Postcard killers

Chapter 6

Sylvia and Mac were strolling happily, arm in arm, through the medieval heart of Stockholm.

The narrow cobblestoned streets wound between irregular buildings that appeared to lean toward one another. The sun was blazing in a cloud-free sky, prompting Mac to take off his shirt. Sylvia stroked his flat stomach and kissed him passionately on the mouth and elsewhere.

The streets opened out and they emerged onto a little triangular square with an ancient tree at its center. Some pretty, blond girls were jumping rope on the cobbles. Two old men were playing chess on a park bench.

The huge canopy of the tree cast shadows over the whole square, filtering the sunlight onto the cobbles and facades of the houses. They each bought an ice cream and sat down on an ornate park bench that could have been there beneath the tree for hundreds of years.

"What an amazing trip this is. What an adventure we're having," Sylvia said. "No one has ever lived life like this."

The air was clear, crystal clear, and birds were singing in the branches above them. There was no urban noise, just the girls' laughter and the rhythmic sound of the jump rope hitting the cobbles.

The square was an oasis surrounded by five-hundred-year-old buildings in muted colors, their hand-blown windows shimmering.

"Shal we do the National Museum or the Museum of Modern Art first?"

Sylvia asked, stretching out along the length of the bench, her head in Mac's lap, as she leafed through her guidebook.

"Modern," he said between bites of his ice cream. "I've always wanted to see Rauschenberg's goat."

They took the street north out of the square and passed a huge statue of St.

George and the Dragon. A minute later they were down on the quayside again, opposite the sailing yacht af Chapman, which was lying at anchor off the island of Skeppsholmen.

"There's water everywhere in this city," Mac said, amazed.

Sylvia pointed to the island directly behind the Grand Hotel.

"Are we walking, or shal we take a steamer?"

Mac pul ed her close and kissed her.

"I'l go anywhere, anyhow, any way, as long as I can be with you."

She pushed her hands down under his belt and stroked his bare buttocks.

"You look like a Greek god," she whispered, "with a very nice tan."

In the Museum of Modern Art the first thing they looked at was Rauschenberg's world-famous piece Monogram, a stuffed angora goat with a white-painted car tire around its middle.

Mac was ecstatic to see it in person.

"I think this is a self-portrait," he said, lying down flat on the floor alongside the goat's glass case. "Rauschenberg saw himself as a rudely treated animal in the big city. Look at what it's standing on, a mass of found objects, newspaper clippings about astronauts, tightrope walkers, and the stock fucking exchange."

Sylvia smiled at his enthusiasm.

"I think al of his 'combines' are a kind of narrative about the big city," she said. "Maybe he wants to say something about how human beings are always trying to master new environments."

When Mac was done with his veneration, they went on to look at the Swedish art.

At the back of the Modern, through one long corridor and a couple of shorter ones, they found the motif for the next murders.

"Perfect," Mac said.

"Now al we have to do is find two people in love," Sylvia said. "Just like us."