Stockholm Noir

From the Remains by Inger Edelfeldt

Translated by Laura A. Wideburg

Tantolunden

Curled up in bed with my old-fashioned composition book, I’m finally feeling warm after the ice-cold night. And after such a strange encounter. She wants me to write down her tale. That’s all. A tale of winter and chill; an ice-cold saga. How fitting, that we are now in the middle of winter, with an unbelievable amount of snow covered by a shiny hard crust.

Everything was strange from the start — I mean yesterday, after I returned from my vacation and went out to see how my garden cottage had fared in the bitter weather. I wrapped myself in warm clothes and walked down to Bergsunds Beach, and then along the footpath by the edge of the expansive frozen water, toward Tanto.

The entire hillside seemed to be covered in a thick layer of white frosting. On the rock wall, at the first, lower wooden staircase, icicles hung like huge organ pipes. The second staircase, the one I usually take up to my cottage, had turned into an icy ramp, with barely visible steps. Still, I managed in spite of my slippery boots.

Once at the top of the hill, I could see out, over the encrusted surface of the water, the bridges, and the skyline with its glittering windows on the far side of the ice. The massive buildings on the horizon stood close to each other and seemed to exist in another time, a science-fiction future that appeared unreal and far removed from the garden colony — this special realm of small cottages painted in bright colors and their small yards with benches, tiny gazebos of glass, and other dreams embodied on their sloping plots. In the summertime, the whole effect is beyond idyllic, but now it seemed full of some fateful magic, as if a powerful winter sorcerer had bewitched it with frosting.

I’m describing all this because it all belongs. In the movies, characters never suspect that something unusual is afoot, but I felt it then. Everything was a premonition, a forewarning, but of something beautiful. As if something was calling to me. A crystal-clear, silent song vibrating in everything. Or am I reconstructing this after the fact? No, that I doubt.

The day had been sunny and clear, but the blue sky was beginning to darken as twilight approached; everything was breathtaking. The only thing that troubled me was the fear that the harsh weather might damage my cottage. This beloved small building, just one of the numerous playhouses for adults on the hillside, was my oasis during spring, summer, and fall. Mine was light blue like old-fashioned baby clothes for boys. The weather vane is less cute; it’s a rusty vulture. In addition, there’s a ceramic Poe raven nailed to the lowest branch of the apple tree.

I like to write in my little house, my refuge, now frozen solid. The snow lay heavy on its roof, the window panes were covered in strange, blossoming frost patterns. The ceramic raven watched me stolidly from the apple tree. I had to use a shovel to hack at the ice along the little door to open it.

An unpleasant smell struck my nostrils. Dead rat, I thought, but in this cold nothing dead should be able to give off such a stench.

With a bit of shock, I realized that someone had been in here. Nothing was damaged, but I was sure someone had been rummaging around.

No. That premonition I’d had on the way over had not been hinting at something beautiful. What I saw made me catch my breath. The instinct to vomit choked my throat. I saw a shape on the other side of the room — the thick plastic mat had been pulled up to cover something shoved right against the little bench, with its view over the spirea bushes, where I typically sat in the summer to drink my coffee.

Call someone. The words flew through my mind. Get out of here. Don’t check this out all by yourself.

But yet, a moment later, I still stood there, looking at the figure under the mat. The girl, this word came to me, as if she were all the girls in the world, as if there were no living girls, happy girls, girls eating ice cream in the sunshine.

She was curled in a fetal position. Her skin was bluish white, her limbs oddly thin. The body, frozen almost solid, wore nothing but a thin, dirty summer dress which had, perhaps, once been white. That the dress was trimmed in romantic, innocent lace made the sight especially creepy.

I couldn’t see her face. Her long dark hair curled over her features as if she herself wanted to hide them as a last gesture to spare any future gawkers. Or perhaps the killer had done this, covered her face, her stare. Trafficking, I thought. Crime scene, police. I felt so faint I had to sit down, powerless, but still unable to look away from the little naked foot. Repugnance and horror ran through me as well as wild tenderness, sorrow, and anger — as if I should be able to hug her and comfort her! Yes, that’s what it was like, what it was actually like.

The light in the cottage shifted into a darker blue, as if it emanated from her, oozed out of her. I was entirely alone in this cottage on the frosted hillside during twilight with the frozen body of a girl. A nightmare, said the voice in my head. And then I noticed a dead rat beside her body. A number of dead rats, actually. Had they chewed off her face? Don’t even think about that. A dark, trapped cry throbbed in my head, my throat, my chest. It carried no coherent thoughts with it; both the ability to think and the ability to act had fled.

Then a quick movement. Unexpected, incomprehensible. A rustle, an exhalation, and she sat up. I was so shocked I didn’t have time to be afraid, but I felt I had been thrown into another dimension, a kind of dream state, where this could happen.

I saw a tiny heart-shaped face. Her eyes were totally black, like bullet holes, with no whites. Her features shone gray-white, haloed by her black hair. Her lips were moving slightly, an almost silent sound reached my ears, but I could not make out what she was saying — was she speaking a foreign language?

Then came something resembling a laugh behind a closed mouth, and she said, “Welcome!”

Perhaps she’d already hypnotized me. At any rate, she seemed to be, in some inexplicable way, already familiar.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said. “My name’s Alma. I’m just sleeping here. It’s good that it’s winter. The days are short. And I never freeze.”

I had nothing to say to that.

“You realize what I am, don’t you?”

When I silently shook my head, she smiled briefly and I could see her sharp teeth, white as pearls and glistening. Yes, I must have been hypnotized. I didn’t even shudder.

“I’ve been finding places to sleep here and there,” she said. “Ever since it happened.” Her black, eternal gaze bored into me as she cocked her head. “You’re a kind person, aren’t you?”

Well, what was I supposed to reply to that? I shrugged and forced a smile.

She said, “I don’t kill people.” She fluffed her hair the way girls do. “I’ve been sleeping in different cottages until I came to yours. Yours was the right one. You’re a writer. I love books. Rather, I love to disappear into them. Brontë. Oates. Atwood. And, of course, Poe. I love your raven, by the way! I thought I would just wait here until you showed up. And now here you are.”

“Can I help you in some way?” I managed to say. I really hoped I would not have to help her die. I didn’t want to deal with a cross and a stake or old black blood. I didn’t want to hear her pleas for eternal rest.

“Sure, you can help me,” she replied. “I’ve been praying for you to come! You want to use words to scare people, so let me inspire you. You’ll hear my story, you’ll give me a few nights of your time, and I’ll be your Scheherazade. Yes, you will be the one to write my winter tale. You will make it beautiful. You will write it so that whoever reads it will want to weep. Their tears will become diamonds in the cold; they will be stars and shine forever in my memory. And what you will do for me, you will do out of love.”

I was sixteen years old then. You think I might have been younger, but I had just turned sixteen, I am sixteen, I will be sixteen. How long has it been? I think it’s been three years now, but five hundred years from now, I will still be sixteen.

My mother and I had argued. We often argued. She’d throw me out of the house, and then she’d call me on my cell phone and apologize: Come back, Alma, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean to say that, I didn’t really think that, just come back and everything will be good. I’ll stop drinking and bringing home stupid men. I’ll become an angel, the moon is made of cheese, there’s peace on earth, the climate issue is resolved, the world is all candy fluff, just come home.

This time it was also winter, and she threw me out without warning. Just because. I was locked out in the falling snow and wind, late at night, no coat, just a long sweater, no phone, no keys. You whore, stealing Lasse from me.

You see, we lived in this neighborhood, in one of those huge tower blocks on Flintbacken, the ones shaped in a half-circle. In the same building, next to our entrance, were a school and a preschool for English-speaking children and I often wished I could live there instead. A sign said: Welcome to the Suns. If you took the stairs on the left side of the building, through the groves, you went down to the beach. The path along the beach always had joggers on it in all kinds of weather, but halfway up there was a bench not far from the stairs and I sat down on it in spite of the cold and the snow. I hoped I would get pneumonia or a urinary tract infection or something. Maybe even die. And it would be all her fault.

I sat there for a while, the falling snow muffling all sounds, although I could still hear the frenetic pace of the runners training for some marathon and a dog barking in the distance. I could hear the sound of a train crossing the Årsta Bridge — a train going away, I’ve always loved that sound.

Die, die, die! I kept thinking, and I don’t know who I wanted to die, me or her. Perhaps I wanted everything to die, sucked into a black hole and gone, like in Donnie Darko.

I hadn’t heard any footsteps, but a guy suddenly appeared in the snow in front of me. My first thought was he must have come from a costume party. He wore a tall black hat, sunglasses, and a tuxedo. A little like the Sandman. I remember thinking that he was trying for the creepy look and he’d succeeded, but in my state of mind, I was not afraid. I felt he was very attractive, extremely attractive, even sexy. Unfortunately.

“May I sit down?” he asked, and I said, “Sure.”

He sat down and we were silent for a while. Then he said, “Look, you’re freezing. You don’t need to freeze.” He was all over me in an instant and I remember his sickly black eyes as he whipped off the sunglasses and then everything faded.

I woke up with snow on me everywhere, in my mouth and eyes and nose; I was lying stretched out on the bench, completely covered in snow; he must have left me in this odd position. I sat up. Everything felt strange, shifted, changed, as if I’d had some kind of memory loss or had fainted. But the strangest thing of all was I wasn’t freezing. I had no idea what time it was. I didn’t have my cell phone. The air was so still, however, that I thought it must be very late at night. No sounds of running from the walkway, no day sounds at all. Had anyone seen me as they walked by? Do people bother to look around at all?

Then I heard a dog barking shrilly from the top of the stairs. It sounded like a tiny, terrified dog, and the voice of the owner trying to calm it was female.

I got up, reassured that someone was out and about, and a woman too, and I walked up the stairs to ask her what time it was.

I will never forget the expression on her face. She was as terrified as the dog. She told me the time — one thirty in the morning — and then she pulled the Chihuahua, still barking at the top of its tiny lungs, as far away from me as she could, while striding down the path in a different direction. Her reaction terrified me too. I knew nothing but had the urge to go home. Mama would ask me for forgiveness, I thought, and she’d make me a cup of hot chocolate. She is nice to me as soon as she regrets what she’s done, which usually happens after a few hours.

I couldn’t get the door code to work. I pressed the call button for our apartment, again and again, until she answered over the intercom. The connection was bad. She said hello a number of times and couldn’t seem to hear what I was saying, but she must have realized it was me, because she let me in. Once inside, I pressed the elevator button, but it didn’t work that night either, so I ended up taking the stairs three flights up. The elevator was waiting right by our door, so why hadn’t it come down? I rang the bell at the door to my home.

She opened it and screamed, then slammed the door shut. I hoped no neighbors had heard her. I pushed the mail slot open and said in as friendly a way as I could, “Open the door, Mama, it’s me, Alma!” No answer. I slumped against the door, ready to cry. I decided I would wait it out until she opened it again. Instead, the mail slot opened and she pushed a piece of paper out. She’d written a message: Whoever you are, go away! I’m calling the police.

Whoever I am? Had she gone completely psycho or had I?

I thought I heard a noise from one of the neighboring apartments and my first reaction was to hide in the elevator, which was, of course, waiting right by our — or should I now say her — door.

The next shock of the night — I was looking straight into a mirror and there was no reflection of me. Only the inside of the elevator. I put my hand on the glass. No matter what I did, I was not there. I can’t begin to describe how terrifying that was. You’re used to checking yourself in the mirror, right, to see how you look? I thought I’d found myself in the middle of a nightmare, but I could not wake up.

I tried to press the down button and heard a crackling sound, but the elevator refused to work. I went down the stairs and into the basement where I found a moldy blanket. I hid under it, shaking like an animal, but not from cold, because I could no longer feel the cold.

Terror short-circuited my thought process and saved me from realizing, at that moment, what my existence would be like from here on out.

