Good Night, My Darling

Chapter ONE

There were a number of interrogations back in Stockholm, too. Two Swedish citizens had lost their lives in Southeast Asia. Justine had been in contact with both of them.

The first day, the telephone rang so much that she pulled the jack out of the socket. The police lent her a cell phone. We have to be able to reach you, they said. Make sure that the batteries don’t run down.

But every time they mentioned Nathan Gendser’s name something happened to her breathing; she had to loosen the clothes around her neck and she began to hyperventilate. She cried and ripped wounds into her arms.

She had been exposed to trauma. They gave her the name of a psychologist, but she didn’t bother to contact her.

She did not dare refuse to answer the cell phone. One of the first days, Nathan’s son Micke called. She let him come by the house.

There was a certain similarity between them, and as soon as she saw it, she had to start crying again. She rushed up from her chair in the blue room and left him by himself. Sitting on the bed in her room, she heard him wander about the house calling for her. Finally, she stepped back into the hall.

He was standing on the stairs, gripping the railing tightly. The bird was flying around the ceiling; he had been alone for so long now that unfamiliar voices made him excited. Justine called to him, but it took a while until he flew to her.

“Don’t be afraid,” she called down the stairs. “The bird is more afraid than you are.”

Then she thought of the tigers and how Ben used the exact words: “He’s far away from here; he’s much more afraid of you.”

She sat down on the top step, sit down, she told the boy, did you know that we saw a tiger’s spoor?

“Do you think a tiger could have killed him?” he said thickly.

“More likely it was an elephant.”

“An elephant…”

“Yes, there were elephants near the camp.”

“Jesus Christ!… Did you see them?”

“Not me. One of the guys with us in the jungle, Ben, said that he had never had experienced an animal attacking.”

“Maybe he annoyed them?”

“Your father?”

“Yes.”

“No, he didn’t bother them. But maybe there was a sick or injured animal… you never know what could happen… the jungle is so… well, unpredictable.”

“He was so into this job. I’ve never seen him like that. He thought he’d found his niche, we talked about me… eventually…”

“How old are you, Micke?”

“Soon I’ll be sixteen.”

“Almost grown up.”

He shrugged.

Suddenly, it all seemed to her a scene from the theater. She got up and went to him, next to him on the stair. The bird flew away to her room.

She placed her hand on the boy’s head. The lines came just as they were supposed to.

“Go home and comfort your sisters. We can believe that your pappa is doing fine wherever he is. He was a man of adventure; he died with his boots on, as they say. He died when he was most happy. Out in nature, in the middle of a great adventure. How many people get to do that?”

And as she spoke, she realized that what she was saying was the truth. By sacrificing the one person she loved and valued more than any other, she had let him escape from trivial everyday life which sooner or later would overcome him, as it overcomes all of humanity. He would never be forced to return home, never need to grow old, never need to experience how his body broke down bit by bit, so that he finally would be sitting crippled and distorted by arthritis, forgotten and alone in a nursing home somewhere. She had helped him escape all that.

But the sacrifice was enormous.

The awkward boy fell to pieces; he cried loudly and violently.

She embraced him, as she had once embraced his father, felt his jacket and skin.

“He was so wonderful, Nathan, so strong and fine and courageous. I have never loved anyone as much as I loved your pappa.”

She pushed him carefully away.

“Sometimes I used to play for him. I have a horn… Maybe I could play a melody or two for you, if you want.”

“What kind of horn?” he said, suspiciously.

“An old post horn which I received when I was a little girl.”

“I don’t know… Can someone really play those things?”

“Oh, yes.”

She got up and took down the instrument. It was covered by a thin layer of dust. She rubbed it with a fold of her skirt.

“I played for him a few times. He liked to hear me play.”

She stood by the window and placed the horn to her lips.

While she played, she saw the boy clench his fists.

When he had left, she broke down. A shrieking and cackling laugh rose from her throat. She wasn’t able to stop it. It gushed out of her, forced her to cramp up. She pressed her tongue to the wall, the taste of stone, the taste of dust and stone. But the laugh kept coming.

Until it finally hacked itself to pieces, until it transformed into crying.

Then there was Martina’s parents. A very absurd story in itself.

Hans Nästman, a policeman who had spoken to her quite a bit, insisted on this.

“Of course I want to meet with them,” she said. “It’s just been so difficult. I’ve been so tired.”

She did not want them in her house. She didn’t say that to Hans Nästman, though. She said, “Can we meet in a room at the police station?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he promised.

He even came to pick her up. It was a normal, neutral car and he was wearing normal clothes.

“You have a nice place here,” he said, and looked out over the lake. “And the boat down there; it’s not exactly small.”

“It was my father’s.”

“Not bad at all. Can you drive it?”

“I haven’t driven it very far. Just around and about on the lake. But maybe I’ll take a longer trip someday, maybe to Gotland or Åland.”

“Well, you’ll have to get more practice in. Have you taken a skipper’s examination?”

He was speaking with a trace of dialect; it seemed like the Värmland one.

The bird was in the attic. For some reason she didn’t want Hans Nästman to see him. She locked the door and followed him.

The car smelled new, a good smell. She thought about her old Opel and maybe it was just this moment that she decided to buy a new car.

Too late, she noticed they weren’t heading to the police station on Kungsholmen.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“They live in Djursholm. They wanted to have you visit them in their home.”

A pain in her head, as if her head were shrinking.

“What’s wrong? Do you have something against it?”

“Not at all. It’s just the smell in the car… I just feel a little carsick. Maybe we could roll down the window just a little bit?”

Their last name was Andersson. She realized that she had never known what Martina’s last name had been. Their house was as gray as a bunker with high narrow windows.

“I wonder if this is a Ralph Erskine,” said Hans Nästman. “What?”

“The guy who designed the place, I mean.”

“No idea.”

He walked closely behind her, so closely that he almost stepped on her heels.

“Nice area,” she said, to have something to say. “Yes, indeed. I wouldn’t have anything against living here.

But you can’t complain. Where you live is just as nice.”

The door was made from a massive piece of wood. There was a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Hans Nästman was about to use it when the door opened. A man wearing a dark suit was standing in the doorway.

“Not to bother with that,” he said. “You can’t hear it from the inside anyway. It’s mostly there as a decoration.”

He was thin and tanned; he wore his hair in a ponytail. He gripped her hand.

“Mats Andersson. Welcome.”

Hans Nästman held onto her elbow, guided her into the house. She could sense movement in the house.

“Come in, my wife will be joining us soon.”

He lowered his voice.

“This has been… how should I put it… difficult for her, naturally, for both of us.”

They entered a large, longish room, decorated totally in black and white. There was a grand piano in the middle of the room. The sun burst into the room through narrow windows making a staff-like pattern. A row of black leather armchairs stood against one wall. Next to them, some kind of altar had been placed, with candles in silver candlesticks and a photo of Martina, happy and smiling, wearing a dress of lilac linen. One could see her nipples through the fabric.

The policeman went up to the photo.

“Yes,” said her father. “That’s her.”

“I thought so. When was it taken?”

“Last summer, during one of those really hot days. She loved the heat; she never should have been born in a country like ours.”

“So she was twenty-four when it was taken?”

Her father said, “Yes, she should have been. Excuse me for a moment; I need to…”

And he disappeared from the room, and everything was silent.

They sat down beside each other on the armchairs. The grand piano’s lid was lifted; it was a Steinway.

“Maybe you’ve heard of Mats H. Andersson?” the policeman asked. “He’s a famous concert pianist. Or maybe you don’t know much about classical music?”

Her eyes rested on the piano’s emblem, it was embellished with gold and looked like a cognac cup. She suddenly had a longing for a glass of port or sherry.

They heard Martina’s pappa talking out there, exhorting, like talking to a puppy. Then he stood in the doorway with a tray and some coffee cups.

“My wife will come in just a minute,” he said, almost shrilly.

She entered, her head cast down. She was younger than Justine had imagined. She had Martina’s dark hair and somewhat squinting eyes. There was something sluggish and slow about her.

“Marianne,” she said and reached out her hand. “I’m taking Sobril right now. I assume it’s not something I can hide.”

Her husband entered with a coffee pot. When he began to pour, the lid fell off and knocked over one of the cups. Her face looked like a polecat.

“I can’t stand that noise, I’ve said,” she exclaimed. His earlobes turned red.

“My fingers are anything but practical,” he tried to joke. The woman walked around the room. She was barefoot;

there was a narrow ring on one of her toes. She threw her hair back; strange sounds came from her.

“To lose a child,” she chanted. “To lose a beloved child.”

“Was she your only daughter?” asked the policeman.

“Yes,” answered Mats Andersson. “We also have a son. He lives in Australia. Of course, he’s coming home for the funeral. Otherwise, he doesn’t come home very often. Excuse me; I’m just going to get something to clean up the mess.”

