Last Will (25 page)

“It’s so unfair,” Anne said. “You’re so skinny even though you eat stuff like this every day. So, where’s the man who’s going to save us from terrorism?”

“Out in the battlefield, of course,” Annika said. “I thought you were him just now … Where’s Miranda? Is she at Mehmet’s?”

Anne Snapphane glanced around quickly, maybe to check the children weren’t anywhere near, then went up to Annika.

“You haven’t heard anything from Sophia Grenborg?” she asked in a low voice.

Annika stuffed the funnel on top of the machine full of potato and switched it on.

“Why should I have?” she yelled over the noise of the machine.

Anne picked up a raw potato and took a bite out of it with a shrug.

“Maybe there’s someone else,” she shouted. “Once they’ve started, they usually carry on …”

Strips of potato piled up in the bottom of the processor and Annika switched it off and tipped the potato into an oven dish. The silence echoed as she seasoned the dish, scattered some chopped onion and garlic on top, covered it all with grated cheese, and poured in the cream.

“I’m just worried you’re going to get hurt again,” Anne said quietly. “How are you getting on with the angels, anyway? Have you been to talk to anyone about them?”

“The angels?” Annika said, putting the dish in the oven.

“You ought to get some therapy,” Anne Snapphane said. “Trust me, it works wonders. I’ve learned to see the world in a completely new way, I understand my tired old patterns of behavior much clearer now. Can’t you sit down for a moment? You haven’t even told me what you think of my lecture?”

Annika rinsed her hands and dried them on a tea towel, then went and sat on one of the sofas.

“I’ve only skimmed the new version,” she said. “I know I promised, but this last week has been so crazy, with the kids starting nursery school …”

Anne threw out her hands in a sign of abandonment.

“I know,” Annika said, “I promised and I will help you write it, but I didn’t know you were going to be coming out here today.”

“But what do you think, then, about what I
have
written?”

Annika looked around the kitchen, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“I think it’s good,” she said, “but it’s very similar to the last one.”

“I knew it!” Anne said triumphantly. “They’re just moaning about nothing at that damned agency!”

“But didn’t they want you to do something completely new?” Annika said. “So that you get more bookings? If that’s the case, I think you might need to start again from scratch. Pick something else to talk about—you’ve got so many experiences to choose from …”

Anne stared at Annika.

“What do you mean,
more bookings
? You don’t think I’m in demand?”

“Of course I do,” Annika said, “that’s not what I meant, but I thought the agency said …”

“Don’t you start as well! It would be nice to have just
one
person on
my
side sometimes!”

“I’ll come and see you next week and we can do it together,” Annika said quickly. “When are you free?”

Anne looked thoughtful for a few seconds.

“I’m really busy next week,” she said. “But maybe Tuesday afternoon would work.”

“Okay,” Annika said. “I’ll come round to yours then. How are things otherwise? Do you like the apartment?”

Anne looked up at the ceiling.

“There was a meeting of the residents’ association yesterday evening,” she said. “Wine, canapés, all that shit. We’ve got a new chairman, von Dummkopf from the third floor, who water-combs his hair and wears a silk cravat. Honestly, the people in that building are so full of themselves it drives you mad. It must be almost as bad as out here.”

Annika felt her neck stiffen.

“I had coffee earlier with a neighbor over the road,” she said. “A girl the same age as us, who sold her biotech company for millions and millions and is now doing research into Alzheimer’s at Karolinska …”

“Heavens, how absolutely splendid!” Anne said. “So you can sit there comparing your bank balances. It’s terribly nice of you to let us guttersnipes from the city come and breathe some of your lovely fresh air out here.”

She laughed raucously as Annika gulped.

“I have to finish cooking,” she said, getting up.

“Have you got a bag?” Anne wondered, picking up the boots.

Annika pulled a plastic bag from one of the kitchen drawers.

“Nordéns ICA, Djursholm,” Anne read on the bag. “Whatever’s happened, Anki? Have you abandoned the Co-op after all these years?”

Annika turned to face Anne, leaning back against the countertop and folding her arms.

“Why are you being so mean?” she asked quietly, and Anne’s laughter died away.

“Mean?” Anne said, surprised. “What do you mean? Come on, you’ve got to able to be honest in a decent friendship. That’s something I say in my talks, about the importance of self-criticism and not always insisting on being the focus of attention.”

Annika could feel her face coloring.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I would have loved to stay in the city, but this is better for the kids, before they start school …”

“I think you should stand up for your decision,” Anne said. “You weren’t exactly forced to move to the place with the highest number of millionaires and the lowest council tax in the country. Did you really do this for someone else, or were you just satisfying your own needs?”

Annika opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t find any words.

At that moment the doorbell began to ring.

“Move that car!” a male voice shouted angrily outside the door. “You’re not allowed to park on the street—is that so hard to understand?”

“Oh no,” Annika said, horrified. “Where did you park?”

Anne Snapphane opened her eyes wide.

“Outside the house. Why?”

“This road isn’t a public parking lot!” Wilhelm Hopkins yelled. “Open this door!”

“Please,” Annika said breathlessly, “would you mind moving your car? That’s our neighbor—he gets so angry if anyone blocks the road.”