Yes, and what is my existence, you wonder? Think of rats. I live on rats, pigeons, rabbits. A blood hunger is now a part of my being, and I soon discovered that small animals are drawn to me. I can hypnotize them the way snakes hypnotize their prey. I realized fairly soon that I couldn’t remain long in the light of day, not because it kills me immediately, but it makes me weak and ill. As long as it was winter and the days were short, I found it easy to sleep. But my first summer was unbearable... so many nights in subway tunnels and the hidden rooms by the abandoned train line below South Hospital, in culverts and caves and other places where I encountered darkness and rats. I spent my time searching for the man who had been my transformer, but he was gone without a trace. He’d told me nothing about what was going to happen to me, nothing at all about my new existence. But there was one thing I had decided on my own: I was not going to kill human beings. I would not become that depraved.

Are you laughing now? No, I see you’re not laughing. That’s good.

The loneliness! Of course, I’d believed I had been lonely and abandoned and bullied when I was a human being, but now I was so completely cut off from everything and everyone. In addition, something electromagnetic about my new being short-circuited cell phones and computers, so that I couldn’t use the Net. I was something completely other, something with another kind of electric charge, something of another dimension but still requiring nourishment from the normal dimension of the living. I’d become something that could not die and yet was no longer alive.

Obviously I frightened most people, but those who were not afraid of death were not terrified of me, and at times they found me tempting. Those were the ones who wanted to die, who wanted me to kill them! I’d run away before I could fulfill their desire, even though it was against my new nature. Perhaps it was my dignity that mattered.

I spied on Mama, and it hurt when I saw her, but I didn’t dare show myself. I had seen my image — a bullied girl’s school photo — beneath the newspaper headlines: MISSING! MURDERED? I have to admit I was happy to see Mama sad and depressed; it was my only comfort.

I hung around my old neighborhood until something happened. I’ve just returned — I’ve been away for a long time and there’s a good reason for that. Here’s what happened: Then... then it was fall again and I was crouching beneath a thicket near my apartment building. A girl crawled in. She looked tired and worn out, and she didn’t see me at first. She shot up. People do that in my neighborhood. She took out a makeup kit and tiny mirror to paint a new face onto the tired one. I hadn’t thought to make my presence known, but something forced me to.

“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t have any more.”

She was not afraid of me at all. It seemed she mistook me for a friend. She called herself a “crack whore” and seemed to believe I was one too. She told me I was too young to shoot up; she said that a few times. She also told me my eyes were strange. I said I was almost completely blind.

This girl seemed to like me. She was acting like a big sister. She offered to make up my face. She said I felt cold and she took pity on me. She shouldn’t have done that. We stood too close, much too close, and I lost my dignity. Something came over me and all went black until I returned to myself to find I was next to a body drained of blood. I was overwhelmed by what was happening to me. Probably it was not just the blood, but the drugs. I felt in shock but also filled with dancing fire, a pure and delicate but grim blessedness. Grim, yes, powerful and shameless. At least as long as the effect lasted. I sat there beside her body and waited for her to transform like I had. Then I would have a friend, someone like me! Now that I’d done what I’d done.

I sat there for hours. Nothing happened. Dawn started to break, so I needed to find shelter somewhere else. When darkness fell again, I returned, but the police were there and the thicket was taped off; they were bringing a body bag. I realized she’d died a real death. I fell into an abyss of shame and torment. I had killed another human being!

All I wanted was to hide and get away from everything. Oh, I was good at not being seen, of course, at pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, hiding my face beneath my hair, sneaking past security guards and everyone else.

One night I took the last subway all the way out to Hässelby strand, where I’d lived when I was younger, before my mother inherited the apartment in Tanto. I knew that there was a grotto in Grimsta Forest, near Maltesholm Baths. I wanted to go into hibernation and disappear.

I felt sad when I got to the beach where I’d swum and eaten ice cream as a little girl. The food stand, with its ugly graffiti, now shuttered. The fire pits for grilling hot dogs. The playground with its green wooden cars. Nobody was swimming now. There were a few dog walkers and I stayed away from them. Like a hunted animal, I took refuge in the hidden grotto. I covered the entrance with branches. I stayed there for some time, crying, feeding myself with squirrels and small birds, staring at a glassy, swollen moon which seemed to me like a large breast filled with heavenly shining milk, unreachable but still so beautiful it broke my heart.

What could give me any comfort, any grace? Only my dreams. I dreamed I lived in the country of the moon, a pearl princess in a mother-of-pearl castle on the white plains of the moon, free from shame, from feelings, from hunger, from guilt. There in my lair, I dreamed many beautiful dreams. It was painful to awaken — drawn out from them by my blood hunger.

Winter arrived — the cold was harsh and few people came to the beach. The nights were almost completely empty. A raw beauty animated nature. Frost covered everything. I walked along the beach beneath the moon and peered out over the frozen waves: when I looked at my own hand, I saw that frost covered my skin and made me glitter and shine like a blessed, beautiful being. Loneliness, ice-cold, exiled, but also a kind of freedom, a place to breathe, as far from human beings as possible.

By chance, I discovered that the human blood I’d drunk had given me new skills. One night, as I sat on the stairs of the food shack enjoying the moonshine, a couple of loud guys came walking along the beach. I pressed back tightly against the shack and wished I could hide inside it when I found myself going through the wall. It gave way and let my body in bit by bit until I was entirely inside, with the outdoor furniture and umbrellas. I found I could now go through other walls too, force myself through solid materials. My amazement caused me to laugh out loud, but the gang outside just continued on to the closest fire pit where they made a huge bonfire with all the trash they wanted to get rid of.

Were there other things I could do that I was not yet aware of? Yes, I found I could hover in the air, like in a dream where you find it easy to fly once you decide to try. I could move very swiftly, almost teleport myself short distances, if I concentrated hard enough. I tried to tell myself I’d had those skills from the beginning, but I knew that these gifts arrived only after I’d drunk the blood of the dead girl.

I remained in exile, mostly in the forest. One night, in the season between winter and spring, the moon was shining so very brightly that for some reason I wanted to celebrate it, or honor it, as if it could help me. The full moon is a cold and harsh parent, but still somehow I felt I could communicate with it, even if it was only pretend. And now I wanted to show it my respect. During my walks on the beach, I had found things left behind by others; the nicest was a necklace of rock crystals. A child had forgotten a plastic handbag with a pattern of stars. And once I found a long strand of Christmas garland on a bush; I draped it in my hair. And I had my white dress that I’d found in a bag behind a thrift store in the city.

Dressed in these pretty things, I walked down the path to the edge of the water until I reached the swimming beach. The warmth of the day had melted most of the snow that had been on the sand and the ice was gone too, but the night was still cold. I’m mentioning the cold because it has to do with what comes next. When I’d left the edge of the forest, I saw a young man in just jeans and a T-shirt, standing barefoot on the beach. The rising moon gave him a long, indistinct shadow. As I came closer, I saw his teeth were chattering. He didn’t see me at first; he was staring at the water. He took a step into the surf.

“Where are you going?” I yelled. He turned toward me with no fear at all.

A second later, I was by his side. “Don’t do this,” I said. “You have no idea what death is like.”

He stared at me, shivering, and tried to say something, but he was freezing so much he was no longer able to speak. His lips had a blue tinge. His eyes were large and beautiful, he was beautiful.

“Wait here,” I said, and in a second I was back at the food shack where I’d seen some blankets were stored. I brought back two. In the meantime, he’d taken a few more steps into the water.

“No, you must not!” I exclaimed. I wrapped him in one of the blankets and took the Christmas garland from my head and set it on his. This earned me a timid smile, more like a grimace, really. His eyelashes were long, like a child’s.

“Put your shoes on,” I ordered. “Go back home.” For a fraction of a second, I thought we might be able to be friends, the young man and me, though who knows how I could even think this as my eyes were drawn to his throbbing jugular vein where his blood pulsed, and the hunger welled up in me like a shock to my body, and I could barely hold myself back. I stepped away from him, shaking as much as he was.

“Forget me,” I managed to say. “Tomorrow you will find someone else, someone who will listen to you and understand what you’re going through. I promise.”

He reached out a thin, shaking hand.

I ran to the edge of the forest, up among the trees, I had to reach my cave, my lair. My entire body was in revolt. Luckily, I came across a hare, which I sucked dry, but it took a long time for me to calm down.

Later, I retraced my steps to the place where I’d seen him. Both his clothes and the blankets were gone. The Christmas garland was arranged in a circle on the sand, with the words THANKS. DAVID scratched inside.

I had saved him. I had prevented him from drowning himself. I wept with happiness, sorrow, and other human feelings, as if I was still human, over that which was still possible and that which was not.

David! His name alone, and the memory of his eyes — it was enough to make me happy. I snuck up among the human houses until I saw him again. I followed him until I knew where he lived. In the yard by his house, I formed a heart with the last bit of snow, and I hoped he would see it before it began to melt.

I did not dare stay near where he lived. Not even in the neighborhood, by the beach, or even in the forest. I went back to the city, to human beings. My life there was much easier now that I knew how to use my new skills. I could always find somewhere to sleep. And at first I thought it was exciting to go wherever I wanted, observe secrets, research people’s lives. It was like reading books or watching movies, but in real time. Unfortunately, I could not influence them very much. Mostly I watched as I swayed in the darkness outside people’s windows. Much of what I saw shocked me. Many people find themselves in difficult situations that are not their fault, but there are so many others who make life difficult for themselves and others even though they aren’t poor, sick, oppressed, or even damned, the way I was damned. If only you knew! I wanted to scream. You need to value your lives! But I realized that most of the time they would only hear my voice as some frightening sound. It became ever more clear that only those who are not afraid of death will experience me as something other than a monster.

I observed happy people too, the ones who could value themselves and other people. I did not understand where they’d received that gift. They were not always beautiful and rich. They were often fairly lonely people, but still able to enjoy their lives, as if they were honeybees with an inexhaustible supply of internal nectar. When I saw these happy people — and I mean really happy people, not those who pretend they’re happy — when I saw them with my depthless eyes, I saw that they had a golden shimmer around them that seemed to come from within. It might sound sentimental, but they were like little lamps. Seeing them made me both happy and endlessly sad, a pain that was simultaneously as beautiful as it was unbearable. I don’t think I’ll tell you any more about it. It hurts me even to talk about it.

Thinking of David was just like that — a bright blessing and a stinging pain simultaneously. Something alive to protect and value, but with no fulfillment for me. Yet, better to be nourished by the thought, the dream, than to be destroyed by reality. Or so I thought.

Eventually I started searching for others like me. I wanted to know more about who and what I was, but when I finally did find one, I regretted it immediately.

I’d started hanging around in Tanto again so I could spy on Mama. And winter finally returned — my third winter as one of the undead — so I walked over the ice to Årsta Island to sleep in one of the abandoned boats there. I was getting tired of human habitats.

When I woke up and crept out on deck, he was sitting there, hunched like a monkey on the railing, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

Mr. Humbert Fishy. Or that’s how he introduced himself. Thin. Conceited. Wearing a long leather coat, black-red like old blood. I didn’t ask what the coat was made from. Long oily hair. High white forehead. Pointed teeth. With his X-ray vision, he drew me from the inside out and knew my entire history. I couldn’t hide anything from him. That was his power. A devil’s.

“Little saint,” he called me, laughing all the while.

In the pauses between his gales of laughter, he answered my questions. I didn’t even need to ask them — he read my thoughts as easily as a fly eating shit.

Where do we come from, we the damned? Answer: from the same place as everything else, from God the Black Hole. Are we evil? No, why would we be? Living human beings kill more than we do. Can we escape our fate and die the true death? The stake, little saint, the stake or the daylight. Or perhaps starve to death from the wrong kind of food ha ha ha, little saint.

How can I transform them, then? That is, not kill them, but give them the Gift, as I’d gotten it? Not a chance, he said, only the very old and experienced ones can do that. Only those who had fed themselves the right food for hundreds of years.

