A Darker Shade of Sweden (8 page)

Up there he felt the wind.

He felt both large and small at the same time.

“Look down there,” he heard one of the men say.

He looked.

Something moved below among the spruce. He could see the branches shake, rise, fall. He saw something brown, or black; it was difficult to see any colors now since the sun had begun sinking beneath the horizon and that meant that colors had begun sinking into the ground.

He saw the moose walk on to the three-way junction down there, or the three-track junction, and walk on east. The moose! His first moose! They looked like a family, even though from up here all the moose seemed to be about the same size. They appeared as if to order. For a moment he thought that they were trained to show themselves just when people had climbed the tower, but that was just too impossible to believe. Though you never knew. People in this backwoods might well communicate better with animals than with city dwellers like himself.

The moose walked on east, without hurrying. A couple of times they stopped to nibble the branches, as if to check on their freshness and taste. Their movements were jerky and a bit clumsy, but at the same time there was something magnificent about them. Kings of the forest, and queens. Suddenly he wished that his wife had been standing here beside him. He surprised himself with that thought. He thought that everything might have been different. They might have been a family, a real family.

Like the moose down there.

Now they were disappearing, walking back into the forest again. The moment was past. He had had his moment in reality and now it was gone, slowly walking east.

He looked around and saw that all the men were watching him. Watching his reactions. He was fairly certain of being the only one here paying, but that didn't matter. He had had his moment.

He had become someone else.

He wanted to tell her that, do it at once. But that wouldn't be possible. He wouldn't be able to find his way back, nor walk the whole way back, and the other men would have to give him his ­money's worth. To them it would be a matter of honor and if he demanded to be driven back already he would insult them.

The man in the baseball cap took the lead again and they climbed down the ladder.

Down there the man dragged a large wooden crate from under the tower and began taking something out. He couldn't see what it was since the man was standing with his back to him.

He moved closer and saw the silhouette targets the man had laid out on the ground, the hunting targets, the shooting targets. They depicted moose, close to life-size. The man in the baseball cap stood one of them up. It looked almost alive.

One of the other plaid shirts had walked back to the pickup truck and returned, arms full of rifles.

The man in the baseball cap shook the moose.

“Right, let's do some hunting.”

“How . . . do you mean?” he asked.

“We put the targets up down at the edge of the woods,” the man in the baseball cap replied, smiling. “Then we plug them!”

“I've . . . never shot,” he said.

“High time, in that case.”

The man in the baseball cap nodded to one of the plaid shirts, who handed him a gun. He supposed it was the kind called a moose-hunting rifle. He had heard that expression. He accepted the rifle, felt its weight. Suddenly he thought of the weight of the paper bag full of rolls and Danish he had thrown out over the lake. He regretted having done it. Suddenly he regretted that more than anything else he had ever done. Standing here, with the damned gun in his hand and the fucking hicks around him, it felt as if he had done something unforgivable in throwing the paper bag. He didn't know why he thought so at this particular moment, but it felt as if he had crossed a line in doing it. A final line. A final line in their relationship. He had crossed the final line.

A few times she had wanted to take another direction, away from him. Towards another line. But he hadn't allowed her to take even a single step. She had known what would happen if she tried to leave him.

“Let's put the targets up,” said the man with the baseball cap.

He really didn't know what would happen if she tried to leave him. Perhaps she knew more than he did. Knew more about him. What he would do to her if she tried.

Christ, let me get away from here. I want to get away from here before it's too late. Soon it will be too late, he thought, wondering at the same time why he would think so.

He stood still while the men placed moose at different ranges down by the fucking edge of the woods. Some of them were visible and some weren't visible, as if he was supposed to just shoot into the forest. But he wouldn't shoot, for him the adventure was over. He wanted to get away from here, back to her. He was someone else now.

The men were standing around him, their guns in the crooks of their arms. They looked as if they'd been born with a gun in their arms. Which he supposed was more or less the case in regions like this.

They were looking at him as if they expected him to fire the first shot. Whoever fires the first shot, he thought, almost smirking. But nobody had even shown him what to do. They hadn't even given him any bullets, or whatever the fuck they were called.

“I think one of the targets has fallen down,” the man in the baseball cap said, nodding at him. “Could you walk down and raise it back up?”

“I?” he replied.

The man in the baseball cap nodded again.

He carefully put his gun down on the ground, as if it had been loaded, and started walking down to the edge of the forest.

He couldn't see any moose-shaped target lying flat on the ground. If there had been one it was gone by now, just like the sign pointing to the lake.

