She hung up and felt a thrill run along her spine. This was crucial, she could feel it was. Christina Furhage's son did not die from malignant melanoma. Maybe he died under altogether different circumstances. Did he suffer from another disease, was there an accident, or was he killed? Maybe he didn't die at all. Maybe he was still alive.
She got up and restlessly paced around the kitchen, adrenaline pumping. Shit, shit, she knew she was on to something! Then she froze. Her contact! He knew Christina had a son, he'd said so just before ringing off. The police were on the case! Yes, yes, that was it!
"Mommy,
The Lion King
has ended."
They entered the kitchen in a small procession, Kalle first and Ellen one step behind. Annika resolutely pushed the thoughts of Christina Furhage to the back of her mind.
"Was it good? Are you hungry? No, no more gingerbread now. Pasta? What about a pizza?"
She called La Solo on the other side of the street and ordered one
capricciosa,
one with meat and garlic, and one calzone with pork. Thomas wouldn't like it, but that couldn't be helped. If he wanted elk casserole again today, he could've come home at two in the afternoon and started making it.
* * *
Evert Danielsson turned off the Sollentuna road and into the OK garage in Helenelund that had a good service department and a big do-it-yourself car wash. He came here once a week to pamper his car. His secretary had booked him in for three hours, starting at 7 P.M. You didn't have to book, but he didn't like to take chances because it might be difficult to get three uninterrupted hours without prebooking.
He first went into the shop and picked out the things he needed: a spray bottle of degreasing agent, car shampoo without wax, two bottles of Turtle Original Wax, and a pack of cloths. He paid at the checkout: 31.50 for the degreaser, 29.50 for the shampoo and 188 kronor for two bottles of wax. The three hours in the car wash cost 64 kronor an hour for members. All in all it came to less than 500 kronor for a full evening. Evert Danielsson smiled at the checkout girl and paid with his company card.
He went outside and drove the car into his usual spot, pulled the door to, took out his folding chair and placed his little portable stereo on the bench in the corner. He picked a CD with arias from famous operas:
Aida, The Magic Flute, Carmen
and
Madame Butterfly.
While the Queen of the Night advanced to F sharp three octaves above middle C, he started hosing down the car. The sludge of mud, sand, and ice was running down the drain in little rivulets. He proceeded to spray degreaser all over the car. While he waited for the agent to work, he sat down on the folding chair and listened to
La Traviata.
He didn't necessarily have to listen to opera in the car wash; sometimes he'd play old R&B, like Muddy Waters, or Hank Williams. Sometimes he even ventured into contemporary music: He liked Rebecka Törnqvist and some songs by Eva Dahlgren.
He let his thoughts wander freely but soon ended up on the one subject that occupied most of his existence at the moment. His career. He had spent the day trying to put a structure to what his job could look like, prioritizing the most urgent tasks. Somewhere he felt a certain relief at Christina being gone. Whoever blew her up might actually have done the world a big favor.
When the piece ended, he changed CDs and put on some piano music by Eric Satie. The melancholy notes filled the hall as he grabbed the hose and started washing the car. He didn't much enjoy the splashing about with water; it was the final phase he looked forward to: waxing and polishing the paintwork until it sparkled and gleamed. He passed his hand over the car roof. He felt sure everything would turn out all right.
* * *
Thomas put the children to bed just after half past seven. Annika had read a story to them about a girl who goes to daycare and her mother. In the book, the mother tells the daycare nurses about her boss who no one would obey, and they all think it's hilarious.
"It's okay to bully bosses everywhere, even in children's books," Annika said.
"I guess it is," Thomas said, opening the paper on the business pages.
"I mean, look at this," Annika said and held out a glossy women's magazine. "Answer all these questions to find out what your work situation really is like. Take question fourteen: 'What's your boss like?' The alternatives are: weak, incompetent, pretentious, useless, and arrogant. What kind of attitude is that? And look here, on the next page they give you advice on how to become a boss yourself. The moral is that everyone who becomes a boss is an idiot and that everyone who isn't a boss wants to be one. That's not how it is."
"Of course not," Thomas said, turning over the page.
"But the whole of society rests on these myths!"
"You used to be quite a fault-finder with your bosses at the paper, have you forgotten?"
Annika put the magazine on her lap and gave Thomas a reproachful look.
"Oh, come on, they were the wrong people in the wrong positions."
"See…?" Thomas said and continued reading his paper.
Annika sat thinking while the weatherman talked about the holiday weather. Everywhere in the country would have a white Christmas Eve, but on Christmas Day rain would approach from the west, which could mean showers on the west coast by late Christmas Eve.
"You had a hard time in your job before you began to find your feet, didn't you?" Annika said.
Thomas put down the paper, switched off the TV with the remote, and reached out his arms to Annika.
"Come here, sugar," he said.
There was a deafening silence with the TV turned off. Annika left her armchair and went over to Thomas on the couch, leaning her back against his chest, her feet on the coffee table. Thomas put his arms around her and caressed her shoulders, blew on her neck and kissed the hollow by her collarbone. She felt a tingle down below, maybe they'd have the energy to make love tonight.
Right then, Annika's cellphone rang, the tinny tones traveling from her bag and into the TV room.
"Don't answer it," Thomas said and nibbled on Annika's ear lobe, but it was too late. Annika had already lost the mood and was sitting upright on the couch.
"I just want to see who it is," she mumbled and got up.
"You've got to change that ring," Thomas said from behind. "What is that tune it's playing now?"
Annika didn't recognize the number on the display. She decided to answer.