He told me what I’d been suspecting all along. Only if I regularly drank human blood would I be able to develop into the “remarkable being” I was meant to be. The Crown of Creation, as he put it. He could not only read thoughts, he could fly and he could see entire cities at once, and he could zero in on prey with especially good blood; it was as if they glowed on a map. Yes, he said prey instead of humans. He was a gourmet, he said. Five hundred years had made him one.

Since not a shred of my soul or memory was hidden from him, he sniffed out my love for David right away. Oh, how he laughed!

“Now, my little mosquito,” he said, “how do you think you could be close to him — a living boy? Don’t you think he’d be scared out of his mind? And even more important, how could you resist biting him? You remember how you felt on the beach, right? His pulsing vein, your burning hunger? And you ran away! From such a wonderful piece of meat, from one who wanted to die anyway! You would have done him a favor!” Mr. Fishy laughed until he choked. And while he laughed, the whole boat shook, and a thousand pieces of broken ice applauded.

“I can be your friend,” he said. “Absolutely! But only once you’ve become what you really are. Right now, you’re nothing at all!”

He let the width and breadth of his damnation travel so deep into me I could feel my own nothingness and that nothing else existed. I felt crushed and laid on the boat like a whipped dog. Then I felt anger start to rise in me, at first just a spark. He noticed it, of course.

“Why are you mad at me, little flea? You’re the one making it more difficult for yourself by trying to be something you’re not. Focus on me all you want, but soon enough you’ll realize the one you’re fighting is yourself. Bye for now!” And he lifted up from the deck and fluttered like a stupid scarecrow before he shot into the air and flew away so fast I didn’t see him disappear.

The strange thing was I felt more abandoned than ever. However horrible he was, I still wanted him to come back. But he didn’t return. Still, I had many hundreds of years ahead of me to run into him again, right?

I was still mad. That small speck of anger grew and in my mind I heard his raw laughter — at my love and longing! I was going to prove him wrong. I would show him I could make it work — or be brave enough to try.

My wrath did not subside and neither did my longing. I decided to go on an outing to Hässelby strand. I was going to make myself as beautiful as possible. In an apartment, I found a lace dress; perhaps it was for a child, a flower girl at a wedding. I’m so thin and tiny it fit. I wore perfume, and combed my hair, fastening flowers into it.

Then I headed to his house — David’s house. I was so afraid I thought I might faint. I saw light in the window, I knew which room was his.

I was in luck: he was the only one in the house. It was about ten at night, but he hadn’t shut the curtain. He was sitting on his bed playing guitar. He had just taken a shower and was wearing a black robe.

I couldn’t stay outside. This was what I had been afraid of — that my longing would overpower me. I had not intended to go through the wall, but my longing forced me to, and there I was in his room.

At first things looked promising. He didn’t seem afraid, only surprised. I don’t know what I looked like in his eyes; perhaps I was nothing more than a breeze or a shadow, now that he’d decided to live. I wasn’t a monster, at any rate. Perhaps a vague ghost, a feeling rather than an experience? He started paying attention, the way a cat focuses on something without us knowing why. I could actually read his thoughts: There’s something in the room. There’s a ghost haunting this room.

No, I wanted to scream, it’s me, Alma. The one who saved you; now you can save me! See me, embrace me!

Then I noticed the photo on his nightstand. A stupid, cute, laughing, living human girl. A girl of the daylight, spoiled, sorrow-free. She’d used a gold marker to draw a heart around her childish face and the words To David.

What can I tell you? Jealousy, loneliness, unending pain — everything I mourned shot through me like a silent black explosion. I fell to pieces. Whatever had held back my hunger now dissipated and my true nature took over. In one jump I was on top of him. I’d turned into a demon, focused on his throat.

His blood — a dreamed-of nourishment, a drink more pleasant than anything I could imagine; I became whole, complete, at home in myself. He tried to defend himself, but it was all in vain.

But see, I didn’t kill him. Don’t look so frightened. He’s still alive. Because I came to my senses when I heard Mr. Fishy’s laugh echoing in my memory. I could stop myself because I realized I was doing just what, in his cynical and triumphant way, he’d predicted I’d do. So I stopped myself, I drew back, I pulled myself out through the wall. I disappeared down the street, out of the neighborhood, away to this wintery hill where I’m staying now. I’m ashamed, but I’m still proud I didn’t kill him. I’m alone, in an eternal land of limbo, where my old dreams have no place. I can’t dream of him. I can’t dream of being human again. And obeying my own nature... no! Turning into that hideous phantom, stinking of cold blood, cynical and greedy, with no shame and no conscience.

So I’m staying here, and not just because it’s closed for the winter, but also because I want to run into my mama who’s still living in the apartment building across the way. I can read thoughts a bit, and I want to read hers to see if she misses me. If she ever loved me, even a little. David’s blood has given me a shot of greater potential, so I can also read your thoughts. I know how much sympathy you have for me. Perhaps you have too much sympathy. You’re writing down my winter tale even though you’re freezing, with just this little space heater to warm you. This is the second long winter night you’ve spent secretly here with me, and soon dawn will break. Soon.

Still, before then, you’re going to fill that little egg cup with blood for me. Yes, just enough of your heart’s blood to fill that fine porcelain egg cup, and I promise not to want more later, not to demand more — don’t come too close to me — I’ll be content with just a little bit, it’s not going to control me. Just a little cut on your hand — not your throat! — and then it will run down into that little cup and I’ll drink it while it’s still warm. As if it were hot chocolate. Put down your pen. I’ll tell you more later. You need tales, just as I need blood. We’re almost related. We’re twins, you and me. You were sixteen once, weren’t you? And you died from being sixteen and abandoned. Part of you died and from what remained you recreated yourself. You understand me. PUT THAT PEN DOWN NOW AND GIVE ME WHAT I WANT — THIS IS NOT A FAIRY TALE!

Northbound by Lina Wolff

Translated by Caroline Åberg

Saltsjöbaden

Awhile back I decided to join a dating site and created a profile starting with the following description: I’m thirty-six years old and I’m looking for a gentle, but not too gentle, man.

Under “Interests” I wrote none, under “Favorite Writer” I also wrote none. As well as under “Favorite Food” and “Favorite Places.” Under “Life Motto” I came up with: Meeting the man mentioned above. Then I thought about the word motto, that it’s probably something else, a sentence or something you could use as your words of wisdom in certain situations. But I’ve never had a motto like that, so I didn’t change it — even though that could say something about me, could reveal a nonverbal side that might repel some people. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking for a verbal person.

After I’d written what I’d written, I posted a photo of myself. It’s a picture a friend of mine took, where I’m lying on my stomach on his bed. My signs of aging don’t show in the photo, because the only light comes from a few candles, and, like my friend says, most people look fairly decent in that kind of lighting.

A week passed before I logged onto the site again, and by then I’d gotten a flood of replies. Surprised, I went through them all, one by one. An older gentleman promised me an economically carefree existence in exchange for his sexual satisfaction three times a week. A twenty-year-old wondered if I could teach him everything I knew. I sat there with my cup of coffee and laughed, but at the same time I felt oddly moved; not so much by all this appreciation (the photo was really a fraud), but because it was clear to me that they all truly and strongly believed in love, and believed that I could give them what they were looking for.

Several more weeks passed before I went back onto the site. But once I did, I noticed that many of the men who had first contacted me had kept writing. Some had written almost every day for weeks. The twenty-year-old who thought I could teach him something almost seemed obsessed, and in one message he wrote: I’ve always had girls who just talk and talk, they never seem to do anything but talk, but you feel so genuine, so free from words. Genuine, so free from words. I liked the sound of that.

I wrote to him: I guess you somehow send out the message that you like to talk. Try to send another message. Kind regards, M.

Others had sent pictures of themselves, their cars and their sailboats. One had sent a photo of his organ, fully erect. They all said something nice about my photo, and at first I was flattered, and thought I might not be all that bad. Then I realized there was nothing to be flattered about. No, this was something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that had nothing to do with me.

I replied to one of them: Thank you for your words, but don’t have any illusions about me. I am thirty-six years old, the photo is taken in a candlelit room... Here is a real picture.

I attached a photo of me that I took then and there in regular daylight, the way I was: wearing panties and a bra (although I edited out my head). Without mentioning details I can only say that this picture was not as flattering as the last one, but still I managed to laugh a little at the cooling effect it would have on the man in question. But just a minute or so after I’d sent the photo came his response: Besides the fact that your age implies that we could have many interesting conversations, and you most likely can cook a good meal (for which I would choose the wine), I’m convinced your body, which I guess has already been enjoyed by many, holds an abundance of possibilities. And your womb is surely a repository of dirty deeds that I wouldn’t mind taking part in either.

You fucker! I wrote back immediately.

But I remained by my computer. Frankly, I was curious about the man who had expressed himself like this. Curious about him, but also about masculinity itself, which I, the more I learn about, understand less and less, but despite this am still fascinated by it — conceptually, but also on a very concrete level. I seriously considered continuing my correspondence with this man. Maybe setting up a date. An adventure like this would have a strong antidepressive effect on me during the dark season we were about to enter.

So I wrote: When can we meet?

In three weeks, he replied.

What’s your name and where do you live?

My name is Calisto and I live in Stockholm.

Calisto? I wrote.

My mom was Catholic, he replied, but I didn’t see how that explained anything.

Your name reminds me of something, I wrote, but he didn’t respond. Okay, so I’ll book a train ticket and a hotel, I added.

You’re welcome to stay at my place, he wrote, but I declined.

The weekend Calisto and I had set for my visit was in the middle of December. Two days before I was planning to leave I heard there was a snowstorm on its way. It would be coming from the south, sweeping in over the country like a broom, covering everything in its way; trees would be falling over electric cables like pick-up sticks. People would be stuck in their cottages without electricity for days, maybe weeks. I compared my train’s timetable with the weather report, and came to the conclusion that if I headed north directly after lunch, which was when my train was leaving, I should probably make it before the storm. And once it poured in over Stockholm, I would be sitting at some bar, with the wind howling outside, slightly tipsy, with Calisto. Yes, that’s how I imagined it.

I took the train as planned. We left Malmö and kept going up through Skåne. Soon there were no more deciduous forests; instead we passed endless clusters of pine and fir trees, occasionally opening up to reveal dark lakes flanking the tracks. Everything was oddly still for hours, and I sat in my seat thinking about what things would be like once I reached my destination. What Calisto looked like, what he did for a living, if we were going to have sex. I fell asleep and woke up when we entered the tunnels south of Stockholm. My ears popped and right outside my window the rock face swept by at a tremendous speed.

Suddenly we were on the other side of the mountain, heading toward the city. The coach was silent and when I glanced around I saw that everyone was looking out the window. It was getting dark and the sky was tinged in orange and blue. We crossed bridges: water, rock faces, and beautiful houses with copper roofs surrounded us. The bodies of water were partly covered by ice and meandered this way and that; in the distance I caught a glimpse of the open sea. Everyone must be happy here, I thought. Healthy people, generations of ice-skating and swimming off the cliffs. They’re probably sitting there behind their big windows with fine cups of coffee, looking out over mountains, water, and city with a view unimaginable to the rest of the world.

Once I stepped off the train I thought the people looked resolute and flawless, as if they were all clones from a movie. I instantly felt implacably imperfect. I longed for home, for Copenhagen where the spokes of the Tivoli Ferris wheel are always spinning just where the train comes in, and the smells of urine, smoke, and waffles hover over it all.

I had booked a hotel in the center of town. I checked in, and it turned out my room was in the basement, without any windows. Instead, there was a sauna in the hallway. I sat in it for a long time and then took a hot-and-cold shower before I returned to my room, crawled into bed, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was nine o’clock at night and the windowless room was pitch black. I got up and put my makeup on in the bathroom where the floor was still wet. Then I texted Calisto that I had arrived and was now rested and showered and ready to meet him.

We’ll meet at Pharmarium, he texted back. Sit at the bar and look like you’re for sale and I’ll find you.

I asked at the reception desk what Pharmarium was and once I’d received directions I wrapped my scarf around my head and made my way out.