“A bit to your left,” he heard the voice of the man in the baseball cap somewhere behind. “On the other side of the juniper shrub.” And suddenly he recognized the dialect.

It was the same melody she sometimes spoke in.

This was where she had been a summer child.

Right here.

She knew these men.

They had also been children here, though not just in the summers.

She had read the map.

It felt like a hundred summers since.

She had guided them here.

In real life, there was no camping ground.

Now he saw the target on the other side of the juniper. It was upright. The moose leered at him from the corner of its eye, or maybe it leered at something behi
nd him. He turned. He saw the plaid shirts, the baseball caps, the boots. The guns. Now they were raised. They pointed at him. You're fucking supposed to aim at the moose, he thought before understanding. Truly understanding. He
heard a sharp, metallic sound from the guns, a sound he couldn't identify. But he knew what it was. There are certain things you recognize the first time you encounter them, he thought.

Beyond the men the sky was flame colored. He saw the tower as a silhouette outlined by fire. He saw the figure standing at its top. He wanted to wave. He wanted to cry out. He wanted to explain all. He wanted to run up the ladder. He wanted to fly. The evening breeze suddenly took hold of her skirt and blew it out like a black banner.

Born in the small town of Eksjö in 1953, Åke Edwardson initially worked as a journalist, then as a teacher at the Gothenburg School of Journalism before publishing his first novel in 1995. That book,
Till allt som varit dött (To All That Has Been Dead)
, won the Best First Novel Award from the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy; it was also the first novel in his series about Chief Inspector Erik Winter, who has since appeared in eleven novels. For two of the later Winter novels,
Dans med en ängel
(Death of Angels)
and
Himlen är en plats på jorden
(Frozen Tracks)
, Edwardson received the 1997 and 2001 Best Novel of the Year Awards from the Swedish Crime Fiction Academy. The Winter novels have been adapted for film in Sweden and are being published in numerous countries, including the United States.

IN OUR DARKENED HOUSE

I
NGER
F
RIMANSSON

Inger Frimansson's novels have no recurring protagonists, although characters, places, and events in one book may appear or influence what happens in others. In that sense, she is gradually creating what she calls Frimanssonland—a fictitious world in which her characters interact and influence one another and events. Similarly, although many of her novels are viewed as psychological thrillers while others are primarily psychological portraits, the line dividing the two is fluid and uncertain—in all of her novels are streaks of inner darkness, of the damage we do to each other, and of its consequences for our lives.

Readers of this story should know that December 13 is Lucia Day and important to most Swedes, particularly children and teens. The tradition was initially a combination of ancient midwinter rituals and imports from Germany during the eighteenth century, but was in its modern form introduced in the late 1920s via newspaper contests for a town Lucia. The
main event is a Lucia procession very early in the morning, consisting of a Lucia, dressed in white with a scarlet ribbon around her waist and with candles in her hair, and her followers—girls dressed in white, usually with tinsel in their hair and boys dressed variously as “star boys,” in white with
cone hats decorated with golden stars, as Santa's helpers, or as gingerbread men; together they sing a few traditional songs and wish a Merry Christmas. Lucias are often elected by popular vote in towns, business offices, schools, day care centers, and other places where people gather; regional Lucias will visit hospitals, old people's homes, churches, shopping malls, and the hotel rooms of visiting Nobel laureates to sing and often serve coffee, mulled wine, gingerbread, and specially made saffron buns, also traditionally associated with Lucia mornings. In most homes, the children will do something similar.

The name Lucia, of course, is taken from the Sicilian Saint Lucia, killed in the early 300s. But there is nothing religious about the Swedish tradition, nor is December 13 a holiday. On the whole, the Lucia tradition is viewed as a pre-Christmas celebration and is beloved not least by teenagers, who take the opportunity to stay awake all night, drinking and celebrating, and ending their revelries by dressing up to wake their parents and teachers.

DOCTOR ROSBERG WAS AN OLD MAN, SO OLD THAT HE REALLY SHOULDN'T
be practicing medicine any longer, Inga-Lisa had told her.

“But who cares,” she had laughed, loudly enough for the makeup on her face almost to crack. “That's why I see him. He gives me anything I want to get, just a short lecture and then he pulls out his prescription book.”

Inga-Lisa was her newest acquaintance. She had met her out in Hovsjö. A woman of around fifty, fresh and loud. But with a heart of gold. They had met coming home from the mall, same suburban bus, same apartment house entrance.

“What the hell, do you live here, too?”

