The Andalucian Friend (11 page)

A quarter of an hour later, the change hit Lars Vinge. He turned bitter, and his insides took on a crooked smile as he thought about all the morons he had been surrounded by over the years. His mom and dad, his childhood friends, everyone he’d worked with, everyone he’d met … Anders Ask. He cursed them all, feebleminded and infantile, unlike him. … This was pretty much the extent of the information washing around his marinated head. That was why he didn’t often drink, he lost control and went temporarily mad. It had been that way since the very first time he ever got drunk, but he didn’t pause to consider that now. He was fully occupied making excuses for the darkness inside him.

An hour later Sara came home and glanced disinterestedly at him.

“Are you ill?”

He didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen, then came back shortly after.

“Have you been drinking wine?”

There was an accusing tone to her voice. Lars didn’t move, just went on hugging his naked torso.

“Are you drunk?”

He didn’t answer.

“What’s the matter, Lars?”

He stood up, picked up his top from the floor, and pulled it on.

“None of your business,” he said, then went out into the hall and pulled on his shoes, and left the apartment.

In the nearest bar he ordered a vodka and tonic, and got into a debate with an alcoholic retiree about whether Sweden was too soft about sending people to prison. Lars flared up and embarked upon a confused discussion about rehabilitation versus punishment. It didn’t take long for him to lose his train of thought. The obvious line of argument wasn’t coming to him the way it usually did. The drunk old man and the bartender burst out laughing at Lars’s reasoning.

The bar closed and Lars wandered the city streets in the middle of the night, taking an unsteady piss against a parking meter. He was giggling at nothing, pulling faces, and giving the finger to passing cars and people. Then everything went black.

He woke up in a doorway on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan at half past four in the morning when a paperboy stepped over him. He slowly lumbered home with his hands in his trouser pockets, drunk and hungover at the same time. Back home, he saw in the hall mirror that he had a cut on his forehead, and completely empty eyes. He fell into bed like a log beside Sara, waking her up. She got up, taking her duvet with her, hissing that he stank of drink.

Three hours later Lars woke up with the morning sun in his face. Sara was gone, her side of the bed unmade as usual, he hated that. He pulled the covers over his head and tried to get back to sleep, but he had ants crawling around deep in his soul.

He drank his morning coffee with trembling hands, trying to pull himself together and remember who he was. He found nothing, it was empty, everything was gone.

“I still want you to help me!” Sophie called
upstairs, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

“Coming!” he called, sounding irritated.

She looked at the towel, decided it was too old to hang back up, and threw it in the bin.

Albert came downstairs as she was putting aluminum foil over the steaming potato gratin. She pointed at a gift box on the table. Alongside it was wrapping paper, tape, and some yellow ribbon. Albert sat down and started cutting the paper.

She moved the ovenproof dish from the stove to the worktop, hurrying when the heat started to come through the oven gloves and letting the dish drop the last half inch onto the worktop.

Albert measured the paper against the box. “Who’s it for?”

“Tom.”

“Why?”

“It’s his birthday.”

He started folding the paper neatly but applied the tape messily. She got annoyed and took over, doing it properly … then regretted doing so.

They drove the
few miles to her childhood home. The thick green foliage made everything feel lush and verdant. The houses were surrounded by oaks, birches, and apple trees. She liked the way the evening sun was casting a golden glow over everything.

On the drive leading up to the house they were met by Rat running toward them. Rat was a little white dog, no one knew what breed, it was just small and white, and barked at anything that moved, and occasionally bit someone.

“Run it over,” Albert said in a low voice.

Neither of them liked the dog.

“Would you be sorry if Rat died?” he went on.

Sophie smiled without replying.

“Would you?” he asked again.

She shook her head and Albert smiled at her conspiratorially.

Tom was mixing
drinks in the sitting room — Sinatra was singing Jobim songs.

“Hello, Tom.”

With his mouth full of olives he gestured to Sophie to wait, but she didn’t. Yvonne came to greet them. She kissed Albert on the forehead, then pressed Sophie’s lower arm and disappeared. She had white trainers on her feet, as usual. At the age of seventy, Yvonne still moved as though she thought of herself as an extremely attractive woman.

Jane’s boyfriend, Jesus, from Argentina, was sitting on the rug in front of the television, watching something with the sound turned down.

“Hello, Jesus.”

She pronounced it
Hessuss
. He said
Sophie
in a friendly tone, then went on watching the television, cross-legged.

Jesus was different. She didn’t know how, exactly, but every time she found herself judging his behavior, or trying to figure out his rather odd attitude, she had turned out to be wrong. Jane was happy with him in a way that Sophie didn’t understand but was jealous of. They left each other alone, and when they met up they smiled at each other. Whether it was when they met after Jesus had been in Buenos Aires for three months or when they met in the kitchen after she’d been on the phone, the smiles were always the same, so big and wide that they both looked like they were about to start laughing.

Sophie went into the kitchen. Jane was sitting at the table trying to slice vegetables on a chopping board. She was a hopeless cook. Sophie put the potato gratin that she had brought with her in the oven, kissed her sister’s hair, and sat down beside her. She looked on as Jane made heavy work of dicing a cucumber. The resulting pieces were all shapes and sizes, and Jane swallowed her frustration and pushed the chopping board across to her big sister, who took over.