While I had been sleeping the storm had started brewing. The wind outside seemed to crawl along the ground before suddenly spiraling up into the air with gusts of powdery snow. I crossed a bridge and reached another island. The high brick buildings had beautiful copper roofs. Everything was grandiose and picturesque at the same time, and despite the cold and snow, there were a lot of people outside. I reached a square with a church. I circled it and spotted four bars; one of them was Pharmarium. It was located on a corner of the square and the entrance gave off a modest impression, but once I stuck my head inside I realized this was a place I could have chosen myself. The ceiling was low and it was warm. People were crowded together in small groups around low tables and colored fabric was hanging from the walls. As for the rest, it looked like an old pharmacy with wooden drawers that gave an alchemist’s air to the place. Sit at the bar and look like you’re for sale and I’ll find you. That was what Calisto had written. I took my coat and scarf off and sat down at the bar. I ordered a drink, told the bartender I wanted his “best,” and ended up with a smoky, sour piece of work that I drank fast. Ten minutes later a man approached me and introduced himself.

— Are you Miriam? he asked.

— Yes, I said.

— I’m Calisto.

— Hi, I said.

Calisto was overweight, had greasy hair, and was clearly intoxicated.

— Perhaps you didn’t expect me to be this fat, he said a moment later.

— No, I said.

— Are you disappointed?

— Obesity has never been something that’s bothered me, I replied.

— Good, Calisto said, and ordered a beer from the bartender.

We sat in silence while he drank the beer.

— Will you come home with me now, was the next thing he said.

We walked silently through the narrow streets and eventually emerged on a wide street where Calisto hailed a cab. Then we rode for a long while — through the city, out onto a road that ran along the coast, eventually arriving in an area with large houses perched on cliffs overlooking the water.

— Wow, I said. Is this where you live? What’s it called?

— Saltsjöbaden, Calisto replied curtly.

— Are you rich? I asked.

— Rich? he said, as if he didn’t understand what the word meant.

— I mean it looks really swanky.

— Swanky? Calisto said, looking out the window. I don’t think anyone uses that word anymore.

His voice was different, it sounded like his throat had tightened somehow. I peered out the window again: at the houses we passed, standing there grand and sort of obstinate, with their giant windows magnificently staring out over the water. Then the taxi turned onto a smaller road that continued into the woods. The taxi had slowed down, and we sat beside each other in the backseat in silence. I thought about what he had written before and that there had been confidence in his words, something I couldn’t sense now. Had he just been acting? I glanced at the meter but Calisto didn’t seem to care. When the cab stopped Calisto paid with his credit card. We exited the vehicle and he took a key out of his pocket and unlocked a large gate. Behind the gate was a wooden house. It was pitch black everywhere except for a dim light that shone from somewhere in the garden. A high, dark spruce forest surrounded the yard, and the sea suddenly felt far away even though it was probably just around the corner.

— Have you changed your mind? Calisto asked.

— No.

— And what if I’m a cold-blooded murderer? he said and laughed.

— The bartender saw us together.

— They see lots of people, he replied. If it really matters they don’t remember a thing.

I grinned at him, because Calisto was the type of person who at first glance you’d assume wouldn’t even hurt a fly. We got in, took our shoes off, and he showed me around. It was obviously difficult for him to move around with all those extra kilos. The house was sparsely furnished, the walls white. Every time we left a room he turned the light off after us. I wondered if he had a wife or if he had had one. Not that it mattered, and it shouldn’t have been a hard question to ask, and still it was a question that seemed off limits with Calisto, as if he and his home exuded a loneliness that demanded respect and distance; as if this was his outlying land, and he was the only one who could find his way here. When we got to the living room he said it felt a bit cold, so he started a fire in the open fireplace. He pulled out a sheepskin rug and held out his hand, gesturing toward the rug.

— You can take your clothes off and wait for me there, he said.

— Excuse me?

— Take your clothes off and lay down on the rug. I’ll be right back, Calisto said.

I laughed.

— You think I’m a whore?

— No, I don’t. But we both know what’s going to happen. And I’m not interested in lengthy foreplay, to say the least.

A gust of wind hit the window and we both turned to look at the same time. But the darkness was thick, and we only saw our own reflections. I couldn’t keep from laughing.

— We look so small, I said.

— Yes. Will you take your clothes off now?

I took my clothes off and lay down on the rug. Calisto stood there watching me with his arms folded over his chest. I thought he would lie down beside me but instead he turned and walked out into the hallway. I heard him lock the bathroom door and for a long while listened to water rushing through the pipes. For a minute or so it was completely quiet. I laid there, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly I realized what was funny about his name. Calisto is the name of a Swedish popsicle. I laid there thinking about the popsicle, and about Calisto. I wondered how old he’d been when the popsicle had appeared on the market, and if people with a better memory for names would smile when he introduced himself. The heat from the fire made me drowsy and I must have fallen asleep for a second because when I opened my eyes again Calisto was standing naked in front of me. Like a huge mountain he stood there before me with all of his bodily mass, arms hanging at his sides.

— I have to tell you something, he said, staring straight at me. Maybe I should have told you right away when we started talking, but I was afraid you wouldn’t give me a chance if you knew.

— What? I said.

— For the past several years I’ve only had sex I’ve paid for.

— What?

— It’s been a long time since someone wanted to be with me out of her own free will. You know what I look like. It’s not just the weight. It’s everything.

He brushed his hand over his body, and at once he looked small, despite all the kilos. Small and, somehow, impotent.

— I’ve forgotten how to do it with someone who actually wants to be with me, he said, and gave me an apologetic look.

I wished he hadn’t said anything about this. I didn’t know him well enough to feel pity for him, and what we were about to do called for an easy mood that was impossible to achieve after this type of intimacy. But Calisto didn’t seem to have a problem with these barriers, because now he was approaching the rug and lying down beside me. I could smell his scent. It was foreign, but I didn’t dislike it.

— Can we just lie here, he said, and get used to the situation?

We laid there on our stomachs with our feet toward the fire. The heat licked my legs and crotch; it was a nice contrast to the hail that was now pelting the large windows. I asked him what he did for a living.

— I’m a literary critic, he said.

— Ah.

I had been hoping he wouldn’t be too much of an intellectual. I don’t like to talk about literature before having sex; that was not the experience I was looking for. I wanted to make that clear to him, but Calisto had already started telling me about something that had happened to him not long ago. Since he was young, he said, he had admired one author greatly. This author had been the driving force of almost everything Calisto had done, in his life as well as within the field. But now Calisto was over forty and had for some time felt like he was nearing the end of his relationship with this author. He wasn’t discovering anything new, didn’t feel anything anymore, didn’t tread into any new dimensions. And Calisto wanted to discover new things; he was, he said, the kind of person who thinks life without evolvement is an unbearable stagnation. He wanted to be young in his discoveries, so to speak. Young, naïve.

— Get it? he said

— Yes.

He kept talking about this naivety; how someone who walked into a forest for the first time saw the pine trees, felt the air. He wanted, to make a long story short, a new author to look up to. He read lots of things but grew tired of everything after just a few pages. It all seemed so sloppy and stupid. Then he had been invited to an event a few weeks ago, and there, at this event, was the author. This was someone you rarely saw anywhere, and Calisto had never had the chance to get to know him personally. But there he was, in the middle of everything, with a glass in his hand, conversing lightly and openly, as if he was a well-adjusted person, and as if the knots and the darkness that were so evident in his books were all just fake. And suddenly, unexpectedly, the author had approached Calisto, put a hand on his shoulder, and said: You’re Calisto, right? I really admire the work you do. You, unlike many others, actually have something to say. At the time, Calisto couldn’t think of a single article he had written. All he could remember was this piece about burned-down buildings, and when he told me about this, he looked completely confused, as if he himself couldn’t remember what burned-down houses had to do with anything, but this was the only thing he had been able to recall. Blushing and stuttering, Calisto had told the author about his admiration for him. The author stood there with his glass in his hand and looked at him compassionately. Five minutes later they were friends. Ten minutes later the author had told Calisto that he would greatly appreciate if Calisto would read a manuscript that he had just finished — a manuscript no one had yet read.

— Sometimes you end up in the middle of a mystery just by chance, Calisto said as we laid there on the rug. Sometimes everything just opens up.

— Have you read it? I asked.

— Half, he replied.

His voice quivered.

— I’ll show you, he said. Come.

We stood up, Calisto lit a candle, and I walked behind him through the dark house until we got to his study. It was clean and tidy, just like the rest of the house. The desk stood in front of another open fireplace, and there was a strange sound coming from the chimney.

— It’s the wind, said Calisto.

— Yes, I said.

On the near-empty desk there were two neat piles of paper.

— There it is, Calisto said.

He placed the candle on the desktop.

— I’m not sure I should keep reading, he said, and put his hand on one of the piles. I’m afraid the spell will go away. Sometimes, he continued while stroking the top sheet on one of the piles, I don’t want to read because then I have to touch it with something so mundane as my hands.

— I see.

— There is only this one copy, he said. The author writes on a typewriter, and he hasn’t made a copy.

— Why?

— Because it’s too... valuable, Calisto said. If he had made a copy something mechanical would have impressed itself upon it.

— Mechanical how? I asked.

— I can’t explain, Calisto said. But it’s about respect.

— Respect for what?

— The inimitable.

I walked over to the desk and looked at the sheet of paper Calisto had under his hand and read: Every afternoon he slept, and in his sleep he managed to let go of the reality that had become too tense, too worn out, that could only be released with a complete extinction of conscience.

— This makes no sense, I said.

— No, Calisto replied, I understand every word.

We walked back to the living room. I was in front of Calisto and I knew he was watching me; that he was summoning up his courage for what was about to happen.

— With all due deference to the manuscript, I said once we were back by the fire, I’m not here to talk about literature.

— You are absolutely right, Calisto said, and laid down on his back on the rug. Now I want you to get on top of me.

I did as he said and Calisto pulled me toward him and tried to penetrate me, but I was tense and the situation with the manuscript hadn’t exactly turned me on. It took time for him to enter me and it hurt. He put his hands over my hips and pulled me downward.

— Tell me you’re my whore, he whispered. I need to hear it, tell me.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to say I was his whore. I don’t mind playing, but this was no game to Calisto. I leaned forward to kiss him and he stopped short. His lips were barely parted, but when I insisted with my tongue, his tongue started to find its way into my mouth as well. I could feel him grow bigger, harder, and then he started to touch me again, rougher than before. I sat up again and cried out when he pushed into me. They were shrill and rather silly shrieks, but it got him going, because soon he said he was almost there.

— First I want to ask you to do something, he said.

— What?

— Crawl across a mirror.

No one had ever asked me to crawl across a mirror before. I didn’t know how to reply, but Calisto didn’t wait for my response, and soon he looked ridiculous walking around with his erection bouncing up and down in front of him as he tried to decide which mirror was best for whatever it was we were going to do. Finally he found one that was long and rather narrow. He placed it on the rug.

— There, he said, crawl over it.

He stood beside me and grabbed his erection and started masturbating. What the hell? I thought, and started making my way over the mirror on all fours, trying to distribute my weight evenly so the glass wouldn’t break.

— I have to do you now, Calisto whispered. Stay there.

Then everything went fast — hard and raw. He grabbed me so my knees lifted from the mirror and my whole weight was on my hands. I heard the glass crack, and then I felt the pain in my palms. I screamed out, which only seemed to turn on Calisto even more, because he pushed into me violently and said a bunch of vulgar things that I don’t feel like repeating. Eventually he yanked me back and forth a few times, and then let me go, dropping my body onto the glass.

I don’t mind a slightly violent act. But when you start hurting each other for real it’s sacrilege, because there really is something holy about giving yourself completely to one another that way. You can approach the line, but you need to know when you cross it, and you need to take responsibility. And maybe all this was something Calisto used to do, but this time, with me, he had crossed the line, because I’m not one to take things lightly. I rarely attack first, but if someone harms me, I make sure I respond immediately and forcefully, so I can get closure and move on without carrying around a bunch of old baggage. I had shards of glass in my hands and legs. My whole body ached and when I touched the inside of my thigh I could feel that there was blood there too.