She cussed constantly. And she knew people everywhere. Jannike did neither. One evening, while they were sitting in Inga-Lisa's cosy kitchen playing the two-player version of whist, she told her about Doctor Rosberg.

“I've seen him for years. He prescribes for me. Whatever I need. He knows I can hardly fucking sleep. It's my arthritis and my fibromyalgia. Stuff you get when you're an old hag. He's one of the few doctors who'll go to bat for a woman. Last time he gave me pills that would kill an ox . . . if you're not careful.”

She kept thinking about that. Kill an ox. Nothing was clear to her as yet, no plans or anything of that kind. But perhaps that was how they began taking shape.

Now she was standing outside the door of his office and had to press the bell hard and long, so long that she was at the verge of giving up. But finally she heard stumping from inside and the door opened. A lined, wrinkled male face appeared.

“Miss Linder? Is it you?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

“Welcome, Miss Linder. Please step inside.”

His hands were long and so thin that they looked as if the veins lay on top of his skin. She didn't like the idea of having to feel those hands on her body. But she would have to. She had to play along.

“How do you do,” she said and put on an expression of suffering while she made her breaths heavier and strained.

“Please sit down and wait. I will call you in a moment.” He made a gesture towards a group of chairs and disappeared down the hallway.

His office was part of a huge apartment in the Östermalm part of town. Heavy, plush furniture, stained cushions. Inga-Lisa had said that as far as she knew, he lived alone in the apartment. She had never heard of any Mrs. Rosberg, nor had she ever seen any nurse. On the couch was a small stuffed dog, its fur made from crocheted silk strings. Its nose was almost entirely worn away, only loose remnants of black, torn yarn. She imagined a child hugging it, holding it up to ward off the smell of ether and the metallic clattering and the tiny screams now and then penetrating from the examination room.

She put her fake fur coat on a hanger and unwound the long, striped scarf that had covered her head and warmed her ears. Cold had arrived already in late November along with several inches of snow that for once hadn't melted but remained as on a Christmas card. She supposed they were talking about that snow right now at work as they sat around the coffee table. The highlight of the day, when they were all gathered in the tiny canteen. Two candles would be lit, for next Sunday was the second in Advent. She supposed Sylvia as usual would have gotten hold of some bog moss for the Advent wreath and bought candles. She would have been down in the cellar to get all the electric candles and the red tablecloth with Santas that usually covered the table for all of December and part of January until someone, mostly Evy, brought it home and washed it. Surely they had also bought gingerbread biscuits and a saffron ring. She could still hear the crackle from the small sugar granules when you crushed them under your feet in the canteen. However carefully you tried to cut the saffron ring and put the pieces on plates, there were always crumbs on the floor. Sometimes someone put up an angry sign by the sink.
YOUR MOM DOESN
'
T WORK HERE
. CLEAN UP
YOUR MESS
!
IT USUALLY HELPED FOR A WHILE
.

Jannike sank down in one of the armchairs and reached for a magazine. They were popular women's or family weeklies,
Allers
and
Husmodern
, but at least fifteen years old and thumbed to shreds. She looked at the photos of celebrities with outmoded clothes and hairstyles. Mullets and shoulder pads. It looked weird. After a short while she heard the door of the examination room open. The old man cleared his throat.

“Your turn, Miss Linder.”

As if his waiting room had been full of patients!

He had slid down in the chair behind his gigantic, worn desk. Papers and documents piled high almost hid him from view. He had to lean forward to be able to look at her. To his left, on a smaller table, stood a skeleton made of plastic or bone. Its naked teeth grinned at her. She shook herself.

“Well, Miss Linder, so tell me why you're here.”

“Well . . . a friend recommended you, Inga-Lisa.” She was suddenly unable to remember Inga-Lisa's last name, and it disturbed her.

The man lifted a bunch of papers out of a suspension file lying on his table. She got a glimpse of notes written in a shaky, sprawling hand. She started to cry. She didn't know why, the tears just came, like a strong swell of despair. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand.

His eyes turned towards her. The skin beneath them was slack and baggy, as if his eyeballs might fall out at any moment. She fumbled for a handkerchief.

“I'm in such awful pain,” she whispered.

He regarded her sadly.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Here and . . . here. All over.”

“Hmm.” Again he thumbed his papers. “Have you seen a doctor previously?”

“No-o.”

“And why not?”

“I just thought . . . That it's part of it, sort of.”

“Part of it?”

“Yes, my mother has it and my aunts and my grandmother as well. They've told me it's part of it, it's just something women get. Something with fibro . . . There's no point, they've told me, doctors just don't care. But then I met Inga-Lisa. We're neighbors. She told me about you, Dr. Rosberg, how kind and considerate you are. That you hate to see people suffer.”