“The funeral, yes… you’ve received her back home, I’ve heard.”

The woman stopped pacing.

“In a box! Like a piece of freight!”

She stood in front of Justine; she fell on her knees onto the white shag rug. Let her head rest in Justine’s lap; she was warm and shaking. She turned her face to Justine’s legs and suddenly bit down hard. Justine gasped; she slapped her hand on her mouth and stared at the policeman. He was there right away, lifted up Marianne Andersson and helped her to an armchair.

“How are you, Marianne?” he asked. “How are you?”

Her narrow eyes shone. She opened her lips, her mouth, but shut them again.

Her husband came back with a rag. Clumsily, he began to wipe up the spilled coffee.

Marianne Andersson said, in a completely normal voice, “Now, if we may, we would like to ask a few questions to the person who was the last one to see our daughter alive.”

“Yes, Justine Dalvik, here,” said the policeman.

“I really wasn’t the last person to see her alive. That one is in Kuala Lumpur, the person who… killed her. He was the last one.”

The woman turned to her.

“Don’t play with words, please. It’s difficult enough as it is.”

“Please listen,” said the policeman. “We are all deeply affected by what has happened. Our nerves are on edge. Justine Dalvik shared a room with your daughter. She has testified that she was in the shower when it happened.”

“May I ask any question I want?” asked the woman.

“Yes?”

“There’s a few things that I have been wondering about.”

“Ask away.”

“When you came out of the shower… were you naked then?”

“No… I had a bath towel around me.”

“Was that man just standing there? Didn’t you hear him come in?”

“No, I was in the shower, like I said.”

“He didn’t hear you in the shower?”

“I don’t know… Maybe he thought I was alone in the room. He heard the shower certainly. Maybe he thought he could rob the place while I was in there.”

“And then he discovered that someone else was there?”

“Yes.”

The questions came quickly and jarringly.

“Didn’t my daughter try to stop him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, but what do you think?”

“No… I think he caught her by surprise. They said there were no traces of a fight.”

“But wouldn’t he have fled the moment he saw someone else in the room?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, maybe she’d gone out for a minute and when she came back, he was there; maybe she had to go get something.”

“You didn’t try to defend her?”

“It was too late! It had already happened!”

“So what did you do?”

Her head was spinning. She looked at the policeman; he nodded encouragingly.

“What I did… What would you have done?”

“I would have killed him. I would have strangled him with my bare hands. I would have cut him to pieces with my bare fingers…”

“Marianne,” said Mats Andersson. “Marianne…”

”He was dangerous,” whispered Justine. “If he killed one person, he might kill another.”

“So what did you do?”

“I ran back into the shower and locked the door.”

“Why didn’t you run out of the room instead? Out to get help? It all appears very strange to me.”

“I don’t know. A reflex.”

“If she could have reached a hospital! If she could have gotten there in time!”

“It was too late already!”

“How do you know? How many dead people have you seen? How can you be so sure?”

She gripped the coffee cup but her hands were shaking so strongly that she was not able to lift it.

“May I… ask something?” said her father. “How was she that day? What was her mood? Was she happy or sad… can you…?”

“None of us were what you could call happy.”

“You have to remember what happened in the jungle,” said Hans Nästman. “The group had to break camp suddenly, one of the leaders had disappeared, probably met with an accident, most likely dead.”

“They never found him then?”

“No. When things disappear in the jungle, they tend to be lost forever.”

“She was a wandering soul, our girl. I always felt on tenterhooks whenever she was out and about on one of her trips. That something would happen to her. Sooner or later, I would think, sooner or later… but you can’t forbid them.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Do you have any children, Commissioner?”

“Yes, two boys, eighteen and twenty.”

“It’s easier with boys.”

“Don’t say that.”

The woman got up. She went over to the altar and lit the candles.

“You can go now, if you want,” she said hoarsely. “Now I know what she looks like, that person who shared a room with Martina. I don’t want to know any more. It’s enough.”

“What a strange and unpleasant woman,” said Hans Nästman, when they returned to the car. “In my job, you meet a number of bizarre people. But someone like Marianne Andersson…”

“Sorrow can affect you.”

“Whatever.”

She put the seatbelt on.

“What did she do to you?”

“Nothing.”

“She hurt you. I saw it. She bit you, didn’t she?” “No.”

“Justine, listen to me. You have to get a vaccination against lockjaw. Human bites are the most dangerous kind.” “I’m already vaccinated.”

“Of course, of course. When you’ve traveled so far.” “We got all kinds of vaccinations. Nathan, too. But you can’t vaccinate against everything.”

“That’s a wise saying.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I saw that she bit you, Justine.”

She sighed.

“I have the feeling you let her.”

“OK, OK, maybe I deserved it. Maybe I should have protected her daughter somehow.”

“Do you feel that way yourself?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s the kind of thing a psychiatrist needs to sort out. Please, can you just drive me home now? This has been an awful day.”

Hans Nästman kept in touch with her.

“I imagine you want to know what’s going on in Kuala Lumpur. And whether they ever find Nathan Gendser some day. But the man they caught for hotel burglary will only confess to burglary. He also insists that he never set foot in that hotel. Nothing can be proven. There are many fingerprints on the knife, but not his. He could have been wearing gloves… but it really is fairly hot in that country.”

She didn’t know what to say to him.

“I imagine they can put him in prison anyway if he doesn’t have an air-tight alibi. A poverty-striken fellow with no money.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it that much,” said Justine. “I would prefer to forget about the whole thing.”

Chapter TWO

During the fall and winter, they left her alone.

She didn’t forget, however. Nathan kept coming to her. During the night, he would come in her dreams; during the day, he moved behind her, so close that she could almost feel his breath, but when she turned around, he slipped away into a corner and disappeared.

Yes, Nathan came to her, but less and less often.

Then all of this with Hans Peter. That winter day of mild temperatures and the shine of rain on the window, when they had made love to each other for the first time, she knew he had to go, but she didn’t want him to.

He said he had to go to work at his hotel.

They were in her kitchen. He embraced her, sat her on his lap.

“So strange… we don’t really know each other… but still.”

She threw her arms around him and burrowed her face into his neck.

“We know each other a little bit.”

“Yeah…”

“I want to… again,” she whispered.

“Just a few minutes.”

“A quickie.”

She cleared the table until it was empty, leaned forward on it and lifted her dress. She had no panties on. He stood behind her, his hands running over her thighs and hips. She moved against him so he would get a hard-on; she felt him through the cloth of his pants.

At that very moment, the telephone rang.

“Fuck!” she exclaimed. “Fuck it all.”

He had taken a few steps backward, lifted the receiver and handed it to her. She shook her head, but it was too late.

“Hello?” she said tensely.

“Hello… I’d like to speak with Justine Dalvik.”

“That’s me.”

“My name is Tor Assarsson. I’m Berit’s husband. I understand that you and Berit were schoolmates.”

“Yes, that’s right. Hi.”

“I’m nervous about her. She’s disappeared.”

“She has?”

“She hasn’t been home for over twenty-four hours.”

“Uh-huh?”

Her headache started It ate itself into her forehead and when she turned, it seemed like the skin of her cranium was being pulled, as if her entire skull had shrunk.

“I’m wondering… she was going to your place. Did she show up there?”

“Yes, yes, she did. We sat and talked for a while during the evening.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention to the clock.”

“Was it late?”

“Somewhat late perhaps.”

Hans Peter was observing her. He zipped up his pants; he smiled and shook his head. Justine tried to smile back.

“I have to admit that I am really worried.”

“I understand…”

“This is not like Berit. I’m afraid that something’s happened to her. Something bad, something awful.”

“Maybe she took a trip? Maybe she just needs to be alone for a while?”

“Did she say anything like that to you?”

“She didn’t seem happy, if that’s what you mean.”

“She’s had a rough time of it lately. And maybe I wasn’t supporting her the way I should have. What did she say? What did the two of you talk about?”

“She talked about her job, that she didn’t want to move to Umeå, or wherever it was.”

“Luleå.”

“Yes, that’s probably it. She was unhappy and afraid about the future.”

“Could she have done something to herself, do you think?”

His voice was rough; she could tell he was about to break down.

“I don’t know. We really don’t know each other all that well. At least, not as grown women. I have no idea if she’s the kind of woman who would do something drastic. I just don’t know.”

“I’ve never thought of her as that type. She’s been stable and strong in all ways, in spite of difficulties. But you never know… She’d gotten to that age, I think, you know, menopause and all. I think her menopause had just started. Hormones can cause women problems, or so I’ve heard.”

“That can happen, that women sometimes have complete personality changes.”

“Though I haven’t noticed any such tendency.”

She heard Hans Peter go down the stairs. He was going soon. She noticed she didn’t want him to go. For the first time, she felt that she did not want to be alone in the house; she wanted to go with him, go anywhere, just get into the car and drive.