— I didn’t do anything against your will, did I? Calisto asked.

— Look, I said, and showed him my hands.

Calisto seemed scared when he saw the glass and blood.

— Shit, he said, then put his clothes on and hurried to the bathroom. Soon he came back with a toilet bag and took out a pair of tweezers. He started pulling the pieces of glass from my wounds, and then he disinfected them. I looked at him while he was working; his face was sweaty and puffy and red, and every once in a while he glanced up at me guiltily.

— You have to let me pay you for this, he said.

— You really think that’s how it works?

Calisto let out a laugh.

— What I think is that I have forgotten how to do this, he said. I should probably see someone about it.

— You can pay my taxi back to town.

— That goes without saying. But you’ll have to wait until they start driving again, until the roads are cleared.

A little while later we were sitting in front of the fire. Calisto had opened a bottle of red wine and made a salad, which we ate straight from the bowl. We had both showered and I had borrowed a pajama shirt that reached down to my feet.

Calisto soon fell asleep. His large body lay there, completely knocked out on the sheepskin rug. I imagined standing up and kicking him in the gut. A hard, strong kick. My foot with its cuts and wounds would disappear into Calisto’s fat. Then he would open his eyes and I would lift my leg and plant my heel right in his face and at the same time I would scream with anger, loud and clear, the scream echoing between the white walls. I knew that if I didn’t deal with my need to hurt him, it would remain inside me, sour and dark, and I wouldn’t be able to get rid of it once I was home again.

Then I realized there was a much better way to hurt Calisto. I got up quietly so I wouldn’t wake him and walked over to his study. I turned the light on: there it was, the manuscript. Lying there like the crown jewel of the house. Standing in Calisto’s study with this author’s manuscript in front of me was like standing in the middle of Calisto’s heart, right before the blood supply, with a pair of tongs in my hand. I laughed quietly. I collected the two piles and carried the stack out into the living room. The fire had almost gone out and I had to blow on it to get it crackling again. Then I burned the pages. One after another I let them float down into the flames. I started at the back, in case Calisto woke up and tried to grab what was left. The fire got going again, as if its appetite had been awakened. I threw the sheets of paper on the fire until the manuscript was completely destroyed and there were only embers left, fully aglow among the ashes. Calisto was lying behind me, his belly up in the air like a mound, his mouth half open, saliva dripping down onto the floor. Now we’re even, I thought. Now everything is in balance and I can go back to my windowless hotel.

I laid down beside Calisto and fell asleep almost immediately. A few hours later I felt him move and woke up. He sat up; then he laid down again behind me and pulled me in. I was sort of enveloped in Calisto. I smelled his scent and felt his warm breath on my neck.

— You wanted me without money, he whispered behind me. It’s fucking unbelievable. And I hurt you. Can you forgive me?

— It’s all in the past, I said.

I had never slept with anyone like I did with Calisto that night. I woke up now and then, heard the snow whip against the windows. The whole time he had his arm around me and breathed down my neck. Even when he was asleep his arm held me tightly.

At seven I woke from a new sound, snapping and reverberating; a hazy light filled the room.

— It’s the ice breaking, Calisto whispered behind me.

Before my eyes I saw long, dark cracks that started out at sea and quickly ran through the ice to the shore. Here and there large pools of black water opened up. I put my hand over Calisto’s and went back to sleep.

When I woke again it was ten o’clock and the pendulum clock twanged throughout the house. Calisto stood before me — his face was as black as night.

— Where is the manuscript? he said through his teeth.

— What manuscript?

— I was going to the bathroom and saw that the light was on in the study. I went in and saw that it was gone. Now tell me where it is, do you hear me? You tell me where the author’s manuscript is!

— I burned it, I said, as revenge for the glass.

Calisto stared at me. His eyes were bloodshot and the hair that hung down on his forehead looked wet.

— What did you just say? he asked, his voice sounding faint. You said you...?

— Yes, I burned it. It’s gone.

— You goddamn... Are you out of your mind?

I got up without meeting his gaze. He stood in front of me and breathed heavily.

— Calm down, I said. You could have a heart attack.

— You are completely fucking crazy. Completely...

I raised my hand.

— That’s enough. I get it. I’m leaving.

Calisto slowly sat down on a chair and put his face in his hands.

— The author is going to hate me, he said.

— I really don’t give a shit. And if you want to know my opinion, he wanted to get rid of it. Or else he wouldn’t have given his only copy to a stranger. He might not see it that way now, but as time goes by he might come to this realization.

— But what about me? he said, resigned. My reading.

I didn’t feel like standing there sharing my theories with Calisto, but I thought to myself that as far as his own reading went, I couldn’t imagine there was as much at stake as he thought. If he had read the whole thing without being disappointed he would have just thought he understood something no one else understood. That would have given him a sense of superiority, which in time would have made him even lonelier than he already was. I know something about loneliness: it’s not pretty. Calisto in this huge house; Calisto sitting in his tidy study reading manuscripts; Calisto who has to pay for sex; Calisto who laboriously moves his own weight around the house. Calisto being one of the only defective people in this cold, perfect city. And then me, in the middle of all this, just as lonely and defective as he was, but in a completely different way.

I got dressed. Calisto stood watching me the whole time, and when I went to the kitchen to have a glass of water he followed me. I put my shoes on, took my bag, realized I wouldn’t be getting money for the cab, but didn’t care; I was sure there would be bus stops, even in a place like this. I opened the door and walked out onto the front steps. The wind had subsided and the trees surrounding the house stood tall and straight. This is when he pushes me out and slams the door shut, I thought, but Calisto didn’t.

Kim by Torbjörn Elensky

Translated by Rika Lesser

Gamla stan

The phone in my pocket was silent. Cold and dead. I sat on the Skeppsbron wharf while the summer night smiled at me with scorn. A cold, white twilight sun in a clear sky — scrubbed clean, as if to wipe out all traces of a crime that had been committed. I took the phone out of my pocket and flung it straight into the light, without once checking if a new message or missed call had come. I threw hard, right toward the sun, as if I were trying to hit it. With a miserable little splash, a disappointing plop, it fell into the water, while gulls circled and squawked with disappointment that it wasn’t something edible.

You’d think that the warmth and the sun that shines almost all night in summer would make everything lighter, warmer, milder. But no. This cold summer night’s light over Skeppsbron’s old façades and down between the alleys in Old Town makes nothing better. It only makes the shadows denser and the secrets of the alleys deeper. It’s probably meaningless to say, but I wanted to do a good deed. I wanted to help. Maybe I did? Maybe the truth is that there’s no difference between good and evil, help and harm; in a cold cosmos it makes no difference what we do to one another. Against one another. Yet it does. Still. It must. Allow me, in peace and quiet, to tell you how I experienced it all from the beginning.

For me, Old Town is a part of the city which, with every passing year, loses a bit more of its magic. More and more Västerlånggatan is becoming a tourist trap that could just as well be some random street in Mallorca. The old shops, the musty bookstores, and the shabby little cafés have all been replaced by big clean places, where hardly any Stockholmers sit, not least because of the prices. But you can still manage to find alleyways where time has stood still, and the magic from earlier times lingers.

I’d been sitting up there at Tyska Brunnsplan, on a little isolated bench, reading and enjoying the last remnants of the atmosphere in Old Town, when my phone rang. Unknown number. I don’t usually answer these since they’re almost always sales calls. But this time, whether out of boredom, loneliness, or maybe hoping a friend would want to go out for a bite to eat, I picked up and answered anyway.

— Hello?

At first a long silence, then a weak voice; I couldn’t decide if it belonged to an adult or a child, or of which sex.

— Hello? Who is this?

— Who are you trying to call?

— Don’t know. You.

And with a tone that sounded weaker but simultaneously more piercing, more chilling than any I’d ever heard, the voice hissed: Help me! Please, you’re my only chance.

— How can I help?

— I’m locked up. Only you can help me.

— You don’t even know who I am.

— He said I should call you. Only you can help me.

— Who told you to call me? Where are you?

— Nearby. Here: in Old Town.

— Tell me where.

— I’m not allowed. You have to find me yourself.

— I don’t have time for games like this.

— It’s not a game. If you don’t find me... He’s coming. Answer the next time I call.

— But...

— Promise!

— Okay, okay. I’ll answer.

I put the phone back in my pocket, anxious and irritated — not knowing if I should take this anonymous call seriously or not. People always allege that they can hear if a voice is telling the truth or a lie, just as they declare they’re able to see if someone is good or evil, clever or stupid. But the truth is probably that in most cases wisdom comes only after the fact. Even old Nazis looked avuncular, and each time a genuine murderer is unmasked, a serial killer who’s buried a dozen women in his garden, family and friends always say they had no idea, that he was so nice and polite, but maybe spent a little too much time by himself...

The book I’d been reading was no longer a temptation. I opened it, but my eyes couldn’t focus on the pages. So I just sat there a little while in solitude and felt the phone in my hand, uncertain if I should leave or sit there waiting for more calls. Maybe this was all an elaborate joke being played on me, or maybe just a prank.

The phone rang again, so I took the call and listened without replying. Someone was breathing at the other end. And then a man’s voice could be heard this time, utterly distinct: I know you’re there.

— ...

— I know that it called you. How did it get your number?

— Who is this?

— It doesn’t matter. How did Kim get your number?

This was more an order than a question, and the tone provoked me more than a little.

— Damned if I know how that child got my number! Who the hell are you?

— Who I am is unimportant. Now it’s your responsibility. That’s all you need to know.

— Hello? What kind of...?

Evidently the man had turned the phone over to the person he called Kim.

— Sorry... I heard the weak androgyne say, while s/he breathed heavily into the receiver.

There was something in the tone of voice and the wheezing that made me take it seriously. Yes, a helplessness, maybe outright pain, which I’d never heard so clearly, so distinctly in a voice, and I couldn’t, as reason urged me, end the conversation.

— You have to find me.

— Where are you? I’ll call the police!

— NO! If you call the cops he’ll kill me.

— Who’ll kill you?

— I don’t know.

— What am I supposed to do? How can I help you? Don’t you have any idea where you are?

— All I know is that you can help me. Maybe. You have to trust me. He says you must rely on me.

The voice sobbed with exceptional vehemence. Someone was subjecting Kim to something.

— What does he do to you?

— You have to do it.

— Do what?

— What he does. It’s the only way.

— No. I don’t want to. What does he do?

— He owns me. Buy my freedom. That’s the only way you can help.

— Have you been kidnapped?

— You don’t understand. Wait.

The man snatched the receiver again. His voice was firm and determined.

— Do you want to own it?

— It?

— This worthless slave.

— Kim?

— Are you simpleminded? Do you want it?

— No.

— Then it will die tonight.

— Then yes! I want it!

— Then you’ll be able to handle it?

— Yes, yes! Just tell me what to do!

— Instructions will come. Keep your phone turned on and the line open.

There was a click on the other end and the conversation was over.

My whole body was shaking. This was like nothing I’d ever been involved in before. It felt like a secret I didn’t want to keep had been thrust upon me. And now there was something that connected me with this Kim, and with the man who evidently held her captive. When I looked up and observed the solitary wanderers in Old Town, the tourists with their maps and the natives who knew which side streets to take so they could be alone, I saw them all together from the outside, as if through some kind of thin glass, as if they and I no longer lived in the same world.

Where could Kim be hidden? What was it that had happened? And why was I selected to be the one capable of freeing her? It distressed me deeply that the man on the phone had called Kim it. It? Like a slave? Though I probably should have been grateful that he didn’t say that thing.

Should I go home now and wait for the call? Stay in Old Town? The two conversations had forced me to assume a responsibility that burst my frames of reference and created an uncertainty within me that intensified the feeling of solitude that even earlier on this tediously beautiful summer afternoon threatened to eat into my soul. An emptiness that was deep inside of me, and when my desire for solitude had been so completely satisfied I wanted nothing more than for someone to contact me, meet, get a bite to eat, talk, have a beer with me in peace and quiet. Now I’d been given an opportunity that seemed to preclude all others until further notice.

