Babylon (3 page)

He needed it.

He tried to rationalise the situation. Rebecca had driven him to infidelity with her constant suspicions; we become as others see us and so on. Qualified nonsense, but it was still true. He had enjoyed feeling appreciated and acknowledged by a woman who didn’t use him only to vent her displeasure. He was sick and tired of hearing that he disappointed Rebecca on every level – sexually, emotionally, and not least financially. For several years now he had been forced to constantly justify himself, insisting that his finances would soon take a turn for the better.

He had decided to put his jazz career on the back burner and go back to his studies. Get a proper job – it was impossible to make a living as a musician in Gothenburg. Rebecca had been happy with that idea until she realised that his student loan would hardly cover his share of their outgoings, and that was when she had resigned herself to her fate. She had thrown in her lot with a pauper. These days she hardly seemed to have the energy to talk about the injustice of it all; their arguments had given way to a muted air of discontent which came to a head at the end of each month when the bills had to be paid. It was a time neither of them looked forward to.

Their relationship wasn’t sustainable in the long term; there weren’t
enough reasons to stay with Rebecca, and he’d been thinking that way for a while.

But Henrik had major plans for himself and Ann-Marie. All he had to do was set the ball rolling. Things had gone wrong lately, he couldn’t deny that, but today they would talk. Ann-Marie would listen and she would understand.

Because he needed her.

He braked outside the house on Linnégatan, then stood there for a while catching his breath. He took out his phone and called Axel.

‘We’re revising tonight,’ he informed his friend, and as he said that he made his decision once and for all. ‘Sorry to drag you into this, but soon there’ll be no more lies. I want to be with Ann-Marie, and the whole world is going to know that. I’ve got a plan, but I have to carry it out in my own time. And I want to tell Rebecca myself. If she calls you, I want you to lie for me.’

Axel said he understood.

After their conversation Henrik felt more exhilarated than he had done for a long time.

The city centre was full of life and movement. He loved how the streets were lined with restaurants. When he met up with his old friends they would usually stay around Järntorget: Jazzå or Solrosen, Pusterviks Theatre. He particularly liked the cosmopolitan atmosphere surrounding Andra Långgatan, where the porn shops and adult cinemas rubbed shoulders with Asian restaurants, cellar bars and specialist music shops. And yet he was usually glad to leave the party at the end of the evening. The group would disperse, as they had dispersed a few years ago because of career choices or the decision to start a family. Some would get in a taxi and head off to Munkebäck or Fiskebäck. One would take the night bus into the centre to wait for the first train to Lerum. Henrik would cycle home through the park as dawn broke.

But now he was pushing his bike along the short path that led from the street to the main door; slender trees trimmed into topiary spheres and chunky, low wrought-iron fences lined the path. Suddenly he felt like a man in his prime again, on his way to a passionate encounter with a fiercely intelligent, sexy woman, having an affair that was a secret for the moment, but would soon be clear for all the world to see, instead of a cowardly, lying little shit who was not only sponging
off his girlfriend but also two-timing her; that thought had passed through his head without really registering. But now the winds of change were blowing.

He walked into the courtyard which never ceased to leave him dumbstruck. It was the result of ambition on a large scale in days gone by, but the secret was time. Only time could give a city garden such authority and dignity: enormous shrubs and roses scrambling around arches and up the hundred-year-old stone walls.

Karpov enforced a strict smoking ban in her six-room apartment, so Henrik rolled a cigarette before he went upstairs. His hands fumbled, and he realised he was nervous. It had been a while since they had seen each other one on one, after their last disastrous encounter. A series of tiresome conversations about their future together had inevitably culminated in conflict. A shabby, grudge-filled quarrel, as if they were a married couple. And that wasn’t right. Their relationship wasn’t meant to be like that. They should be above that kind of destructive sniping. Otherwise, what was the point?

Tonight he had decided that if Ann-Marie wanted to talk and sort things out, he would hold up his hands and take his share of the blame. He would accept that he had been pretty bad-tempered lately. He would explain why: everything at home. Constantly being told that he was irresponsible, incapable of acting his age. But it had still been wrong of him to flare up. Wrong of him to hurl an ornament onto the floor, that was a pathetic thing to do. Raising his voice, that was wrong too. Perhaps it was because he was stressed. There was a great deal at stake, and more than anything he wanted her with him.