“What did she say when she left?”

“When she left? Yes… she said she was going to walk up to Sandviksvägen and take the bus, I believe. But we had been drinking quite a bit… I don’t really remember what she said.”

“Was she drunk?”

“Yes, pretty drunk.”

“Do you think she might have fallen down somewhere?”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t someone have found her by now, if that were the case?”

“Why didn’t she take a taxi? She should have taken a taxi.”

“Maybe so.”

The man was breathing heavily.

“I’ll have to call the police. There’s nothing else left to do. Then I’ll go out and look for her. I’ll come around your place, too.”

“I don’t think I’ll be home.”

“Hmm. OK, here’s our number and the number of my cell phone. If you need to reach me. If you remember something that you haven’t mentioned.”

He had put on his jacket.

“Well, we didn’t have the chance for that lovely moment,” he said as he hugged her. “I’m going to have the image of your beautiful ass in my head tonight. I’m going to have a hard-on all night.”

“Oh, do you really have to leave?”

“Yes.”

“It’s so stupid that I forgot to disconnect the phone. I always pull the phone out of the jack. I don’t like people calling here at all hours.”

He pushed her slightly away.

“But Justine, don’t do that! How am I supposed to reach you?”

“But you came here, didn’t you?”

“But if I can’t?”

“Well…”

“Tell you what. I’ll buy you a caller ID.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you know? It’s a little gadget where you can look at a display and see the number of the person trying to reach you. If you don’t want to talk to Aunt Greta, you don’t have to answer.”

“I didn’t know that there were such things.”

“There are. Look, I’ve got to rush off now. I’ll call you tomorrow when I wake up. I’m already longing to call you.”

She was in the house. She was alone. She locked the doors and went through all the rooms. She washed the dishes and put things away. Then she turned out all the lights, and pulled the telephone cord out of the jack.

She stood by the kitchen window. She didn’t want to go lie down, didn’t want to close her eyes. The ache nibbled away at her brain, nibbled and ate.

She stood in the darkness and saw him come. He looked just as she thought: grey coat, white and blank face. Not even his worry was able to erase the look of an effective bureaucrat. She heard his steps on the outside stairs, then the doorbell which burrowed into the center of the house.

He waited a moment, then rang again. When nothing happened, he began to go around the house and toward the lake. She ran up the inside stairs. She saw him stand next to the edge of the ice. He took a few careful steps and then turned back. He had shrunk a bit more.

She felt incredibly sorry for him.

During the night, it began to snow. The thermometer showed a few degrees below freezing. She didn’t get undressed; she wandered around the house and kept bumping into the walls as if she were blind. She had swallowed a few pain medication pills, but the pain remained in her head, barely affected.

It was two in the morning. She plugged in the phone and dialed.

He answered right away.

“Hi, again. It’s Justine Dalvik. Sorry that I’m calling so late.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“You haven’t found her?”

“No.”

“Have you… called in the police?”

“So to speak. I was there and talked to them. But they’re not doing much right now. They say that it’s not unusual that wives disappear. Many do it to punish their husbands. But I think they were just trying to calm me down.”

“I’ve been thinking a great deal. She actually talked… about your marriage.”

“She did? What did she say?”

“I got the feeling that she was a little, how should I put it, disappointed.”

“In me?”

“Yes.”

“She said that?”

“She was crying and she appeared to be depressed. She said something along the lines of not having much in common these days. What do I have left, she said, neither a job nor love, something along those lines.”

She heard him light a cigarette.

“She said that?”

“Something like that, yes.”

He was crying now, mumbling something as if he had marbles in his mouth. It seemed that he might have hung up, but she heard him clear his throat and cough. Then he was back on the line.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have called like this in the middle of the night.”

“It’s really OK,” he said. “It’s not troubling me at all, the opposite in fact.”

“I can’t sleep. I’m worried, too.”

“I was out in Hässelby earlier. I rang the doorbell, but no one was home.”

“No.”

“What am I supposed to do? What in the hell am I supposed to do?” He was beginning to scream the last words. She heard him as if he were forcing himself back to normal.

“Excuse me… but I have been so worried that I have no idea what to do.”

“I’m not surprised. Do you have any sleeping pills or anything like that? I mean, so that you can sleep tonight?”

“I usually don’t use them.”

“Maybe she did?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“No. Well then, I don’t want to trouble you any longer. I’ll call if I think of anything else. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Every time she went to lie down, it came back to her. During the day, she was able to keep it at a distance. And right afterwards, she had fallen asleep. She was no longer totally drunk, but when she came out of the shower, she sat on the edge of the bed and drank a few more glasses of wine. She felt her foot aching again. Then she dropped off to sleep.

They had embraced each other. For a long time, they had stood and hugged, Berit’s hot snotty face, her drunken crying, I’ve blamed myself. I’ve been so afraid; children are like that. I kept telling myself, children have no sense of empathy, but it hasn’t helped, Oh, Justine, Justine, you have to forgive me.

She was somewhat shorter than Justine, and thinner. But she was strong. When Justine pushed her to the floor, she followed without resistance. Justine climbed on her chest, heaved herself forward, and began to press against her throat, and it wasn’t until that point that Berit began to resist. Justine grabbed a book from the bookshelf, a Dostoyevsky, and she slammed the corner of the book right on the bridge of Berit’s nose. She heard the cracking sound, felt the body underneath her go still. The whites of her eyes shone; she had fainted for a moment, perhaps more from the shock than the pain. Justine ran quickly up the stairs into her bedroom, got her long scarf, wrapped it a few times around the throat of the unconscious woman, and pulled.

She held on tightly until she had no more doubt. She heard the telephone ring. She lifted the receiver; it was a man, Nathan? No, Hans Peter. Nathan doesn’t exist anymore; his body was broken to bits in a waterfall on the other side of the ocean. That was a long time ago and all was forgotten.

She silently put the receiver back in place.

She knew exactly what to do. Even though she didn’t think about it in advance, it all came to her; a voice was leading her: get the cloth totes from the cleaning closet, the two white cloth totes with Konsum written on them. Then the scarf. Don’t look at the body’s face. Loosened the scarf from her neck-there came an unpleasant puff of air-tied it to one of the handles of the tote. Knotted it like a belt hard around Berit’s waist.

The bird circled above her. Go and sleep, she told him; you can hurt youself here in the darkness. But he didn’t obey her; he sat on her shoulder the whole time she dragged the body down all the stairs. He made her forget what she was doing for a moment.

He took off toward the upstairs once she started down to the basement.

“I’ll return soon!” she called. “You know that I’ll come back; then you’ll get something good, a raw egg, a nice raw hen’s egg, the kind you like, maybe even with an embryo in it.”

She had left Berit in the hallway. There were stones in the basement, she remembered where they were. Her father had brought them home. He had bought them from a business acquaintance who had promised to help him build an outside grill. Nothing came of that outside grill. Flora was against it. She suddenly heard the nagging voice: you never finish anything you start. Are these supposed to be here in the garden until the day we die? It’s slovenly, Sven. I will not have it.

One day, her father had gotten angry, and he carried every single stone into the basement. He did it in ten minutes; he was pale and enraged. Afterwards he took the boat and went out on the lake.

Justine carried up one of the stones. With a great deal of effort, she put Berit’s coat on her body, and the ugly brown plaid cap. She almost forgot the gloves which were on the hat shelf. When she discovered them, she tried to put them on Berit’s fingers, but stopped, sniffling, and pressed them into the body’s jacket pocket.

Then she got dressed herself.

She dragged the kick sled to the stairs, and now came the hard part, struggling to get the lifeless body down and place it on the kick sled. She was conscious of the pain in her foot the whole time, but it was as if the pain didn’t reach her. She steadied herself on it and it bit and ached, but it was a damped and suppressed pain. She would deal with that later.

She heaved her burden onto the kick sled. The runners slid slightly; the dead person’s arms fell out against the snow. Justine tried to place them back in her lap, but they fell back, having no stability. So she had to go inside and look for some string. First she didn’t find anything; she pulled out every drawer in the kitchen, dumped its contents onto the floor.

And now came the first moment of panic.

She went to the mirror. She saw her own face in there, and spoke her name out loud: “Justine. You deserve this, don’t forget! Think about it the whole time!”

Her hands had begun to shake, she lifted them and gave herself two hard slaps on her cheeks: Calm, calm, don’t become hysterical; you know what he thinks about that.

Then it was over.

Right after that she found the ball of string. It was in the niche by the window, she remembered using it the other day for… no, she didn’t remember why. She lifted the scissors from the floor and went back outside.

Berit was sitting hunched over, ready to fall off. Justine tied her to the kick sled, her waist, her hands, her legs. The head hung, the strangled neck. Don’t look at the exploded eyes, don’t look. She drew the cap down as far as possible and went to get the stones.

Each Konsum tote could hold five stones.