“Where have you been?” Sophie asked.

Usually at dinner on Sundays there was Sophie and Albert and Sophie’s mom, Yvonne, and Tom. Jane and Jesus came when they came, there was no pattern to their visits, only joy when they did show up.

“Nowhere, here and there,” she replied, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”

Jane leaned her chin on her hand, half lying over the table, resting on her elbow. She always sat like that. The posture seemed to have a calming effect on her. She watched Sophie as she sliced vegetables on the chopping board.

“Look at me,” she said.

Sophie turned toward Jane.

“Have you done something?”

“Like what?”

“With the way you look?”

Sophie shook her head. “No, why?”

Jane was staring at her intently. “You look … more relaxed, happier.”

Sophie shrugged.

“Has something happened?” Jane wondered.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

Sophie shook her head. Jane was still looking at her.

“Sophie?” she whispered.

“Well, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Sophie met Jane’s look.

“So who is he, then?”

“A patient … a former patient,” Sophie said quietly. “But we’re not seeing each other, not like that.”

“So how are you seeing each other?”

Sophie smiled. “I don’t know …”

She swept the vegetables into a large bowl. It looked messy, she felt like trying to tidy it up but stopped herself. She hated anything that could be seen as showing what a good girl she was when she was at her mother’s. Jane was still sitting in the same position, watching Sophie as she worked. Suddenly she jumped as she remembered something.

“Of course, God, we’ve been in Buenos Aires! I don’t know what’s up with me, I’m all over the place. We went to visit Jesus’s family. We got back on … Thursday.”

She hesitated over which day, then decided that was right. Jane was a fairly chaotic character. As first glance it was easy to assume she was playacting, but that wasn’t the case at all. She was disorganized and occasionally far too happy, which sometimes alarmed the people around her, who tended to judge her as being rather false. But those who weren’t scared by her tended to like her, the way people who aren’t scared usually do.

They sat down at the table, Yvonne and Tom at either end, the others spread out around it. As usual, Yvonne had set the table nicely, she was good at that, one of her better skills. Dinner passed much as it usually did: small talk, laughter, and silent concentration from everyone present, to make sure that things were kept in check and no old injustices or misunderstandings bubbled up.

After lunch Sophie and Jane settled into a couple of easy chairs on the veranda. Jesus disappeared into the library, where he sank into an English book. Albert was upstairs playing cards with Tom to the sound of the Goldberg Variations, which Tom put on the worn-out old gramophone whenever he got the chance.

In their wicker chairs under the infrared heater, the sisters drank their way to intoxication and chatted into the small hours. To start with Yvonne had eavesdropped on them, pretending to be busy with something just inside the terrace door. They caught her red-handed a few times, but she refused to admit she was listening — she was a bad liar. Eventually Tom came and told her to leave them in peace.

Yvonne had been a bit neurotic throughout Sophie’s childhood. Her hysteria had avalanched after Georg’s death. She went from smiling housewife to disillusioned egotist, dragging them all along with her. Sophie and Jane were permitted to mourn their father, as long as they recognized that Yvonne was bearing the greatest loss. Her mood swung from anger and depression to sudden demands for understanding and way too much love from her daughters. Jane and Sophie didn’t know what to do, and their relationship with their mother became distorted, based upon a somewhat confused image of consideration and care. One consequence of this was the deterioration of their own relationship. Yvonne’s unhealthy behavior became a barrier between the sisters. They seldom shared any happiness or laughter, and spent most of their time alone in their rooms and competing for their mother’s attention.

Then Tom showed up in their lives. They moved into his house a few blocks away. A larger villa with big windows, impressive paintings on large walls. Thick, white down quilts on big beds made of cherrywood. Tom drove them to school in his green Jaguar with pale-brown leather seats, and a vague smell of tobacco smoke and aftershave. Their mom, Yvonne, spent her days at home, painting talentless pictures. She changed over time, emerging from her grief and becoming something like a mother again, but still focused on not giving up her role as victim, to which she had become so attached.

Over the years, once Sophie was grown up and Yvonne entered the third age, Sophie started to like her again, which she hadn’t for a very long time. Occasionally Yvonne could be wise, human, and warm all at the same time — which was when Sophie recognized her. But all too often she behaved as if an old, unresolved aspect of herself was trying to get out — full of hysteria, irritation, and an unhealthy curiosity, a fear of being left out, of losing some invisible and unfathomable sense of control. A few weeks before she had gone around to Sophie’s, had a cup of tea, and asked Sophie how she was. The question had come out of nowhere and had left her bewildered. Out of habit, Sophie had replied that everything was fine, but she could see from the way her mother looked that the question was genuine. That made her stop and think, and without realizing why she had started to cry. Yvonne had held her in her arms. It had felt simultaneously nice and wrong, but she let herself stay, close to her mother, crying over something she didn’t understand. Maybe it was just some sort of tension inside her letting go, or maybe Yvonne had realized something that only a mother could understand. Sophie had felt lighter afterward. They never spoke about it again.