“But I’m not blocking anything at all,” Anne said, wide-eyed. “I parked really close to the curb …”

The doorbell went on ringing as the man kept his finger on it. Annika ran over to the door and pulled it open.

Wilhelm Hopkins’s solid bulk almost filled the doorway.

“If this carries on I shall phone the
police
!” he roared.

“It’s my friend,” Annika said. “She’s just leaving.”

“Fucking hell,” Anne said, pushing past Annika and looking derisively at the man. “How can you bear it out here?”

The bag containing Annika’s new cowboy boots had caught on the door handle and Anne tugged to free it, then marched off toward her car.

The man took two steps inside Annika’s porch.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Annika said, backing away. “That was my friend—she didn’t know …”

“It’s always people like you,” the man said in a hoarse voice. “I know exactly what sort of person you are.”

Annika blinked.

“What … ?”

“You’re the sort who moves out here to
change
things. You want to
change
things, and we don’t like that out here. We don’t like it at all.”

The man stared at her for several long seconds.

Then he turned and walked out through the door and across the ruined lawn, toward his own house.

SUBJECT: The Greatest Fear

TO: Andrietta Ahlsell

How abandoned he is, how restless and exposed! A decade before his death, Alfred Nobel writes to Sofie Hess:

When one is left alone in the world at the age of fifty-four, and the only person to show one any friendliness is a paid servant, the darkest thoughts arise …

His greatest fear is not death, but the lonely walk toward it: lying forgotten on his deathbed.

And he worries about his funeral, and about what will happen after that. Above all, he doesn’t want to be buried underground.

To his brother Robert he writes:

Even cremation seems to me to be too slow. I want to be dropped into hot sulphuric acid. Then the whole business would be over and done with in a minute or so …

He has friends, of course, although they are often his employees. He has relatives, of course, but they also work in his companies. Sofie Hess has married a riding master, Kapy von Kapivar (and now both she and her husband write for more money).

He has two friends in England, Frederick Abel and James Dewar. They work in his British company and Alfred is generous; he pays them well.

But then he is informed of a new patent: someone in England has registered a discovery that is exactly the same as his own
ballistite
.

Someone has stolen his work.

Frederick Abel and James Dewar.

Alfred refuses to believe it’s true. He refuses! And he refuses to use the law against them, against his friends, but he has no choice. The lawsuit grinds on for years, and in the end Alfred loses.

By then he has just a year or so to live.

On December 7, 1896, he is sitting at his desk in his villa in San Remo in Italy writing letters, always writing letters. He is commenting upon a shipment of powder samples from Bofors,
they are particularly beautiful,
and that’s when it happens, it happens, he slumps down, just slumps.

None of his friends is close at hand, none of his relatives, none of his colleagues. The servants carry him up to the bedroom; an Italian doctor diagnoses a massive stroke.

Alfred tries to talk. He talks to his valet but his memory is damaged. He, the cosmopolitan gentleman who could communicate fluently in Russian, French, English, German, can only remember the Swedish of his childhood.

He lives for another three days.

For three days he lies paralyzed in his bed, trying to talk.

The staff understand one word, one single word—
telegram
.

So they send word to his colleagues in distant Sweden, but they don’t get there in time.

And so he dies, at two o’clock on the morning of December 10, exactly as he had feared: entirely alone, without anyone who was able to understand his last words.

THURSDAY, MAY 27

The rain was pounding. Annika was caught in a bicycle shed in the nursery-school playground, staring out at the wall of water surrounding her. The car was parked out on the road, ten meters away, and there was a whole ocean between them.

I can’t do it, she thought. I can’t go on like this.

Her chest ached nonstop, wearing away at her. She tried to take a deep breath and raised a hand to her chest to massage the pressure away.

The children were safe and dry, sitting in circles for their respective classes. There were people around them who were there to look after them, care for them. There were children the same age who wanted to be with them.

I can’t just stand here any longer, she thought. Everyone will be looking at me, wondering what’s wrong with me, standing here sniveling, wondering what effect it must have on the children. Look at that funny lady standing under the cycle shed—is that Kalle and Ellen’s mom? Kalle, why’s your mom so weird? Why’s she standing there, Ellen? Hasn’t she got a job?

Oh yes, Annika thought. She’s got a job but she’s not allowed to do it, because they don’t want her there.

Suddenly it was too much effort even to stand up. She slumped onto the bicycle rack. The rain was bouncing off the ground, splashing her backside.

The move had kept her going, but now that was done and life had taken over: routine, waiting, patience, basic maintenance. She stared out at the rain and felt like crying.

I’ve got to find something to do, she thought. I’ve got to have some sort of meaning to my life.

What about the children, then?

She started, taken aback by her own nonchalance. How self-centered could a thirty-three-year-old be?

I have responsibilities, she thought. Everything depends on me; I have to cope.

There was a buzzing sound from her bag: she’d gotten a text message.

She dug her cell phone from the depths of her bag, pressed
read
.

Hi Annika! Is it raining where you are? Hope the move went well. Coffee next week? Signed “wet&lonely
.”