The night was dark and misty. She was aware of an airplane high above her, heard its motor. With a great deal of effort, she managed to transport the kick sled to the lake. The runners cut through the snow the entire time. It was easier once she got out on the ice. She pushed the sled as far as she dared, frightened by the rumbling and sharp sounds coming from out there. She kept walking until her feet started to get wet. She saw a layer of water over the ice.

Then she stopped, and got ready to run. She ran, limping, at the kick sled, gave it a push, made it slide quite a bit forward. But it was not far enough. The ice still held. She would have to try going a little bit further. She lay on her stomach, pulling herself forward. The water seeped into her coat, but she wasn’t freezing; it rather felt like burning. She placed her hands on Berit’s backside and pushed again. The kick sled slid forward about ten meters. There was a breaking and cracking sound, then the kick sled tipped forward. She saw how it slowly slid into the water, saw the swinging runners, how everything sank and disappeared.

Back in the house, the pain in her foot resumed. She took off her wet clothes and hung them in the drying cabinet.

In the shower, she discovered the marks on her arms, marks and wounds from fingernails. It smarted like venom when she spread lotion on them.

But it wasn’t until she went to the bedroom door that she noticed Berit’s bag. It was still standing next to the chair where she had been sitting.

Chapter THREE

The following morning, she awoke with a heaviness on her chest. She tried to scream, but her throat was like a rasp. She kicked at the blankets and felt the bird; he had never gone into her bed before.

She had hidden Berit’s bag in her wardrobe. When she came out in the upper hallway, she saw another bag, a dark blue tote with Lüdings Förlag on it, and a logo with a number of book spines. It had been thrown into a corner. She now remembered that Berit had brought flowers and a bottle of wine with her. She felt completely empty.

She folded the blue tote and put it in the wardrobe, too. She spent the rest of the day with Hans Peter. She was able to suppress all those other events. She had thought about him; he was working his way into her consciousness. She felt a kind of tenderness when she remembered his collar bone, his neck, his hands. They were not like Nathan’s; they were softer, milder. He gave her a happy contentment.

She had thought about taking care of Berit’s bag after he left, but she didn’t have the energy. Exhaustion knocked her out. She crept into bed; his aroma was in the sheets, his nearness.

Tor Assarsson called again on Monday morning.

“I just can’t deal with going to work,” he said. “I was hoping that you’d be home.”

“I’m home.”

“It is hellish. Everything is so damn hellish.”

“I understand. Have you heard anything new?” “No.”

“Wait until the mail comes. Maybe she wrote you, from Rome or Tobago. Maybe she just picked up and left in order to get some distance.”

“You think?”

“It’s not completely impossible.”

“Maybe you’re right. Let’s hope so.”

He said he had to come over and talk to her in person. She was able to hinder that. “Wait for the mail first,” she had said. “What time does it usually arrive?”

He said he didn’t know. He was normally not at home during the work week.

She promised to let him come over after lunch.

She thought about Hans Peter.

First she had to deal with the purse and the tote. In some strange way, she hoped that they had just disappeared by the time she opened the wardrobe door. Of course they were still there. Berit’s large leather purse stood on top of her gym shoes, just where she had placed it.

Her headache returned.

She sat on the floor with the scissors. She intended to cut the purse into small, small pieces, the purse and everything in it. When she took it in her hand, the way Berit had often held it, she realized that would be difficult. She didn’t want to open it, but she realized that she had to. The small metal clasps released, and the purse yawned open with its dark secret contents. The owner’s things, her life.

On the top was a cloth handkerchief with vague lipstick marks, then all the rest that she didn’t want to see, but had to, all those personal belongings that would bring the picture of Berit back into her house: a wallet, worn out at the seams, the pocket with the bank card, the white plastic card from the landsting, an American Express card, a book club card that had expired a while ago, a pharmacy card. Justine lifted a flap and three person’s eyes met hers: the husband, Tor, and the two boys, school age. There were almost a thousand crowns in the bill area. She began with those, clipped them to pieces; then the photos, the plastic cards, the small pieces of paper and receipts that were in the pocket behind the bills. Then she took the pocket calendar. She flipped through it and read sporadic notations: the dentist at one-thirty; don’t forget to pick up shoes. At the very bottom, Berit’s driver’s license, loose. She did not look like herself in the photo. It was an old picture; Berit had her hair in a bun. It made her seem older. Keys, comb, mirror and lipstick. She started collecting it in a bag, sat for a while and tried to break the comb in two. It was a light blue plastic comb with a handle. She tried with all her might, but the plastic refused to give. A small bottle of perfume, Nuits indiennes; she rolled it into a small plastic bag to dampen the smell. The lighter was on the table. The cigarette pack was also there, five or six cigarettes left; she crumbled them to bits right onto the pile. Clipped the cloth tote into small pieces; tried to do it with the leather purse, but now she had to give up. The scissors had lost their strength.

What was she supposed to do with this? She sat on the floor with her legs straight. Berit’s eye, cut loose from her driver’s license, stared right into her face. She took it between her fingers and stuffed it into the bottom of the pile.

The telephone rang; she hadn’t pulled the line from the jack. She was thinking of Tor Assarsson’s and Berit’s children. She had to be available, the happy and wonderful friend.

She spoke her entire name out loud, tensely.

“My dearest sweetheart!”

It was Hans Peter.

“I was afraid you’d disconnected the phone.”

“No…”

“I’m longing for you. My whole body longs for you; my palms miss the warmth of your skin. I want to hear your voice and embrace you.”

“Oh, Hans Peter…”

“What’s wrong? You sound so different. Has something happened?”

“No, nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine. Are you working today?”

“Certainly, but not until evening. May I come over right now? I want to!”

She froze from the sound of her own voice.

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

“When do you have time?”

She noticed the lessening of his enthusiasm.

“I’ll have to call you.”

“When?”

“Please, Hans Peter, there’s a few things I really need to take care of first, and I can’t talk about them now. But I will call you.”

“Maybe I won’t be in.”

“No, but I’ll try anyway. I have to go now. Sorry!”

She hung up the phone. This was not how she imagined things. She placed her hands on her eyes, and whimpered.

Should she burn up the purse? No. That would be too risky. She grumbled to herself and walked in circles. What to do? Then she remembered the transfer station Lövsta, on the other side of Riddersvik. Of course. Why didn’t she think of this before? She was very tired; she was dizzy when she went into the basement. She found the roll of black garbage bags. She stuffed the purse and its pile of remains into one of the bags and tied it up. She strode about, searching in all the rooms; no, no more traces. She put on her coat and drove away.

She was afraid that someone would ask what was in the garbage bag. A man in overalls looked at her without any interest. She asked anyway, “Where’s the container for combustibles?”

He pointed to one of the containers.

“Thanks,” she said.

When she returned to the car: “Have a nice day.” He muttered something unintelligible.

As soon as she returned home, she dialed Hans Peter’s number. Of course he didn’t answer. Worry gripped her, began to transform into despair. She went into the bathroom and put on a thick layer of make-up, thick Kohl eyeliner and eye shadow. She put on a skirt, a cardigan and thick woolen leggings. Her foot was better after a night of rest, but it was still a bit swollen.

She tried calling again. No, now he was unhappy and hurt; he wouldn’t answer, even if she called the whole day long. She could well imagine that he was the type who didn’t forgive easily.

Someone was at the door. Was it him? There was a man outside; she saw him through the milky glass. It looked like Hans Peter. Was it him?

It wasn’t him.

She knew who it was right away.

Tor, Berit’s husband.

“You’re Justine, aren’t you?”

He looked scruffy; there was stubble like a cloud over his chin and cheeks, his eyes small and confused.

“Come in,” she said softly.

He stood in the hallway, looked around.

“So she was here as late as last Saturday. I’m trying to think my way into her mind, imagine what she was reasoning and doing.”

“Yes…”

“Where did you go after she came in?”

“We went upstairs, I believe. We sat and talked up there for a long time.”

“Let’s do that, too.”

She pulled herself up the stairs with the help of the railing. Her foot was aching again. He noticed, but didn’t say anything. “Maybe you would like some coffee?”

“No, I don’t want coffee. I don’t want anything.”

The bird sat on the backrest of Berit’s chair. When he saw the man, he screeched. Tor Assarsson jumped.

“What in the fucking hell is that?”

“Everyone asks,” she said. “It’s a bird. My pet.”

He remained standing. Justine held out her arm, the bird hopped up onto it, and launched from there to the top of the bookcase.

Tor Assarsson stood with his arms over his head.

“How in the hell can you have a pet like that?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do I dare sit down, or is anything else going to swoop down and surprise me?”

Justine was beginning to regret that she had let him in. He sounded irritated and provoked, probably was in shock.

She sank down on the edge of the chair.

“Were you sitting here?”

“Yes, we did, I believe.”