I toyed with the idea of going to the police. They could certainly trace the call and solve this whole riddle without my involvement. But what would I say to them? Even if they took me seriously they’d scarcely begin to make a move before it was too late. I felt in my bones that it could already be too late. It was serious, I was convinced of that. Both the male voice’s firm matter-of-factness and Kim’s pitiful despair, the entreaty in her tone when s/he said that I alone could free her, were clear and distinct proof, all the proof I needed, that this was serious.

The bench was hard. It chafed and I was sore; I took a little walk through the nearest alleys. Round and round, making little turns. How small Old Town still is. It felt as if I were moving in a little labyrinth, a simple path with no way out, but also with no end, as if the inner space were greater than the outer, with infinite possibilities. Old Town was like a brain, the city’s brain, and I was a lone obsession, a song stuck on replay in the head, going around, up and down and back and forth between the small squares and alleys, searching for some way either to get out of this damned part of the city or really get into it.

Evening came, the long, light summer evening, and the sidewalk restaurants filled up with tourists drinking beer and wine and gorging themselves while they believed they were experiencing Stockholm, the Venice of the North. Bitterly I thought that they knew nothing. They saw nothing of ordinary city life, but only this Skansen, this outdoor museum-city redesigned for tourists, which slowly grew out of Old Town and little by little conquered the neighborhoods close by, the area around the King’s Garden, known as Kungsträdgården, northern Södermalm, places which once had been shabby, dark, with nothing of interest but isolated ice-cream kiosks and dank cafés, now resplendent with green magnificence, well-raked footpaths, special paths with views along the cliff side of Södermalm, Italian-style cafés, and everyone pretending that this was the natural, the normal, the real Stockholm which, in some peculiar way, I’d been reminded of by Kim’s conversation. I knew that beneath this smiling city lay a scornful, hateful city deformed by drink, like a cirrhosis of the liver, with its outcasts, prostitutes, drug addicts, all that which must be swept aside at any price so that the illusion of the shiny-clean city could be maintained for all the tourists and, for that matter, all the hicks who’d moved in, who wanted Stockholm only as backdrop for their lifestyle choices.

Who could it be? Had I ever met Kim or the man? Had they called me at random? Fear and anxiety coexisted in my breast with a feeling, not entirely unpleasant, of being chosen. And as the hours passed, the evening became as dark as it could; sometime around midnight, without having received another call, I reluctantly decided to set off homeward and retire for the night. On the one hand, of course I was worried about Kim, whom I thought was my responsibility to save, to take care of. But on the other, I worried that my chance to be somewhat important wouldn’t come.

I settled myself in bed. Unfortunately I no longer lived in Old Town, it had become too expensive. Years before I had sublet an apartment, a little studio, on Norra Dryckesgränd, but now I lived way off in western Kungsholmen — a part of town that wasn’t exactly thought of as the city but was on its way up to luxury. Gentrification, I suppose. But the process was not so far advanced, and there was still the occasional drunken bum found sleeping in the nearby parks.

Although my body lay in bed, my consciousness was still in Old Town. My disappointment slowly increased, so much so that I played with the idea of saying to hell with all these odd conversations — pretending that I’d never heard of Kim, turning my face to the peach-colored wallpaper from the eighties, and falling asleep — when the plink of a text message sounded from my phone. Instantly I was wide awake and completely present, in the now again, and I read the message hoping to find a new clue. But it was only a text from Krister, who wondered where I’d been. We’d planned to meet up and have a beer with his colleagues in their office which was also in Old Town. Funnily, as long as I’d wandered around there I’d never once walked by their office on Baggensgatan.

Now I was awake and far too uneasy, my body far too restless to return to sleep. So I sat up in bed with my laptop over the covers on my lap and surfed the Internet, just to pass the time until I got tired enough to drop off to sleep again. Everyone knows that you can’t sleep if you’re sitting with a computer in bed at night, and it was already close to two o’clock in the morning, the sun rising again, so in every way it was a stupid choice. But truly, I had no desire to sleep.

I’d received ten e-mails from an address I didn’t recognize. But I instantly understood where they came from. The address was yourslavekim@xxx.com, so there wasn’t any doubt as to what they were about. All the e-mails had large attachments. I was cold throughout my body, alone in the universe, full of remorse for having felt so important earlier, and again I thought of going to the police with all of it.

None of the attachments had names, just long combinations of numbers and letters. I opened the first one, which was a zipped file with twenty photos. No, I didn’t want to see them, my forearms were heavy as lead and I really didn’t want to look. And yet I looked. A naked body lay on its stomach on something I couldn’t identify. Its arms and legs were stretched out and tied up. My telephone number was written on its back. Seeing this image was like having a dagger plunged into my chest. As if I were guilty. Although I didn’t yet know of what. Nobody seemed to be harmed, and in any case games like this aren’t illegal.

The body looked extremely young. A girlish boy or a boyish girl. I tried to find something by which I could recognize it. Medium-length blond hair. No body hair. Maybe I’d get to see more in the next picture if I looked. I opened the file. Same body position. A rather large man, between forty and fifty, wearing a dark suit and shoes polished to a high shine, dragging Kim — for I assumed that the naked body could belong to nobody else — by the hair so that its head was bent backward. I sensed resistance in the body, which my own reacted to with the uncontrollable tensing of my muscles. The pictures continued with little variation. The body was tied up, the man in the suit drew it taut, pulled it by the hair, pressed his polished shoes against it. And on the body was my telephone number. It was as if I were there. I felt the body’s pains in my own, like a weak reverberation. But uglier than that, despite the fact that I pushed the thought away, I also felt, yes, I actually identified with the corporal grip of the man in the suit, the feeling of the cloth against the naked body, my own hand striking the body while I wore leather gloves.

The next e-mail contained a GIF. It depicted Kim’s completely hairless backside, with an anal plug stuck in its asshole. The genitals were carefully covered with something that made it impossible to identify the gender. The body writhed in discomfort and resistance and I quickly closed the file. I then opened the remaining e-mails to verify that they too contained attachments of various sizes, but I didn’t want to see them. I shut down the computer and lay down on my bed. First I pulled up the covers, then I kicked them off, now it was too cold, now too warm. It wasn’t that I was aroused. I don’t get aroused by BDSM or violent porn. But at this point I really had to get some sleep, so I jerked off mechanically in bed, while trying not to think of anything, even though the pictures floated before my mind’s eye the whole time. After coming, I turned to the wall and, eventually, drifted off.

After a few hours of uneasy sleep I was awakened by the telephone ringing. I didn’t reach it in time and the ringing stopped. Three missed calls. I’d barely slept at all; I’d floated feverishly within different dream scenarios, all of which circled around Kim in myriad ways, somehow not being woken up by the repeated phone calls.

Suddenly I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed. I felt sweaty, filthy, needed a shower before going out. But the restlessness in my body put me on autopilot; I pulled on my jeans and the same, no, a new T-shirt at least, and I went out into the cool Swedish summer-dawn light and began to walk toward Old Town again. The sense that I could be important and must be at hand was so strong that my legs automatically took me all the way back there, along Norr Mälarstrand, the tourist buses to city hall, past the hideous traffic interchange between city hall and the central train station, and over the Vasabron, past the old seats of power — Parliament, the Royal Palace, the House of the Nobility, and the Bonde Palace.

In need of caffeine, I entered Café Tabac, sat down at the bar, and downed a cup of ordinary brewed coffee while I leafed through Dagens Nyheter, the morning paper, seeing neither the pictures nor the headlines. The images of Kim being sexually abused somewhere near here, maybe in a cellar just under the café where I sat, had burned themselves permanently into my retina so that they lay like a film over everything I saw.

Something to eat? No. I had no appetite, even though my stomach was completely empty. I put a few sugar cubes into my coffee instead, took the phone out of my pocket, and looked at it, as if I should be able to conjure up a conversation telepathically. And then it actually rang. Quickly, fumbling, I put the phone to my ear, only to hear about a new electric company. I hung up without even saying anything nasty. When I lowered the phone again I saw that a text message had come in at the same time that the salesman delivered his spiel.

Did you look? was the text.

I tried to answer immediately with a simple Yes, but my phone wouldn’t send it.

Another message came at once: Do you want to? What? Rescue Kim? Participate in Kim’s torture? It was maddening, being made a party to a conversation in which I couldn’t respond.

There’s nothing you have to do, but if there’s something you want, you must come now. Come where? Once again I felt it would be best if I abandoned the whole business, forgot about Kim, pretended that I’d seen nothing, knew nothing. But how could I obliterate the memory of a body that was forced to assume a grotesque backbend while its anus was opened wide with a speculum and its mouth gagged, plugged with a ball to keep it shut. And there was my telephone number, written on the victim’s back.

Like a sleepwalker I wandered back uphill toward Tyska Brunnsplan. The streams of tourists were now more intense on Västerlånggatan even though it was still early in the morning. I sat down on the same bench I’d sat on the previous afternoon. The phone burned hot in my hand. My head was entirely empty, and all my attention was directed at — nothing. Then it finally rang.

This time it was Kim’s voice on the other end. It still sounded androgynous and awfully young, but now there was a new tone of despair, as after many hours of crying. And it seemed to lack focus. I wondered whether Kim was drugged, or just groggy from being subjected to sexual torture all night long, without respite. I shoved these thoughts aside, but I couldn’t keep fantasies about Kim’s treatment from surfacing in my own dazed consciousness, I couldn’t defend myself against them, they touched something, a cord inside me. I told myself it was my opportunity to save this creature who so affected me. Yes, this was my chance to be something of significance to another human being.

— Where are you?

— Don’t you know?

— Why aren’t you here yet?

— I don’t know where you are...

— He says that... A scream of pain interrupted Kim in the middle of the sentence.

— What? What’s that? What’s he saying?

The connection was still there, but it was quiet on the other end. I listened hard for sounds. I could hear weak sobbing, something like a long whimper. It was awful, but it was more appalling to admit that the sound gave rise to a warmth that spread through my chest, as if the blood inside me were rushing violently.

A reflex went through me, quick as lightning, when a window across the square was shut with a bang. Quickly I looked up and tried to get a glimpse of where it came from. Which window had been closed.

— Hello? Hello? I shouted into phone while simultaneously scouting around the façades of the buildings, unable to determine where the window had been slammed shut.

— If you want to free it, you have to own it. To own it you have to deserve it.

— What kind of filthy swine are you? What kind of fucking game is this?

I was stupid enough to be shouting. A young Asian couple with backpacks and an open map looked at me in terror and speed-walked away from Tyska Brunnsplan, down into the alleys.

— Don’t play dumb. I know you like it.

— Do I know you?

— I know you, that’s sufficient.

— How do you know me?

— Through Kim.

— Do I know Kim?

— You know who Kim is.

— Have I met Kim?

During the whole conversation I continued to scan the façades around the square, trying to catch a glimpse of someone in a window, or some sign of activity that could lead me in the right direction. I understood that they could see me, but I still didn’t know who Kim was, had no clue.

— What are you prepared to do?

— What must I do?

— Care enough to want to inflict harm.

— I don’t want to hurt anyone!

— Talk with Kim yourself.

For a while there was no sound on the other end of the phone. Then Kim’s voice was audible once again.

— Are you there?

— Yes.

— Will you be able to handle it?

— What do you mean? I’ll help you. You’ll be free, I promise.

— Then come!

This was the most frustrating thing I’d ever experienced. The call was terminated, and I couldn’t decide if this was the result of poor reception or if Kim or her tormentor had broken off the conversation. I sat down on the bench, heavily. Not despairing, only resigned, sensing that, yes, the whole thing was merely a game, that they were toying with me. Maybe they were filming me from one of the windows, maybe there was a hidden camera, or maybe this was a trap, an attempt to snare me and then blackmail me by putting me in a liaison with this Kim, or whatever it was they were doing now.

It rang again.

— Why did you hang up?

— We were cut off.