He put his papers down and looked out the window. His nostrils twitched slightly.

“I have to examine you, as I'm sure you understand.”

“Of course.”

“I can't just go writing prescriptions left and right without knowing what I'm doing.”

“No, of course not.”

“I'm an old man. I'll very soon close down my office.”

“Oh,” she mumbled. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

He snapped his bony fingers.

“Yes. It's sad. But sooner or later everything in life comes to an end.”

He asked her to undress down to her underwear and lie down on the examination table. The paper covering was wrinkled and torn. She saw that it was the last piece of the roll. She was freezing, but she undressed as he had told her and lay down. He had turned his back to her while she got ready, stood fingering the skeleton. Tapped its arms, which rattled.

“Are you ready, Miss Linder?” he asked after a short while. She was lying on her back and felt goose pimples on her stomach.

“Yes.”

“Then I'll be with you.”

She turned her eyes up to the high ceiling. Far above a lamp dangled on its cord. She saw wafting thread and spiderwebs. The doctor was leaning over her. He had a stethoscope, pressed it hard to her chest and listened.

“Mm,” he muttered. He touched her body with his cold, smooth hands, he pressed, squeezed, pinched. He was so close that she saw the coarse hairs growing from both his ears and his nostrils. He smelled vaguely of acetone. She felt a floating dizziness.

“Yes,” he said. “Being in constant pain is no holiday. It can dull your entire existence.”

She nodded slowly. Her tears began flowing again, down her cheeks and into her hairline. He patted her head. His sad cheeks were sagging.

“Just stay calm, now, please be calm. We'll fix this, don't you worry.”

While she dressed he went back to his desk. She felt suddenly uncertain. What if he had seen through her.

But he hadn't.

“I'll give you a prescription for something called Dextromordiphene. But I must also inform you of the risks.”

“So?”

“The truth is, this medication is really too strong to use as a first treatment. But you have a family history of the same illness, going back for generations as I understand it. And so I plan to give you a radical cure.”

Jannike held her breath.

“However, I must ask you to be as careful and as circumspect as this medication warrants.”

She didn't really understand what he was saying, but she nodded.

There was a watchfulness in his misty eyes as he handed her his prescription.

“Do you have a driver's license, Miss Linder?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I ask because you are not to drive while taking this medication. Doing so is illegal.”

“I understand.”

He stared at her, seemed to look straight through her.

“And how about alcohol?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Imbibing even a mouthful of an alcoholic beverage when you have taken one of these pills can cause suspension of breathing. Or, in fact, not
can
, but
will
. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Miss Linder? I'm talking about an acute, life-threatening condition. At first the patient will notice nothing. But after around thirty minutes . . . And by then, it is often too late. It is almost as wily as the mushroom poisons. But faster. Much faster.”

He fell silent and turned his gaze toward the window.

Jannike swallowed.

“I understand. I would never dream of . . . Well, I'm honestly not very fond of strong drink, you see.”

His lips curled very slightly.

“Very sensible of you. And one thing further. Do you have any children, Miss Linder?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Nor any you are in close contact with? The children of siblings, or of neighbors, for instance?”

“Why do you ask?” she managed.

“Lock away your medicine. Never let any child come near it. The fact is, it tastes far from unpleasant.”

She took the commuter train to Södertälje. When Arthur left her she had also lost her home. Well, or his, if you had to pick nits. His condo in the Tantolunden area of Stockholm. A two-room apartment with a breathtaking view. He had more or less just thrown her out. Jannike had gone back to her mother and lived with her for a few days, but they had rubbed each other the wrong way. Her mother had managed to get her the secondhand lease on the single-bedroom apartment in Södertälje.

“How old are you now, Jannike? Thirty-six, isn't it? Won't you ever grow old enough to stand on your own two feet?”

Jannike knew that deep down her mother was relieved that she and Arthur had split up. He was a Muslim, and not only that; he was black as well. Her mother had never been comfortable with anything that was different.

She looked out on the snow-covered suburb and remembered the first time they had met, her mother and Arthur. The sudden aggressiveness. “Do you want to put a burka on her as well?” Arthur had remained silent; he was a quiet man. He carried most things within, but at the end he had been unable to take any more. He had put his coffee cup down on the table so hard that its little handle had broken. Grandma Betty's cups, the ones with the ivy. She had had to run downstairs after him, all the way out on the yard. Beg and beg.