arrived, he might have a cup of coffee or a meal or even take a drink just to be polite, but then he would turn quiet and uneasy, he would start listening, and then he would leave. But as long as he stayed, he had everyone’s undivided attention. No one did anything, no one looked at anything but Eriksson. They would hang on his every word, and when he was gone and nothing had actually been said, their thoughts would dwell gravely on what he had left unspoken.

He might pass by early in the morning and throw ashore a present—a small salmon or some cod, a wild rose with roots and soil in a paper carton, or a nameplate that said “Captain’s Cabin,” a pretty metal box or a couple of glass floats with the glass-blower’s mark. Many of these gifts were appreciated later in the form of trivial sums of money. It was the only chance the family had to try and put a price on their dreams. And dreams burn a lot of gasoline.

Sophia adored Eriksson. He never asked her what she did or how old she was. He greeted her just as solemnly as he greeted the others and said goodbye the same way—with a short nod and no smile. They would all go down to his boat to see him off. The boat was big and old and hard to start, but once it was running, it ran. He didn’t take very good care of it. There was all sorts of trash washing around in the bilge water and the gunwale was cracked. But all the equipment was in good condition. He fried his fish on the engine block, and he slept in a sealskin sleeping bag the way his grandfather had done. Earth and seaweed and fish scales and sand went with him everywhere. He had his nets and decoys and his shotgun neatly arranged in the stern, but God only knew the significance of the sacks and boxes piled in the bow. He would slap the painter on board and shove off. The prop, which was used to rough treatment, would strike the shallow bottom several cheerful blows, and Eriksson would be off. He never waved as he headed out. His boat didn’t have a name.

Just before midsummer, Eriksson landed at the island and heaved a box up on the rock. “It’s some fireworks I picked up in a trade,” he said. “I’ll drop by on Midsummer Eve, if that’s all right, and we’ll see how they work.” He kept the motor running while he talked, and then backed off as soon as he was through. The box was pretty damp, so they put it by the stove.

Midsummer became even more important than usual. Grandmother blacked and polished the stove and painted the stove doors silver. They washed all the windows and even the curtains. Naturally, no one thought Eriksson would notice—he never noticed anything indoors. But they cleaned the house anyway, just because he was coming. The day before the great event, they gathered birch and rowan and lilies-of-the-valley, and the mosquitoes were awful on the big islands in toward the mainland. They shook the aphids and the ants off in the sand and went back home. They turned the house into a green bower, inside and out. Every birch stood in its own pail of water. And because it was June, almost all of the wildflowers they had picked were white.

Grandmother wondered if they shouldn’t have invited the relatives, but no one thought it would have been a good idea, not with Eriksson there. He was the kind of man who came alone and stayed that way until he figured it was time to leave.

In the morning, on Midsummer Eve, there was a strong wind from the north. Along toward noon, it started to rain, and Papa spread a tarpaulin over the bonfire they’d laid out on the point. The tarpaulin blew into the water, as it always did, so he took out a can of gasoline and put it behind a tree. It was a disgrace for a Midsummer bonfire not to burn. The day went slowly, and the wind did not let up. Papa worked at his desk. His launching platform for Eriksson’s fireworks stood out on the veranda, with its cradles pointing upward at an angle.

They set the table for four. There would be herring and pork and potatoes, and two kinds of vegetables. And marinated pears for dessert.

“He doesn’t eat dessert,” said Sophia nervously. “And he doesn’t eat vegetables, either. He calls it grass. You know that.”

“Yes, I know,” Grandmother said. “But it looks nice.”

The aquavit was in the little cellar under the floor, and they had extra milk. Eriksson never drank more than one glass of aquavit, or maybe two—just for the sake of the occasion—but he did love milk.

“Take away the napkins,” Sophia said. “They look dumb.”

Grandmother took away the napkins.

The wind continued to blow piercingly all day, but it didn’t increase. There was an occasional shower. The terns screamed out on the point, and evening came.

When I was young, in Sweden, Grandmother thought, the Midsummer weather was so different. Not a breeze, not a breath of wind. The garden was in bloom, and we had a maypole with garlands all the way up to the little banner at the top. But it was too bad that we never had any wind. We never had bonfires in Sweden. Why didn’t we ever have a fire... She was lying on the bed staring up at the birch greenery, and after a while she fell asleep.

Suddenly someone shouted, and the door slammed. The room was quite dark, since no lamps can be lit on Midsummer. Grandmother sat up and realized that Eriksson must have arrived. “Hurry up!” Sophia shouted. “He doesn’t want anything to eat! We have to get started right away. We’re supposed to put on warm clothes and he’s in a terrible rush!”

Grandmother staggered to her feet and found her sweater and her warm pants and her walking stick and at the last minute stuffed the Lupatro in her pocket. The others were running back and forth, and she could hear Eriksson’s motor running down at the shore. It was lighter outside. The wind had gone over to the west and there was a fine, drizzling rain. Suddenly Grandmother was wide awake. She walked down to the water alone and climbed aboard. Eriksson didn’t greet her. He was keeping a sharp watch out to sea, and not a word was spoken as they set off. Grandmother sat on the floor. As the boat moved along, she saw the rising and falling sea in brief glimpses over the railing, and she noticed the first Midsummer bonfires being lit along the coast to the north. There were not very many, and they were barely visible through the rain and fog.

Eriksson headed straight south for Outer Skerry. There were a lot of other boats going the same way. More and more of them appeared out of the darkness, like shadows. Wooden crates with a heavy load of lovely, rounded bottles were bobbing on the gray sea with only their upper edges showing black against the choppy water. Black, like the boats that sailed in at full speed, slowed down to haul the crates aboard, and then swept on again. The salvage went on like a neatly balanced dance. The Coast Guard were driving about in their powerful boats and salvaging what they could, turning a blind eye to everyone else. All the boats in the area were out at sea, ignoring one another. Eriksson held the rudder, and Sophia’s father hung over the rail and lifted the crates on board. They stepped up the pace, cutting down on each motion so as not to lose a second, until finally they were working together in such perfect harmony with the moving boat that it was a joy to watch. Grandmother watched it, and appreciated and remembered. And all the time, there seemed to be more and more of this Midsummer bounty tossing in the waves around the Gulf of Finland. Off toward the mainland, a few feeble rockets rose in the air, dreamers shooting their arrows of light against the gray Midsummer sky. Sophia had fallen asleep.

Everything was salvaged, some by the right hands and some by the wrong, but nothing was simply lost. Along toward morning the makeshift fleet split up. The boats floated farther and farther apart, each one setting off by itself to its own home. By dawn, the sea was empty. The wind died. The rain stopped. A clear and lovely Midsummer morning arranged its colors in the sky, and it was very cold. When Eriksson landed at the island, the terns began to scream. He left the motor running and set off again as soon as the others had climbed out.

For a while, it seemed to Papa that Eriksson might have shared the booty, but that was a hasty, passing thought. He made sandwiches for everyone and dragged Eriksson’s box of fireworks out onto the veranda. He put the rockets in their launching cradles. The first one wouldn’t light, nor the second. None of them would light; they had all been ruined by the water. Only the very last one went off and sailed up toward the sunrise in a shower of blue stars. The terns started screaming again, and that was Midsummer.

Eriksson had sailed back south to make sure nothing had been missed.