“We’ve been married for many years, Berit and I. Now I understand how much she’s become a part of me. Do you understand? And now it might be too late!”

“Did you wait for the mail?”

“Yes, but there was nothing. And, in addition, I found this.”

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a passport. He threw it on the table with force.

“She can’t have gone anywhere. At least, she hasn’t left the country.”

“What about the EU nowadays… Do you need a passport anymore?”

“I think you still do.”

“I’m sorry… but I’m afraid I can’t really do anything for you.”

“May I ask, were you really friends when you went to school together? Were you best friends, as they say?”

“Not really.”

“Yes, I got that from her. She was hinting at something along those lines. You were bullied, weren’t you?”

“It was a little difficult for me, but I haven’t really dwelt on it very much. It was really quite a long time ago.”

“She hinted that there was something she wanted to bring up with you. She had a bad conscience; she was suffering from it.”

“She did?”

“Did she do it, say anything to you?”

Her thoughts whirled around her brain, was it the right thing to do to answer honestly now? Was it?

“I believe she said something like she hadn’t been so nice all the time.”

“She said that?”

“I think so.”

“And what did you answer?”

“I don’t remember… I probably said something like I hadn’t exactly been an angel myself.”

His shoulders sank. She observed his shirt; the collar was wrinkled. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

“The boys,” he said heavily. “What am I going to say to the boys?”

“I know that you’re worried,” she whispered. “But it hasn’t been that long yet. Try and be patient. Maybe she’s calling you right now; maybe she’s on the phone.”

“I have everything sent to my cell.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ll hear right away when the phone rings at home. Where did she say she would go? Which words did she use exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t really remember.”

“Did she just look at her watch and say something like, oh, I really have to go?”

“It must have been something like that.”

“I was out at the cabin the whole weekend. Otherwise I would have reacted earlier. Why, why the hell did I go out to the cabin!”

He rubbed his fingers against his forehead.

“I really don’t understand all this. I just don’t get it.”

“I can imagine… You think you know a person. And then you realize you really don’t.”

“That’s true; that’s really true.”

Justine’s telephone rang. She got up.

“Please excuse me!”

Hans Peter, she thought. Kind, sweet, dear Hans Peter.

But it was a different Hans, Hans Nästman.

Chapter FOUR

The wind had picked up. Clouds of dry snow were blowing through up there, like wisps of smoke. Her face got warm. “Good day again, Justine Dalvik. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course I do. Why are you calling?… Is there any news about Nathan?”

“No.”

“All right.”

“And no news about the murderer of that young girl?”

Justine held her breath. Behind her in the room, Tor Assarsson was pacing about. He had opened the balcony door now and was lighting a cigarette. An ice-cold draft swept across the floor.

“Just a minute!” she said into the phone. “Close it!” she hissed to Tor Assarson and pointed to the bird.

“Do you have visitors?”

“Yes.”

“You had a visitor on Saturday evening, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to talk to you about that.”

“Why? Don’t I have the right to have guests in my own home?”

“Certainly you do, Justine, certainly.”

“Then, well, I don’t understand…”

The call was cut off, and she realized he was speaking on his cell phone, which had come into shadow. She regretted her reaction; she had gone straight to the attack. That was not good. She hung up the phone, bent down and got her jacket. Then she went out on the balcony with Tor Assarsson.

“You have to be careful with the doors and windows. The bird can impulsively fly out.”

Smoke streamed from his nostrils.

“That’d be just fine!”

“Absolutely not!”

“A bird like that should be free.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t manage. He doesn’t know how to defend himself against wild birds, and other animals that might hurt him. He’s been with people his whole life, since he fell from his nest. He is imprinted by people, by me.”

The ashtray was on the floor. She realized that she had forgotten to empty it. The gusts of wind made the ash swirl a bit. Tor Assarsson put out his cigarette among the many halfsmoked butts left by Berit.

“Whatever. It’s really none of my business.”

He left. At first he said he would call a taxi, but then he changed his mind a moment later.

“I’ll walk along the route she took. I’ll go and take the bus. Do you know how often they go?”

“Sorry, I never take the bus.”

“No. You have a fine new car, I noticed.”

“Yes, I just bought it. I have some things to do, or I would give you a lift to the subway station.”

“No, no, I’d rather walk. As I mentioned before, I want to think my way into what Berit was doing last Saturday.”

She followed him to the door, handed him his coat and scarf. Took his ice-cold hand into her two warm ones.

“Tor,” she said, using his name for the first time. “We’ll cross our fingers as hard as we can. That Berit will show up unharmed. That she’s not hurt and everything will be like before. And if we think of her as hard as we can, it’ll certainly happen.”

He cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said.

As soon as he left up the hill, she returned her jacket to its place. The telephone rang immediately.

“Hello?” she called, but heard only static noise. “Hans Peter, is that you?”

It was the policeman. He was muttering and swearing.

The words came in bits.

“Hello? Dammit all… I’ll soon… in Hässelby. In about

… minutes.”

She went up to the balcony, took the ashtray and emptied it into the toilet and had to flush four times until all the butts disappeared. Then she called for the bird, and placed him in the attic. A strange calm came over her. She put a pot of coffee on and set mugs on the table.

Hans Nästman came alone. He parked right behind her car and walked up the gravel path. She opened before he rang the bell.

He didn’t look like his usual self. He was a great deal thinner. “Good day, Justine. I haven’t forgotten you, as you see.” “I haven’t forgotten you, either.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“I’ve made coffee.”

He nodded.

They sat at the kitchen table, just as she had earlier done with Hans Peter. She had cleared off the surface and was filled with a physical longing, and then the phone.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

“So you noticed?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been sick.”

“It looks like you’ve lost a number of kilos. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“A colon tumor.”

“Oh.”

“It’s gone now. The tumor. And I hope it’s gone forever.”

“This horrible illness, cancer.”

“Yes, you learn to value life in a completely different way after something like this.”

She poured the coffee.

“I apologize. I don’t have any coffee cake.”

“Wonderful! Too many cakes and cookies all the time in these situations.”

“You’ve come here for a reason, I take it?”

“For the sake of Berit Assarsson, your former classmate.”

Her stomach turned to ice.

“Berit, yes.”

“Justine, now don’t get offended, but it seems that bad luck follows you around. People in your vicinity tend to disappear or die.”

“This is supposed to be my fault?”

“Your fault? I didn’t say that. But listen: First it was Nathan Gendser, your male companion. He just disappeared in the jungle and no one has heard from him since. Then Martina Andersson, a young and beautiful photojournalist with an open interest in this Gendser. She was found murdered in cold blood with a jungle knife. In your shared hotel room.”

“An open interest?” she repeated.

“Of course, I’ve been talking to the other people in your group. You must have noticed something like that.”

“She was flirty, but that was mostly her way; young women like to do that. And Nathan was also flirty, and I have to admit that it was hurtful to me sometimes. And of course he was flattered by Martina’s attention. He was a real guy when it came to her.”

“And now we have this woman Berit. Her husband has just reported her missing. It was in that context that we came across your name. She was with you right before she disappeared.”

“And you somehow suspect me? Are you going to put me in jail?”

He looked at her over his glasses.

“I just want to talk with you about it.”

“Is this an interrogation, or what?”

“Don’t take it like that. I just want to ask a few questions.”

She pressed her hands to her face. Her heart was pounding so strongly that she almost imagined that he could hear it.

“OK,” she said in a low voice. “Nathan… I still haven’t gotten over it, if that’s what you think; every time his name is spoken… we were going to get married. I would have been his wife by now. It hurts me. I see him lying there in the rain forest, maybe hurt… dead… how the wild animals…”

Hans Nästman waited patiently until she finished. He leaned back in the chair, and when she took her hands away from her face, he gave her a friendly smile.

She had to tell about Saturday evening; he wanted to hear every little detail. He let her show him exactly where they sat, what they said, what they ate and drank. He asked about her foot.

“I fell when I was out running. I’ve probably sprained it.” “Her husband said that she felt some kind of regret. Her childhood seemed to catch up with her. She had apparently been a leader and had bullied many classmates. Including you. It seemed to weigh heavily on her mind.”

“Yes, she… mentioned something along those lines.” “How do you remember that bullying?”

“I told her all children do things like that; I wasn’t exactly a saint myself. I could be a bit nasty, too. Isn’t that part of childhood? I mean, think about it. How many kids did you hit on the chin when you were a boy?”

“She looked you up in order to talk about it.”

“Well, not just that. We were classmates; she was rummaging around in her roots, trying to make things fit together, so to speak.”

“Hmm. But why would she disappear right now? What do you believe about it?”

“Well, I don’t know… but it’s just Monday. Certainly, she’ll show up soon!”

“She’d never done anything like this before, her husband says.”

“Nora Helmer in A Doll’s House didn’t do anything like that either until the day she left husband and family.”