— Okay.

It was quiet for a long time again, and I caught sight of a row of windows in one of the most attractive houses on the square. They were covered with black draperies. As if the apartment inside them was darkened. My stomach was in a knot.

— Are you there? I think I know where you are.

— Then come. Though I don’t think you can manage it.

— Manage what?

— You won’t manage me. You’re too timid.

— Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.

There was a new element to Kim’s whisper... something scornful, challenging... which I didn’t exactly understand, and since I didn’t understand I didn’t readily perceive it. Until afterward.

I made my way swiftly, purposefully, to the gate of the house with the covered windows, and tried to open the gate. Simultaneously there was a long, protracted, painful moan over the phone, then we were cut off again. I rang doorbells at random, hoping that someone would buzz me in. But no one answered. In vain I pulled the handle a bit harder, as if I hoped I could force the locked gate open. How would I get in? The veiled windows were on the third floor.

There was a buzzing in one of the speakers, but no one said anything. Neither did I. Then the lock on the gate clicked. I pushed it open and walked in, my whole body cold and concentrated — driven by a determination beyond my experience. Taking two steps at a time, I climbed the old uneven stone stairs until I stood in front of the door to the apartment with the veiled windows. It was unlocked. I held my breath as I slowly entered the apartment. It was empty. Newly renovated, it smelled preposterously fresh in relation to the old building. In two adjacent rooms facing the square, the windows were covered with black cloth. In the middle of one was a massage table covered with a bloody sheet. There were plastic straps fastened to metal rods, which had presumably been used to hold something or someone in place. But the apartment was lifeless.

Blood rushed to my gut. For the hundredth time I cursed myself: certainly I should have called the police at the beginning instead of play-acting detective myself. What was it that had tempted me to try and solve this riddle, decode this nightmare, whatever it should be called? I gingerly touched the table with my hand. It was still damp with sweat, blood, saliva, and several substances I didn’t want to think about. My heart raced. They must be somewhere nearby. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I wanted to search for tracks but didn’t know where to begin. I wished the phone would ring.

And it did.

— Well done. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

He was mocking me.

— Where’s Kim? What have you done with...

— It?

— Him.

— The slave is waiting. In the cellar. Can you find your way down?

I ran out of the apartment, stumbled down the stairs, down, down, with every step I took there only seemed to be more flights, and I was overcome with a nauseating impression that the stairwell was growing impossibly long, down, down, and very suddenly I came to a heavy iron door, which with great difficulty I managed to push slightly open, so that I was able to squeeze through, coming upon a new landing, which led to additional uneven stairs, and in turn more stairs, down another flight, down, down, farther down in the building, several floors beneath the building itself, all the way down into the cold underworld. Every blind footfall felt like a headlong dive over a precipice. In the end I knew in my soul I was down as deep as it was possible to go.

The ceiling was low. I sucked at the thin musty air, damp from being closed in, with a tinge of mold and an extra tang, likely an ancient sewer pipe leaking inside the walls. I pushed farther into darkness. It enveloped me completely. I was forced to squat so as not to bang my head, the medieval brick vault was so low. I attempted to light my way with my phone, but still scarcely saw anything, nothing more than rusty brown and my own fingers that held the phone before me, as if it were a weapon.

With aching slowness I groped forward, running a hand along the rough walls, until suddenly I detected breathing that was not my own, weak, panting, flickering like a flame in a draft, without strength, nearly extinguished. I reached out, straight into the black. Warm, living skin brushed my fingertips, and I recoiled.

— Is it you? I managed.

— Who are you?

— Is it Kim?

— Who is Kim?

— What’s your name?

— I have no name.

— Stop it. Answer.

— It’s Kim.

The voice of the man on the phone came from somewhere behind me.

— But you’ll be helping me.

I spun around and tried to catch a glimpse of him in the light of my phone, but he ducked away from me and receded. From somewhere in the distance I heard the iron door to the cellar close and lock.

Adrenaline was now the only thing that kept me standing.

— What have you done?

— What have you done?

— Let me see you!

— Let me see you!

At that moment a naked ceiling lamp was lit, and the young androgyne sat before me, as naked and white as the lightbulb.

— Do you know what you want? s/he asked me with a small, faint smile.

— I want to get out of here. Now.

— Don’t you want to rescue me anymore? Don’t you want to own me?

— I don’t want to be part of this game.

The man in the dark suit, whose face was concealed by a piece of black cloth, now appeared behind the androgye. He placed his hands around its neck.

— If you want to have me, you must take me. Show that you’re a worthy owner.

The man pressed harder, and I could hear Kim’s breathing stop. Her face turned blue.

— Stop! Stop! I’ll do it.

— What? the man asked without releasing any pressure.

— Show you I’m worthy!

He quickly let go and Kim sputtered for oxygen. Now I saw that s/he was sitting, lashed to the old office chair with cable ties.

— I knew you wanted it, Kim said weakly.

— I don’t want anything, but I’ll do what I have to, I answered.

— Then do it, said the man, and took a step to the side.

For a moment I played with the idea of overpowering him, freeing Kim... but he was too big, too menacing. Instinctively, I stepped toward Kim and tried to look dangerous, wanting her to cringe and shrink from me. S/he tittered, and I slapped her, which made her laugh out loud.

— What was that?

— Shut up!

— Can’t you do it?

The man stood in the background with his arms crossed over his chest and remained silent. I looked at him, but he just nodded at me.

— Again! s/he challenged me.

I struck another blow, harder now, with an open hand.

— Make a fist, you fucking faggot! Kim hissed at me, as if s/he were the one who was making a threat.

I clenched my hand into a fist, gave him a good solid shot in the face, which knocked her head backward. S/he quickly recovered, stuck her tongue out at me through a bloody nose.

The man standing by looked more and more exhilarated. Perverted scumbag, I thought, and punched the androgyne in the stomach so that s/he gave a fast hard expulsion of air.

— Is that enough?

— You’ll learn to tame me. You’ll own me.

— I’ll set you free!

— Don’t you understand anything? He’s the one you’ll set free.

I prepared myself. Struck again. Gave in to some sort of primitive, violent desire I didn’t know I had. The androgyne’s challenges spurred me on. I’m ashamed to describe in detail all the things I did, but a torturer serving in Pinochet’s military police force would have been proud of my effort. This continued for a protracted period of time that I was incapable of measuring, for I was sucked out of time itself, out of myself, into some sort of vehemently malicious personality that welled up out of my depths, beyond language, beyond emotion, beyond civilization and judgment, and finally beyond me, although it came from my truest self, from my deepest interior, like magma within a volcano, with the same indifference to life and death.

In the end s/he went silent, and I gently removed the plastic straps, stroked around the wounds, held Kim close to me, while tears, wholly foreign to my experience, trickled from the corners of my burning eyes. This, and a strange, deep satisfaction, made me forever a stranger to myself. The androgyne comforted me all the while, petting the nape of my neck.

— Can I go? asked the man who’d been quietly watching the whole time.

— Yes. He’ll pass.

Then I lost consciousness.

I woke up on Skeppsbron to the creeping light of a summer dawn. I was born anew. A void, empty.

The phone was cold and dead... I threw it into the sea, as if to liberate myself from the fever dream of the past twenty-four hours. Though I didn’t for a moment imagine I’d be spared more conversations in the future. I understood that I’d taken the man’s place. And worst of all, what I tried hardest to defend myself against, with the pathetic gesture of hurling the phone away... was the knowledge that I’d enjoyed it. Already, I anticipated Kim’s next call with the most sublime pleasure.

Black Ice by Inger Frimansson

Translated by Laura A. Wideburg

Södertälje

Just a feeling, the impression that she was not alone in the house. The grandfather clock chimed twenty past eleven. She intended to go to bed.

Just as she was entering the bathroom, a short, loud bang came from the basement. Maj Lindberg knew her home, she’d lived in it her entire adult life. She was intimately familiar with all the creaks, groans, and sighs of her old house built of wood and brick.

But this was entirely different.

She switched on the hallway light and walked to the stairs leading to the bottom floor.

“Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone down there?”

Of course there was no reply. Her fingers gripped the railing tightly as she started to make her way down. Step by step. Once she reached the bottom, she turned on the light. The laundry room, the guest room, the hallway — all appeared normal. She lifted her head and sniffed the air like an animal, flaring her nostrils. Was someone there? A scent? Something or someone that didn’t belong?

The front door downstairs was locked. There was another door at the other end of the hall leading to the garage. It was ajar. Strange. She was sure she’d closed it. Every morning she checked the boiler. She knew she’d done so that morning. She switched on the garage light. Empty. The boiler banged away as usual in its corner. The Volvo, the apple of Hasse’s eye, was parked in its normal place. She looked inside the windows. The key was in the ignition. Last week she’d driven to the superstore to shop for groceries.

Nobody was inside the car. Nobody hiding in the backseat.

She hadn’t expected anyone there, really. But what was that noise? Did she imagine it? Anneli had been saying lately: “You’re starting to get forgetful, little Mama. Soon you’ll be forgetting your own name.”

Maj shook herself, closed the door leading to the garage securely, and walked back upstairs to her bedroom. She hadn’t felt frightened while she went on her reconnaissance mission, more bewildered. Now fear swept through her like a wave. She was gripped by a longing to clutch her cats. She wanted them to follow her into the bedroom and jump on the bed, to curl up next to her and warm her.

The cats never joined her on the bed.

She knew they were inside, as she’d enticed them indoors with sardines. They’d slid onto the porch like two thin shadows and crouched in the darkness. She wanted them to stay inside all the time these days. People said cats were being stolen for dog-fighting bait. Just the thought made her dizzy. One evening, she’d tried sealing the cat door shut with masking tape, but they’d gone crazy. The tape hung in bloody strips the next morning and the cats were outside.

For days after that incident, the cats acted in an odd manner. They slid along the walls and refused to be touched. They jumped whenever she stood up and dashed under the sofa. Even Kitten. Kitten was now a grown cat, but she was used to calling her Kitten, so she didn’t bother calling her anything else. How old was Kitten now? Maj tried to remember. It had been after Hasse’s death. A mother cat and a kitten. Somebody had found them on a balcony in Fornhöjden. Three other kittens had died. The owner of the apartment had been away in Thailand for a number of months, abandoning them, or so Maj had been told.

Lovisa had brought the cats in a cardboard box. There was the sound of scratching and mewing. “Here, Grandma, they’re for you! Now you won’t be so lonely!”

Her granddaughter was a true gift from God.

She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. It didn’t work. Her entire body was tense. Perhaps she should call Anneli. No, that would make both Anneli and Johnny even more eager to move her into a retirement home.

“You’ll have your own apartment and you’ll get all your meals served. You won’t be so lonely.”

I’m not lonely, she thought. I have the cats. And this is my home.

Johnny usually sat down next to her and laid his heavy arm, pale as death, around her shoulders. “Anneli and I will help you, of course. Little Maj, you understand we’re here for you. We’ll sell the house for you. We’ll fix it up and make sure it’s presentable. We’ll make sure your move goes smoothly. You won’t have to think about anything. You can relax in your new armchair and watch your favorite TV shows, Bingolotto and Så ska det låta. Just enjoy yourself and take it easy.”

Just wait for death, she thought.

She tried to force herself to yawn. Sometimes she could encourage sleep that way. She’d yawn and get a lungful of air. She’d curl her tongue into a bow and let the air be drawn over it.

Then she heard it again. Noise downstairs. Rustling, like shuffled papers and footsteps.

She was suddenly angry. Who dared come into her house and disturb her in the middle of the night? Get the hell out! Now! She flung her bedcover aside and leaped out of bed. Blood rushed hotly to her temples. She grabbed her umbrella with its sharp pointy tip. She started down the stairs, but then the fear caught up with her. How would she, a lone woman, attack a burglar? What if there were more than one?

She heard Johnny’s rant inside her head: “Fucking Turks. They hate us. They think we have it so good... as if we got everything for free. As if we didn’t work our asses off. They want everything for free! Soon they’ll take over the whole town!”