"Annika Bengtzon? Hello, this is Beata Ekesjö, we met this morning in Sätra Hall. You said I could call you…"
Annika groaned inwardly, damned business cards. "Sure," she said shortly, "what's it about?"
"Well, I was wondering what you're going to write about me in the paper tomorrow."
"Why do you ask?" Annika said and sat down on the seat in the hallway.
"I was just wondering. It's important it comes out right."
Annika sighed. "Can you be a bit more precise?" she said and looked at her watch.
"I could tell you more about myself, how I do my work and things like that. I've got a lovely house, you're welcome to come and have a look."
Annika heard Thomas switch the TV back on.
"As things stand now, I don't think that's going to happen. As I'm sure you appreciate, there's limited space in the paper. You may not be quoted at all."
There was a few seconds' silence.
"Are you saying you're not going to write about me at all?"
"Not this time."
"But… you talked to me! And the photographer took my picture."
"We talk to a lot of people we never write about," Annika said, trying hard to sound reasonably nice. "Thanks again for giving us your time this morning, but we won't be publishing any parts of our conversation."
This time the silence was longer at the other end of the line.
"I want you to write what I said this morning," the woman said in a low voice.
"I'm sorry," Annika said.
Beata Ekesjö exhaled. "Oh well, thanks anyway."
"Thanks. Goodbye," Annika said and switched off. She hurried back to Thomas on the couch, took the remote from his hand, and turned the TV off.
"Where were we?" she said.
"Who was it?"
"A woman I met this morning. About my age. Seems a bit loopy. She's the project manager for the building work at Sätra Hall."
"She must have a pretty tough job. At least statistically speaking," Thomas said. "Younger women in male-dominated workplaces have the hardest time of anyone."
"Is that so? Has that been statistically established?" Annika said with mock earnestness.
"Yes it has, actually, smartass!" Thomas shot back. "I read it in a report that just came in. Surveys show that it's women who take traditionally male jobs who have the hardest time in the labor market. They're bullied, threatened, and are subjected to sexual harassment more often than all other men and women. A survey at the Nautical Department at Chalmers University of Technology showed that four out of five female applicants had been harassed because of their gender," Thomas reeled off.
"How do you remember all this?" Annika was interested now.
Thomas smiled. "It's the same as you remembering the details of Berit Hamrin's stories. There are more examples, the army being one of them. Many women quit the military, despite having joined voluntarily. One of the main reasons they give is problems with male colleagues. Female managers actually have worse health, especially if they're hassled by colleagues."
"That's something we should write about," Annika said, trying to get up.
"Yes, you should. But not just now, because right now I'm going to give you a massage. Off with your sweater, that's it. And then this, take it off…"
Annika protested feebly as Thomas took her bra off. "The neighbors will see…"
Thomas got up and turned off the light. The only light in the room was coming from the swaying street lights far below. The snow was still falling, snowflakes as big as the palm of a hand. Annika reached out and pulled her husband toward her. They went about it slowly, staying on the couch, licking each other's clothes off.
"You drive me crazy," Thomas mumbled.
They moved down on the floor and started making love, infinitely slow at first, then hard and loud. Annika screamed when she came. Thomas a little less loud. Afterwards, Thomas fetched a duvet, and they moved back onto the couch, wrapping their limbs around each other. Exhausted and relaxed, they lay in the dark, listening to the evening sounds of the city. Far below a bus shrieked to a halt, the neighbor's TV was on, someone bawled and cursed down in the street.
"Christ, I'm looking forward to some time off!" Annika said.
Thomas kissed her. "You're the best," he said.
LIES
I had my assurance from the start. The world was a stage, set to deceive me, and the people around me were all part of the drama. The object was to make me believe it was all for real: the land, the forest, the fields, the farmer's tractor, the village, the village shop, and the mailman. The world beyond the distant Furu Hill was a blurred set piece. I was constantly listening for false tones of voices, patiently waiting for people to give themselves away. When I left a room, I would quickly turn around just as I reached the door to get a glimpse of the people inside as they really were. It never worked. In the winter, I would climb the snow heap outside the drawing room window and peer inside. When I wasn't present, people took off their masks, leaning their tired heads in their hands and resting. They talked in low tones, sincerely at last— artlessly, intimately, earnestly, and truly. When I was on my way in, they all had to step into their uncomfortable bodies again, these frames that didn't fit them, with their embittered faces and false tongues.
I was absolutely certain that it would all be revealed to me on the day I turned ten. Then all the people would come to me in the morning with their real bodies, dressing me in white. Their faces would be peaceful and true. I would be carried in a procession to the barn in the thicket on the other side of the road. And there the Director would be waiting by the entrance. He would take me by the hand and lead me into the Kingdom of Enlightenment.
He would explain everything to me.
Sometimes I would find my way to the old barn. I can't say exactly how old I was, but I had short legs, the woolly drawers itched, and my thick oilskin trousers made it difficult to walk. Once, I got stuck in the snow, up to my waist.
The barn was deep in the thicket, in what remained of a meadow. The roof had fallen in, the gray timbered walls were a shimmering silver glimpsed between the brush. One part of the gable end was sticking up like a signal to heaven.
The square entrance was on the farther short side; on my way around the building, I would stroke the rough walls. The hole was positioned a bit from the ground; it was difficult to get up.
Inside, time stood still: dust in the air, slanting rays of light. The double feeling of sheltering walls and open sky was intoxicating. The floor also had begun collapsing. I had to be careful as I moved around.
Down there, under the floor, lay the stage entrance. I knew that. Somewhere below the rotten planks, Truth lay waiting. Once I screwed up courage and crawled down to examine the ground and find the way to the light. But all I found was hay and dead rats.