“I haven’t read A Doll’s House.”

“Ibsen.”

“I know that.”

“I said the same thing to her husband, who was here earlier. Berit is certainly depressed. She was seeing her life as one big failure: the marriage, the boys who didn’t want to have much contact with her any longer, and then all that with her job. Her boss was going to move the entire business up to Norrland. You can well imagine… She’s not young anymore, of course; she’s my age. But maybe you don’t know the value of a woman who is our age? In the job market… and other markets for that matter?”

There was a noise from the attic. A screech and some thuds, as if someone had fallen over. The policeman jumped up.

“What was that?”

She sighed.

“I have a bird. He’s up there. I usually let him fly free in the house, but I am so damned tired of explaining him to people who come here. So I put him in the attic before you arrived.”

She went up the stairs and opened the door.

“Hello?” she called. “Are you coming?”

She didn’t hear him. She entered the darkness and saw a stack of her father’s old bound magazines, Arbetsledaren, which had fallen from a shelf. The bird sat in the middle of the books, biting the covers and giving her wrathful looks.

“Leave those alone!” she scolded. “Pappa would have been furious!”

“What is that?” asked Hans Nästman. He was standing right behind her now; he was holding the railing. If she kicked her leg backwards? The stairs were steep; he would lose his grip from sheer surprise and fall headfirst onto the landing. He was weak and fragile after his illness; he wouldn’t be able to resist.

She didn’t do it.

The bird flapped over their heads.

“He’s angry,” she said. “He doesn’t like to be locked up.”

“No,” said Hans Nästman. “Very few do. And still, crimes are committed.”

She was finally alone again at four-thirty. She went straight to the telephone and dialed Hans Peter’s number. Still no answer. Maybe he’d already gone to work? What was the name of that hotel where he worked, something with roses? She got out the yellow pages and looked under Hotels, she found it right away, Tre Rosor on Drottninggatan. She wrote the telephone number in a notebook.

She started the car. He couldn’t have reached the hotel yet; he didn’t start work this early. She drove toward Fyrspannsgatan and parked alongside the cemetery. It was a gray day. The wind ripped at her hair and clothes, made her freeze down to the marrow of her bones.

First she went to the wrong building. After searching around, she finally found Hans Peter’s entrance. She realized that she had never before been inside a rented place. She stood outside for a long time and read on the board in the entryway the names of the residents. In the distance, she heard the dampened sound of footsteps, then the sound of running water. A vague, almost unnoticeable smell of marble and stone. She saw his name, too long to fit completely, H. P. Bergman, fourth floor.

There was no elevator. She slowly walked up all the stairs. His door was directly on the right; she saw his name again.

No, he wasn’t home. She rang the bell many times and when he didn’t come, she peeked through the letter slot. His smell, the smell of Hans Peter and everything that belonged to him. She called a few times but finally realized that the apartment was empty.

Should she sit and wait? Or had he already gone into town? Maybe he’d done that. No sense in staying. She had her notebook with her, so she ripped out a page and wrote his name on it: Hans Peter, she wrote, I long for you so much, so very very much. Please forgive me if I hurt you. Justine.

She folded the paper in the middle and stuffed it through the letter slot. It fell down to the welcome mat. She saw it lie there and caught a glance of the edge of his winter coat, which was hanging on a hook.

She suddenly began to cry.

Chapter FIVE

The bird was in the kitchen. She’d forgotten to give him food. Where was it? Any frozen ground beef in the freezer? No, not even that. It was twenty to six.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m just going to do some shopping.”

She drove to the shopping center. There was an incredible number of cars for a Monday evening, but she found a place next to the shopping cart storage.

In the bank window to her right, she saw a photo of a house that was for sale. This is where the real estate agent wanted to place her house, too. She got angry just thinking about it.

She hadn’t been here for a while. The library was being rebuilt; the personnel and the books were at another location for the duration. She stopped next to the pet store. A large guinea pig sat all alone in a big cage, displayed in the store front window. Once the store had been filled with all kinds of animals and was owned by a woman who called the animals her friends. They had been her whole life. Finally, she was forced to sell after contracting an allergy.

Impulsively, she went into the pet store. A man was standing at the counter, pricing cans of fish food.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“That guinea pig.”

She looked toward the cage. The animal had his front paws on the bars and sniffed at the air.

“He looks lonely.”

“He’s a she.”

“She looks lonely, then.”

“Yes, we’ve sold all the other small animals and birds. Just that guinea pig is left. We are going to concentrate solely on reptiles in the future. Snakes and lizards and the like. It’s very popular these days.”

“Really.”

“Do you want the guinea pig?”

“When I was little, I really wanted a pet. A girl in my class had a guinea pig. They weren’t sleek like this one, but black and full of cowlicks. They had babies, I remember. They used to toddle around on the floor after their mamma.”

“These little guys are pleasant and peaceful. They don’t need much.”

“They don’t?”

The man opened the refrigerator door and rustled a plastic bag. The small animal was ready and began to shriek with a heart-rending voice.

“She thinks she’s getting some lettuce.”

“Isn’t she then?”

“I guess.”

He held out a piece of lettuce to the guinea pig who elongated herself to grab it with her teeth.

“It’ll be hard to lose her,” he said.

“Are you fond of her?”

“No, not really, but nobody seems interested. If someone doesn’t take her soon, I’ll have to feed her to the snakes.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Eat or be eaten, the law of the jungle.”

“How much does she cost?”

“Tell you what, if you really want her, you can have her.”

“I can have her?”

“Sure. You really seem to like animals.”

“Well… thanks. I just need to get some groceries.”

She bought raw liver and two kilos of ground innards at the meat section. She picked up a large package of eggs, some onions, and two packages of white tulips. At the produce section, she took lettuce and a whole heap of vegetables, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes.

The cashier joked with her.

“If I didn’t see all that meat, I would swear that you’ve gone vegan,” she laughed. “Those militant vegans. I’ve read how they set sausages free.”

“I’m on the side of the sausages,” Justine joked back.

“And how is your mother?”

“Well, it is what it is. Unchanged.”

“Well, we all have our fate. To think that she was always so attractive and well-dressed. I used to admire her so much. I remember as if it were yesterday. She was so rich and distinguished, one would think, and yet she would come and shop here, a normal grocery store.”

“Yes.”

“There was something humble about her. She never acted stuck-up or superior. A wonderful woman, Mrs. Dalvik.”

Justine packed up her groceries.

“You probably go and visit her, right? Can you be so kind and say hi from Britt-Marie? If she’s able to…”

“Oh, yes, I can say hi to her from you.”

The bird flew toward her the minute she entered the house. He landed on the cage, tilted his head to the side, and looked curiously at the guinea pig.

“This is the new member of our family,” she explained. “She was nearly fed to the snakes, but I saved her at the last minute. If you are nice to her, maybe she’ll be your playmate.”

The bird plucked itself beneath one of his wings, apparently uninterested. A soft, downy feather fell onto the guinea pig’s back.

She put liver and eggs into his bowl. He flew there directly. She carefully lifted the guinea pig, felt her small paws with her fingertips.

“You look like a rat,” she whispered. “If you had a tail, it would be hard to tell the difference. I think I’m going to call you Rattie. Yes, Rattie’s the perfect name for you.”

She let the animal to the floor, and it scurried directly to the cabinet and tried to squeeze underneath it in order to hide. The bird flew there. He was bloody and sticky around his beak.

“Be nice to Rattie!” she scolded. “You are going to be friends, keep that in mind!”

He shook himself, took a few hops, and pecked lightly with his beak on the guinea pig’s round back. Rattie whirled around and raised herself onto her hind legs.

“It’ll be fine,” she said. “You’ll get used to each other.”

At eight o’clock, she called the hotel. A man’s voice answered. She asked to speak with Hans Peter.

“He’s not here.”

“But… doesn’t he work there?”

“Yes, but he’s not here now.”

“Why not? Did he say why?”

“Can I take a message?”

She hung up the phone.

She woke up many times during the night. The same dream; it returned in quick sequences. Hans Nästman, with a cleanly washed, thinned face. He stood next to her bed; he didn’t move, just stood there. When she tried to get up, she found that she was chained to the bed with a rattan rope. Hans Nästman smiled and showed all his teeth. It’s over, Justine; you are to come with me now, and not make a fuss.

“You can’t prove anything!” she screamed. “Get out of here, leave me in peace!”

He took a step toward her; his hand had neither skin nor fingernails.

“Nothing needs to be proven, my friend. Now Hans Peter Bergman is also missing, and that’s enough to take you in.”

She woke up from her own screaming. There was flapping and screeching in the room. She turned on the light and saw the bird flying around in panic. He calmed down in the light, landed on his branch, still thin and frightened.

She had to get up. She had to call, call home to Hans Peter.

It was a quarter to three. No one answered.