And she would be his, as soon as she’d calmed down.

It was only natural really that tensions should arise between them. The situation was difficult. There was Rebecca, their different stations in life. The secrecy. The gossip that sometimes reached them by a circuitous route. But no relationship was static, after all; that was a well-known fact.

He could see a light in the fourth-floor window. Ann-Marie was waiting for him. She had probably cooked a meal which they would eat at the big dining table before withdrawing to the bedroom.

Henrik would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a frisson when he stepped into this unfamiliar world of chandeliers and red carpets. Compared with a wordly, middle-aged woman, he was like a chimney
sweep’s lad. He smiled and decided to share the thought with Ann-Marie; it would probably amuse her. Or, with a bit of luck, it might inspire them to try some entertaining role-play later on.

The image made him laugh out loud as he ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, stubbed out his cigarette and pulled open the door.

‘Henrik?’ Ann-Marie Karpov’s voice echoed between the stone walls. ‘Is that you?’

He set off up the stairs.

‘Yes,’ he called back. ‘I’m just wondering whether to step into your minuscule, rattling cage of a lift, which stopped the last time, or risk a heart attack walking up eight flights of stairs. I think I’ll go for the heart attack. Call the ambulance!’

The syllables bounced off one another; a discordant muddle of echoes which fell silent only when he reached her door.

4

It had been the perfect bag: large and practical, with compartments that could hold everything from files to spare clothes and make-up. And it looked good. Rebecca had a soft spot for simple but assured design. She had used the bag day after day for several years; now the fabric was beginning to fray and the seams were ragged. Since she didn’t feel she could go to work looking scruffy – it was the kind of workplace that demanded a certain standard of dress – Henrik had taken over the dark-green bag to carry his books.

Rebecca’s resolve had weakened after that first glass of wine. The TV programme came to an end and she crept down to the hallway and started rifling through Henrik’s pockets. It had been a while; the therapy must have done some good. But now endorphins were coursing through her blood as if she were about to start a race as she examined his receipts and flicked through college notebooks, searching for unfamiliar phone numbers, women’s names, coded messages concealed in dry lecture notes. Searching for anything that might reveal something. Anything at all.

She found the bag right at the back of the hallway cupboard, underneath a jacket which had fallen or been yanked from the hanger above. It was heavy. Inside she found
Method and Theory in Classical Archaeology
, a couple of reference books and two notepads. Before the realisation hit home, she weighed her find in her hands as if she sensed that it would have an important role to play in how her life panned out.

He hadn’t taken his books. She turned towards the door and dropped what she was holding; it landed at her feet with a thud. And he hadn’t come back to pick them up. He should have realised long ago that he’d left them behind. Which meant he hadn’t forgotten them, he’d left them on purpose. Which in turn meant that he’d lied. People don’t lie without a reason, so the question was: why had he lied? The answer was obvious: Henrik had not been going to Axel’s flat to revise.

She took a few tentative steps; she needed to sit down and think. The leather seat creaked as she sank down numbly; the sound of the television upstairs faded away. Selective deafness, she thought. It affects people in shock. Then she pulled herself together and tried to look at the situation rationally.

Henrik hadn’t even gone to the trouble of fully concealing his lies. Packing the bag right in front of her, that was good. But he hadn’t been able to follow his plan to its pathetic conclusion. Presumably the bag had been too heavy. Too heavy to drag around unnecessarily, so he’d hidden it in the cupboard, where he thought she would never look. All a bit slapdash, which was just typical; he couldn’t do anything properly. He wasn’t all that clever, really. Particularly given that he knew she went through his pockets, knew that she was sometimes unable to resist the urge, even if she gave in less frequently these days. They had discussed the matter countless times, they’d even gone for relationship counselling. Nowadays her snooping wasn’t generally the result of anger. It was more of an eccentric hobby, something that she did to calm herself down, and she always felt significantly better once the endorphin rush had subsided, and she had established that there was nothing suspicious among Henrik’s things.