The day was quiet, without sun. Dry snowflakes in the air. She took the guinea pig with her in the car. She wrapped the animal in a blanket, and it rolled up and went to sleep almost immediately.

She came to the ward and went to the desk. A nurse sat, flipping through a binder.

“Good morning. I’m Justine Dalvik, and I thought I’d visit my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Flora Dalvik.”

“Oh, yes, Flora. Good morning. It’ll be great for her; every change is so welcome to our residents.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Very well. Yesterday she was up the entire day.”

The nurse was named Gunlis. Justine didn’t recognize her. Gunlis closed the binder.

“I’m fairly new here. I don’t think we’ve met before. I’ll take you to her. What do you have there, by the way?”

“A little guinea pig, which I’ve just gotten. I wanted to show Mamma, I hope that there’s nothing against it.”

“Oh, no, quite the opposite. It makes things a little more human in the ward, a little less clinical, if I may speak freely. I’ve always advocated for it, but it’s hard to make changes in the daily routine. Wouldn’t it be wonderful with a house cat wandering around visiting the residents, who rubbed their legs in a friendly way, who jumped in someone’s lap and began to purr? I think the residents would have greater quality of life if things were less sterile.”

She lowered her voice: “But you can hardly dare say anything like that. You risk losing your job.”

“Really?”

“Well, of course you can’t. What would it look like if the workers had opinions? May I look? What a sweet little nose peeking out here! It doesn’t bite, does it?”

“No, of course not.”

Flora was sitting in the wheelchair. She lifted her head, her roving gaze.

Gunlis went up to her and dried off her chin.

“Look, Flora, look who’s here for a visit. And a little grandchild, too. Or you could almost say so. Right?” she laughed.

Justine bent over the wheelchair.

“Hi, little Mamma.”

She stroked her chin, petted the dry, cold hands. She placed the towel with the guinea pig on Flora’s lap; unwrapped it carefully. There was a hoarse, gasping sound from the old one’s throat.

A telephone rang in the distance.

“I have to go answer it,” Gunlis called. “Oh, I really wanted to see it!”

The guinea pig had pooped. The blanket was full of long, hard pearls. Justine emptied them into a garbage can. Then she let the guinea pig crawl around in Flora’s lap. She saw drops of sweat appear on Flora’s upper lip. The gasping sound had become faster, even more rattling.

“Isn’t she sweet? Her name is Rattie. No, it’s not really a rat. It’s an everyday old guinea pig. You know that I always wanted a pet. You remember, don’t you?”

Flora had closed her eyes. Her skin had taken on a pale gray tone. Justine lifted up the guinea pig, carefully wrapped it in the towel again. The nurse returned.

“Was she happy?”

“I think so… but it’s so hard to tell.”

“She looks a bit tired… but certainly it made her happy. It’s sweet of you to come by with your guinea pig. Thoughtful, even. May I pet it?”

The other bed in the room was missing sheets. There were no personal articles on the bed stand.

“Didn’t my mamma have a roommate?” Justine asked.

The nurse pulled her a bit to the side.

“Yes, but, unfortunately… she’s not with us any longer.”

“That’s sad to hear.”

“Yes, but that’s life, isn’t it? It has to end sometime.”

Justine gestured to the woman in the wheelchair. Flora had opened her eyes and had a strong look of fear in them.

“Unfortunate for my poor mamma. I believe that they got along fairly well. As much as can be expected.”

“Yes, it’s very sad. But a new person is coming this afternoon. The beds don’t stay empty for long here.”

“Bye-bye, Mamma,” Justine called. “I’ll come back soon. Maybe take you home for a little while. Maybe even tomorrow, if that works for you?”

The old person’s lips jerked, gurgling noise from her throat.

“She’s trying to say something,” said the nurse.

“She had such a pretty voice,” sighed Justine. “What bad luck that she can no longer use it.”

“Others have it worse,” said the nurse.

“Too true, there’s always someone worse off.”

She drove to Fryspannsgatan. He must have come home; he must have read her note. She rang the bell, but still no answer. When she opened the mail slot, she saw a magazine and some envelopes lying on the floor. She couldn’t tell if her note was still there.

She went home but felt restless. She paced around the house, finally ending up in the room that had been her father’s and Flora’s. A violent rage came over her. She flung open the closet door and ripped out everything that had belonged to Flora: her dresses, her shoes. The clothes carried memories, and Flora appeared, materialized, her mouth white and closed. Take off your clothes, you good-for-nothing. I’m going to give you a whipping.

She lifted one of the dresses, it had been hanging so long that the cloth had puckered, was fragile. She grabbed the fold, and with one pull, she ripped it all the way to the waist seam. She kept going, from the bottom up, until the skirt was nothing but long strips. But Flora’s hand came to her; it slapped her head, hard and ringing.

“You’ve never been completely normal. Take your clothes off so I can hit some sense into you. I’m going to stuff you into the wash tub… You’ll sit there until you learn how to become nice and compliant, you spoiled little monkey, until you do exactly what I want.”

Flora was still there inside her; she was in the memories of the house. She would never let go of her grip. Even in her look, there was a certain strength beneath the fear, Justine had seen it when she had visited, a triumphant scorn.

Justine’s body began to shake; her throat became thick and harsh. She had to leave and drink some water.

Then she got some plastic garbage bags, She threw everything into them: shoes, jewelry, clothes. Everything which could remind her of Flora.

Then she saw her father’s suits, and she stepped into the closet and burrowed her face into them. She was crying now, bellowing and ugly; then she ripped them off their hangers and stuffed them into the bags as well.

The next afternoon, she drove back to the nursing home. She had slept heavily and without dreams. She had drunk quite a bit of wine before she finally could fall asleep. She felt feverish; her forehead hurt her as though a clamp was tightening around it.

Gunlis appeared in the hallway. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Well, good day to you again!” she said, and yawned. “Oh, excuse me!”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m also a little tired. But I thought I would let Mamma come home for a short time today. Would that be all right?”

Gunlis placed her arm around her.

“That’s a silly question. If more of our residents had relatives who cared, the world would be a very different place. Wait here, and I’ll get her ready.”

Justine sank onto a bench. The floor was as shiny as a mirror; it appeared to be unbearably long. Farther down the hallway, a man with black skin was pushing a cleaning cart.

A hunchbacked, very wrinkled man came out of one of the rooms. He came shuffling toward her, supported by a walker. He stopped right in front of her.

“Nurse… do you work here?”

“No,” she said, turning red.

“You ought to be glad of that. This is not a good place.”

Gunlis had returned.

“What’s going on, Martin? Is there a problem?”

“I want to go home; that’s the only thing I want. Why do you keep me imprisoned here?”

Gunlis shook her head.

“My dear Martin, we’re not keeping you prisoner here.”

The man spat. The spit landed on the nurse’s shoes, a brown, sticky gob.

Tears came to her eyes.

“Martin!”

He glared at her threateningly.

“Don’t you touch me; you can be contagious. The radioactive material is spreading with the speed of the wind. It’s spreading and is going to kill us all…”

Gunlis grimaced. She disappeared into the washroom, Justine heard her flush and rinse with water. A girl with a ponytail came out from Flora’s room.

“Are you the one who’s picking up Flora?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve dressed her and placed her in her wheelchair.” “Great.”

“Can you take her down yourself?”

“Certainly. I’ve done it before.”

Flora was wrapped in a blanket. A coarse knitted cap was on her head. She stared at Justine; her eyes never left her. Gunlis came out just as Justine was starting to leave.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I lost my head for a moment. I’m still a bit tired, I’m afraid.”

“It’s not so pleasant to be spat upon.”

“He can’t help it. He thinks he’s a prisoner. I wish that he also had someone who would come and take him on fun outings. Or what do you think, Flora?” She bent down and adjusted the knit cap. “Have a great day, you two!”

Chapter SIX

She talked to Flora; the whole time, she talked to her. She had fastened Flora’s seatbelt, and was now approaching the Vällingby roundabout.

“Do you know where you are, Flora? It’s been awhile since you were outside. Do you think it looks familiar, farther on, by the small houses between Åkeshov and Ängby? They’re in the middle of building noise barriers, yes, so the people won’t be bothered. We never have to worry about that kind of thing; we’re never bothered. We have always kept to ourselves. We have enjoyed peace and quiet, haven’t we, dear Flora? Do you know that Martin, the one with the walker, he thinks that he’s being held prisoner. To think what it would be like to always long to get out. Maybe I can set up some kind of system; get a minivan and drive around picking up old people who are all by themselves and want to get a little joyride. Wouldn’t that be a great idea? You’ve always said a person needs a mission in life. I thought you could come home for a while; it’s been so long since you were home. You haven’t been home since you got sick, little Flora. Won’t it be nice to come see the old place, even though you wanted to sell it? But we’re not going to do that, of course. The house is going to stay mine. I am going to live there. It’s my house, but now you can come and visit, now you are my guest. What a generous step-daughter you have, Flora. Didn’t you hear what Gunlis said? Every resident should have someone like me. Do you see the palace there, Hässelby Palace? So beautiful and frozen it looks, Hässelby Palace. This part is just the same as always; nothing much has happened here in Hässelby Gård. What does the thermometer say there? 100 degrees? They’re crazy. I wonder if that thermometer has ever shown the right temperature. You can fly to the moon but can’t get a thermometer to work. Do you think I’m talking too much? Yes, I am, I’m sure, but I have to speak for two now, you understand; you can’t speak so I have to speak in your place. Look, there’s the cemetery, where Mamma and Pappa are buried. Look how well-kept it is. There was a burial yesterday. They throw away the flowers afterward, the wreaths and the coffin arrangements, what a great waste. I wonder what will happen with you, I mean, if there is any special kind that you want. I’ve been thinking about graves and maybe it’s better with ashes spread in the minneslunden, the field of remembrance; that could be nice, too. The forest on our left, it was huge when I was a child; the perspective changes. I played there sometimes. I found a dog there once, but I think it was already dead, I remember that strange smell, though then I didn’t know how death smelled. OK, hold on, we’re turning on to Strandvägen. The bathhouse is gone, that fine bathhouse, and the water slide that was here for a while; nothing like that is left. But you know that. Flora, do you see the ice? It looks thick and like it can bear weight, but you have to be careful; a few hundred meters out it’s open water. But look here to the right. They’ve torn down one of the summer houses, the one that was so rotten and ramshackle. Now there’ll be another villa. They’re tearing down all the old stuff. Now we’re getting there, Flora. Are you happy?”

She drove up to the house and parked. The old woman sat straight and unmoving. When Justine loosened the seat belt, she fell straight to the side, and Justine had to catch her and lay her down across both seats while she unbuckled the seat belt. Then she lifted Flora’s tense body and carried it up the stairs.

“Sorry that I can’t go any faster; my foot hurts. Do you remember when I broke it? Do you? After that it’s never been the same. No, I’m not complaining. I can both walk and run, but I twist it easily and sprain it… No I really am not complaining, not like you. I can come and go just as I please. How does it feel now, Flora? I’m going to put you in your favorite chair, where you sat with Pappa all those years ago. You can look out into the mist if you want. You can imagine that it’s summer and you’re sitting on the balcony and the sun is round and hot, and Pappa is in the boat down there. I’m just going to take off my jacket and lock the car. If the phone rings, answer it. No, that was stupid of me, just plain thoughtless of me. Sorry.”

She took a long time. She made coffee and prepared a coffee tray. The bird was in her room; the door was shut. She heard him cawing in there, how he heard her voice and wanted out.

Flora sat just where she’d been left, her head slightly turned toward the window.

“Would you like some coffee? I can help you. Open your mouth and sip. Is it too warm? No I don’t think so. Are you sitting here and thinking about old times, how we used to have it, you and I?… What is that? The sound you mean? I have a pet living here, you know; you met Rattie yesterday. I call her that even though she’s not a rat. She was with me in bed last night for a little while, but I was afraid I might suffocate her, so I put her back in her cage. She was warm and soft. I have a bird, too. You’ll meet him in a minute, but drink up now; he’s such a bother when we’re eating…”

A sharp ring, the telephone.

“Is it you?” she said breathlessly.

“I guess I should always answer yes to that kind of question,” said a hearty voice. “Jacob Hellstrand, the agent.”

“I don’t have time and I’m still not interested.”

“I have developers who are ready to pay whatever you ask. You’d be crazy not to grab this kind of offer.”

“Don’t you understand that no means no!” she yelled, and slammed down the phone.

She went to Flora. Flora’s saliva was running down her chin and on to her neck. Her pupils glowed and burned.

Justine stuck her face right into Flora’s.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Have you ever heard that passage, Flora? Jesus said it, and it’s a good rule to follow, even today.”

She lifted up the old woman, carried her in her arms like a child.

“Let’s go for a tour of the house; that must interest you. Here’s the kitchen, just as it was; here’s the blue room. I’ve honored your memory, as you can see. And then the basement, oh yes… we’re going there, too. Do you remember what you had down there, Flora? Do you remember what was hiding behind that door? Do you remember?”

Flora had begun to make noises. She threw her head around; the high-pitched wail intensified to a muddled, long drawn-out howl. They had come into the room with the washtub. Justine climbed carefully up onto the cement block where the tub was standing. She lifted Flora slightly into the air and then lowered her gently into the tub.

Then she went to get the bird.

She was at the funeral director’s when the telephone rang. They had a fine, thorough conversation, the coffin had been ordered and they had chosen some beautiful songs that the old woman would have liked. It would be a simple ceremony, simple but dignified. The director had promised to sing, and he knew someone who played the flute.

“And how would you prefer the obituary?” he asked, right as she stood up to go.

She gave him a weak, sorrowful smile.

“Let’s not bother with it. I’ll write to those concerned. It will be more personal that way.”

But the telephone rang. She had long since given up hope.

“I got your little note,” he said, and happiness flowed into her like honey. But she was silent.

“Justine? Are you still there?”

Everything broke through; she had to place the receiver to one side. She heard his voice, how he called and pleaded.

“Yes, I’m here,” she said at last.

“You don’t have to ask for forgiveness! Like you wrote in your note. Not at all, it’s me…”

“You just disappeared,” she snuffled.

“I called before, but you weren’t home. Or maybe you’d taken the phone off the hook.”

“You could have called again.”

“It wasn’t easy… you understand.”

“What happened? I even called the hotel.”

“My mother. I had to go right away.”

“Your mother?”

“She’d always been so healthy. But… she just had a heart attack.”

“Oh no, that can’t be true!”

“Yes… but things are going better now. She’ll come through. We’ve been staying at the hospital, Pappa and me. You have to know… I’ve missed you and have been longing for you, too.”

“Are you sure she’s going to be all right?”

“Oh yes, yes. At least for a while.”

She was crying again, had to go get some kitchen towels.

“What’s going on with you, Justine?”

“You must come over, I’ll explain everything.”

He arrived at her house within a half an hour. He embraced her, kissed her, rocked her back and forth. She let herself be heavy and limp.

“Come,” she whispered. “Let’s go upstairs.”

She opened the door to the bedroom.

“We can be in here. I’ve redecorated a bit. This used to be my parents’ bedroom. I think it’s better that I have it now.”

She crept onto the bedspread. He lay behind her with his clothes on.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he whispered. “I’m here now. Why are you so despairing?”

“It’s just that… you must understand, Hans Peter… that bad luck follows me around… evil deeds.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A policeman was here last Monday. He told me that. Everyone around you seems to encounter bad things, he said. Oh, Hans Peter, I’m so frightened. What if it’s true? What if something bad happens to you?”

She felt his lips on her neck, but his breathing was shorter. He was on guard.

“Why did a policeman come visit?”

“The man I’d been with, Nathan, I mentioned him to you; he just disappeared in the jungle. We never found him. We had to leave without him… it was… terrible. And then… when we were going to return home to Sweden, a crazy guy burst into our hotel room and a girl who was traveling with us, we were sharing a room, she and I… he stabbed her to death… she died immediately. You probably read about it in the newspapers. And now… now a classmate of mine has disappeared. She was here visiting me, you know, a week ago Saturday… She never arrived home. The policeman was here searching for her… but now… now I really don’t know anymore… last Tuesday… I took my foster mother here. She is old and paralyzed. She lives in a nursing home, and I thought she would be happy to come home…”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Suddenly she was just sitting there dead. We were in the basement. The bird came. I watched him fly, and suddenly… she was just dead.”

“Dearest little Justine.”

She turned toward him, cried into his blue shirt.

“Leave me if you must. I understand completely.”

“These must just be unhappy coincidences. It’s not your fault, little silly.”

“But why did he say that, the policeman?”

“Yes, well, it wasn’t a smart thing to say. We know he’s wrong, don’t we?”

“Yes…”

He was breathing normally again. He took hold of the plaid bedspread and wrapped it around them both.

“You’re not working tonight, are you?”

“No, Justine, I’m with you. I’m staying here.”

He stroked her hair, kissed her neck, her ears.

“You’re not going to just disappear?”

“I’m sorry, Justine, forgive me. I should have tried to call you again, but Pappa was beside himself. I’ve always been their support in life.”

They lay pressed against each other for a while. He embraced her. He was heavy, living. She felt calm returning, like sleep, but without sleeping.

“Do you have a handkerchief?”

He searched in his pocket, took out a wrinkled tissue. “It’s clean,” he whispered. “Even if it doesn’t look like it.” “I believe you,” she said and blew her nose.

Then she let her hands go toward his narrow, hard hips. “Hans Peter,” she said, in order to massage his name into the room.