Her condition had improved so much that she no longer seriously expected to find anything. It was just nice to cover herself. To keep the possibility in mind, and so be ready for the worst.

And now the worst had happened.

She tried to think logically. She had to admit that on every previous occasion when jealousy had overcome her, the signs had seemed obvious, the signals impossible to misinterpret. There always seemed to be evidence that the man in question was letting her down, was betraying her. And a number of men really had.

She tried to push that thought from her mind.

She thought of her therapist, and wondered whether she could be exaggerating the signs in her mind. Had she been under too much stress lately? The sound of the television returned at full volume, adverts booming down the stairs, and she covered her ears with her hands.

The first time she rang Axel it was getting on for half-past ten, by which time she had spent over two hours pacing the room. Two voices were arguing in her head, the first alternating between a measured, conciliatory approach and a more severe tone:
It doesn’t necessarily mean anything, there could be an innocent explanation, there always is, Rebecca! Don’t treat Henrik the way you’ve treated the others. Don’t crush him with your suspicions!

The second voice was manic, and determined to wind her up:
There’s still time to prevent the ultimate humiliation
.

She had the upper hand: Henrik didn’t know that she knew. She clung to this fact like a drowning man to a lifebelt.

There was no reply from Axel.
They might have switched off their phones so they wouldn’t be disturbed
. The conciliatory voice.
Obviously nobody’s studying round at Axel’s this evening
, said the manic voice.

After listening to Axel’s answering machine three times without leaving a message, Rebecca just couldn’t help herself. She found a list of telephone numbers for the University of Gothenburg and started ringing around. It was bordering on insanity, given the lateness of the hour. But if anyone was annoyed, they didn’t mention it. Rebecca said she was Henrik’s sister, and explained that they were supposed to be picking up their parents from the airport in the early hours of the morning. She was beginning to worry that he’d forgotten the whole thing – he was so distracted these days, poor soul.

Nobody had seen him.

‘Maybe he’s with Ann-Marie?’ one of the women ventured. She had a shrill, slightly breathless voice. She sounded secretly triumphant, as if she knew everything.

Rebecca froze.

‘Ann-Marie?’

‘She’s one of our tutors. She—’

‘Yes, I know. Henrik’s mentioned her. Karpov, isn’t it?’

Henrik
had
mentioned Ann-Marie Karpov; she was one of the tutors he thought highly of. In the beginning Rebecca had got irritated with Henrik’s obvious hero-worship; he talked about the woman the way a teenage girl talks about her favourite pop star; the way a five-year-old boy talks about his father. Rebecca had learnt to switch off when Henrik talked about what Karpov thought of this or that, what she had written and which debates she had been involved in. Now it struck her that, after the first year, Henrik had spoken less and less about Karpov. For Rebecca it had been something of a relief not to have to listen to his drivel, and if she had given it any thought, she had probably assumed the honeymoon was over, just as Henrik’s enthusiasm for every project had a beginning and an end.

She had never, ever imagined that Henrik would have an affair with his tutor. The age difference had blinded Rebecca to the possibility. As if it were the first time a powerful woman had snared a younger man.

‘They’ve been hanging out together quite a bit lately – there’s a chance he might be with her.’

Everything went black. Rebecca heard herself say, ‘Ann-Marie Karpov. You don’t happen to know how I can get in touch . . .?’

She glanced at the telephone list in her hand, then hung up on the gossiping bitch. Her hands were shaking. She needed to calm down.

She took a sleeping tablet from the bathroom cabinet. She lay on top of the sheets, clasping the list to her body and just had time to think:
This is pointless, I won’t be able to get to sleep anyway
. Her heart was beating in time with the rise and fall of her chest and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears as she drifted into a state which had very little to do with sleep. When she awoke two and a half hours later, she had the feeling she had dreamt something nasty but couldn’t
remember what. The pillow was wet with sweat or saliva or both. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and poured herself another glass of wine from the open bottle. With the glass in her hand, she wandered around the house several times before picking up the phone again.