It was true that Södertälje had taken in a great number of immigrants from Iraq, from Lebanon, from Syria. More than the United States and Canada combined.

She protested: people in a free and peaceful country like Sweden should open their doors and welcome these despairing human beings fleeing poverty and war. She remembered the images she’d seen on TV: mothers with dark circles under their eyes; children filled with sorrow.

Johnny would stare at her, eyes so filled with disgust that it quieted her.

“Yeah, yeah, just fling our doors wide open and let them move in. You could fit a whole herd of them into this big house. So why don’t you?”

His words made her speechless.

There was no one inside her house. Of course not. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d searched every nook and cranny, even the space behind the boiler until her nightgown was covered in soot.

She decided to sit up for a while. Perhaps doze in her new armchair. It was a wonderful chair: soft and wide. She’d gotten it as a birthday present last year. She walked past the kitchen and picked up a few pieces of candy from the bowl. Peppermints. Anneli had brought them the other day. They seemed like a bribe. She’d seen through the pretense right away. It didn’t take long before Anneli turned to the subject of the house.

“For my sake, if not for yours!” Anneli leaned forward, grasped her hand, giving it a squeeze, and then with a small smile, she continued, “I’m worried about you, Mama! Don’t you see? Anything can happen.”

Maj had gotten angry. “Listen to me! This is my home. Try to understand that I feel just fine right here. I want to stay.”

“But Mama, it’s so big. It’s hard to manage. You can’t count on me and Johnny coming by to help you cut the lawn and fix things up!”

“And I haven’t asked either of you to do so, have I?” she replied. It was true. She’d been handling the lawn, garden, and house all on her own.

Her home with Hasse — all their lives, they’d lived here. The house was built on a slope. The main floor opened to a wonderful view. The basement level was open to the outside, with a large garage door and a second entrance. Counting the huge attic space, it was three floors, really. And although they had to fight gravity to do the gardening, the view was incredible.

Maj had always loved the house. Anneli was right that a few small problems would become big problems given enough time. But not just yet.

The house was at the top of a hill, and it had been harder for her to get outside these days, especially in the early winter when the snow had been plowed from the road and left on the sidewalk. Or in late winter, when melting snow on the road iced over — black ice, people called it. You thought it was wet asphalt, but it was frozen. At her age, if she fell and broke something, it could all be over.

Maj walked into the living room. As she was sitting down, she spied the keys — the standard one for the front door and the long one for the garage. They were centered on the flower-patterned tablecloth. She stood and stared at them for a moment. She would never toss keys on a table. Never! Leaving keys on a table brings bad luck — everybody knew that.

Her heart beat like tiny, quick feet. Had Lovisa been here? Had her granddaughter borrowed the keys for some reason? No, not for a while. Had Anneli used them? No, not for days. Her hand trembled as she reached for them. They belonged in her purse. She’d recently gotten a large purse, which could be slung on her back like a miniature backpack, and it had a pocket for keys. She always put her keys back into her purse after she’d used them.

She felt a dizzying sense of anxiety as she walked over to the window. She could see the lights from the AstraZeneca building on the other side of the canal. She liked the way they glittered on the water, making her think of Manhattan. Farther up the hill, she could see the apartment buildings in Ronna. They were part of the “million homes” scheme. These days very few people spoke Swedish as their native tongue, and Ronna was a known immigrant area and as infamous as Rosengård in Malmö — neighborhoods with a greater percentage of criminal activity, including shootings and murder. The name sounded harsh to her ears, even though she knew the original meaning was pleasant. Ronna meant running water.

A rhythmic throb made her turn her head — a boat, one of those large container ships, heading between Lake Mälaren and the Baltic Sea. The lantern at the prow seemed to her a sharp, glowing eye. The tower of its bridge passed by a bit later. She had a childish desire to wave and call out: Here I am! Can you see me? Hello!

When Lovisa was small, Maj had often taken her in her baby carriage and walked along the side of the canal on the way to the locks. She’d pick up Lovisa and show her to the men in their orange overalls. They’d wave and make faces at her. Boat was one of the first words Maj had taught her. Yes, in fact, boat had been her very first word.

The vessel passed and the water was now as smooth as a pool. Maj felt exhaustion wash over her. She moved away from the window and into the bedroom, turning off the lights as she went. The stairs to the basement level were a huge, gaping maw of black.

Once she’d returned to her bedroom, she realized she’d forgotten to brush her teeth.

“Don’t care,” she muttered to herself, a flutter of defiance in her chest. She took off her dirty nightgown and found a new one. She stood and stared at her naked body in the mirror with a sense of resignation. Thin limbs, a stomach poking out, and breasts that no longer did. Her pubic hair had almost disappeared. She grunted and shut her eyes.

The bed creaked as she settled into it. She pulled her nightgown over her feet to warm them. Her body finally began to feel heavy. She took a few deep breaths and was just about to drift off to sleep when the noise returned. A bang and then scraping sounds, as if someone were moving around the house. She heard it clearly coming from the basement hallway. She opened her eyes and lay fully awake. Anxious. Empty.

Could it be the cats? No. The cats were always silent. Mama and Kitten. The thought rose as a scream, desperate and silent, inside her mind: Mama, Kitten, come here and be with me!

A dog could defend itself. Defend her too. Cats lacked that kind of loyalty.

She hesitated before turning on her bedside lamp.

Had she forgotten to lock the front door after all? She had checked, hadn’t she? Or had she just thought she’d checked? The papers were filled with reports of burglaries in Södertälje. People were supposed to stay alert.

“Hello?” she called out. “Anyone there? Come and show yourself!”

For a moment, she thought it might be Hasse. She slipped back in time and Hasse was returning home after a night out with the guys: a night that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. They’d meet in someone’s garage and work on their cars together. She could see him standing on the hallway rug, wearing his grubby, oil-stained overalls, his large hands hanging at his sides.

After his death, she’d seen him a number of times. Not imagined him — she’d seen him. Once he was sitting on the side of the bed with his face, filled with love for her, turned in her direction. She hadn’t been the least afraid. Another time, he was on the stairs to the basement. He’d stood and watched her without saying a word.

“Hans? Hasse?” she’d whispered, and it felt as if all the blood had drained from her head so quickly that she became dizzy. “Hans? Is it really you? Are you here?”

She’d grabbed the railing and begun to walk down. “Wait for me! I’m coming!” Then a bolt of lightning had seemed to go through her skull — sharp, fire-red flames. She didn’t dare mention the visions to anyone. One day, she read about the phenomenon in a magazine. It was called änkesyn — widow’s vision — and it was fairly common. Nothing to worry about.

Her feet felt like blocks of ice. Where were her slippers? She usually put them beneath the chair where she hung her clothes. She couldn’t find them. Strange. She always put them there, side by side, beneath the chair. In bare feet, she snuck into the hallway. The floor had loose gravel on it, small grains that pressed into the soles of her feet.

“Kitties? Mama Cat? Kitten?” her voice cawed like a crow.

She almost reached the bottom of the stairs.

“You’re imagining things!” she said aloud to herself. “Pull yourself together! Otherwise you’ll find yourself in a home whether you like it or not!”

She walked back up to the main level for the third time that night. At least I’m getting my exercise!

As soon as she reentered her bedroom, she understood something was wrong. Hasse’s bed. She always kept his bed made. His cover was thrown back as if he’d just gotten up to pee. She caught her breath and then let out a dry, rattling cough. She was truly frightened now. Her entire body was shaking.

Is Hasse here? Is my dead husband here in the house? She moaned and her hand went to her throat. What does he want? Does he want to hurt me?

I have to call someone, she thought. Anneli, I have to call Anneli.

She stared at Hasse’s bedcover as she headed to her nightstand. Her red cell phone had extra-large buttons so she could easily make out the numbers. Anneli had gotten it for her. Normal phones were too difficult to use.

She picked it up, but her shaky hand dropped it immediately. It hit the wooden floor with a bang.

She knelt down to look for it, quickly realizing it was unusable as it had broken into two pieces. She pushed the two halves together and put it back on the nightstand. Tomorrow she would see about getting a new one.

For now, she had to pull herself together. She glanced over at Hasse’s bed. There had to be a logical explanation. There always was. Perhaps she had moved the bedcover herself without noticing it. She might have gone into Hasse’s bed instead of her own. She missed him, she was freezing, she longed to be with him. It must be that simple.

She moved his pillow to her bed and propped it up behind her back. In this half-sitting position, she eventually fell into a fretful, dreamless slumber.

Maj woke up at dawn. By the subdued gray light, she judged it to be about six. She got up, dressed in her long pants and the thick sweater she’d knitted many years earlier, before her arthritis had gotten too bad. She brewed some coffee and opened a can of cat food.

“Kitties!” she called out. In spite of having sardines yesterday evening, they should be hungry by now. Still, entire days could pass without them eating anything. Perhaps they found food somewhere else. Once she’d discovered a half-eaten rat foot outside the front door. It had flesh-colored toes with tiny toenails. She’d felt nauseous as she swept it up and dumped it in the garbage can.

She touched the lid of the bread bin, but decided against it. She had no appetite. She stood in front of the window as she sipped her coffee. The light outside grew brighter. She heard the sounds of a motor — the newspaper deliveryman’s yellow car, slipping and sliding along the asphalt. She adjusted her glasses and took a look at the outside thermometer — it hovered around freezing.

Finally day broke. She began systematically searching each room of her house. If someone had been inside, she would detect it and then she would contact the police. The kitchen seemed undisturbed. So did the living rooms. The pillows on the sofa were in their proper places. The potted plants were drooping — she had to remember to water them more.

She walked to the top of the stairs that led to the basement. She listened and imagined Hasse downstairs. He was busy with the boiler. He’d soon walk up, scratching his cheek as he always did when he was unhappy about something. The scratchy sound stubble made.

“Something’s wrong with the boiler! I can’t get the heat going!” he’d call up to her.

She’d sigh. “So what should we do? It’s starting to get cold. There was frost last night for the first time.”

“I know,” he’d reply angrily. She’d hear the decisiveness in his voice. He wouldn’t give up.

Maj headed to the bottom level. The hallway was dark; it seemed the lightbulb had burned out. Dumb. She’d have to ask Anneli to come and change it for her. It was too high for her to reach, and Anneli had a good sense of balance and could stand on a chair. Perhaps Johnny could come. He was good at fixing things. Still, she didn’t like to ask him for anything.

I’ll be fine, she told herself. It’s only a small thing. It can wait.

Maybe Lovisa could come by? When was the last time Lovisa was here? Of course, she was busy with school. She was in her senior year and would graduate in the spring. Her dear grandchild. Johnny had children from his first marriage too, a pair of sinewy, silent boys. Twins. She would offer them cookies, but they’d always refuse, shaking their heads and saying nothing.

“All children love cookies!” she said out loud, and then was surprised at the sound of her own voice.

She caught sight of something down there — she couldn’t make out what it was. She returned upstairs to get her flashlight. She found it in her junk drawer in the kitchen, but the battery was nearly dead. Still, it was enough to shine a weak beam down the stairs. She swept the beam back and forth and spied something on the third step from the bottom. One of her slippers! One of her own slippers that she’d carefully set beneath the chair in her bedroom when she’d gotten undressed last night. A percolating effervescence filled her skull. Had she been wearing her slippers when she’d gone downstairs last night? No, she remembered she was barefoot. How had it ended up here? And where was the other one?

The cats, she thought. Strange, but it must have been the cats.

She picked up the slipper and pressed it against her chest. She aimed the flashlight at the ceiling, where the old pipes ran like rough intestines. Everything seemed to be in order. She inhaled air through her nostrils, making a weak, whistling noise. She pushed down the handle on the door leading to the garage and the smell of oil hit her. She turned an ancient knob and the garage was filled with blinding fluorescent light. It shone over the car. She slid into the driver’s seat, shifted gears, and turned on the ignition. The motor started immediately. It had always been dependable. Hasse’s old cap was in its place as always, as if he’d just set it there, as if he’d just parked the car and was heading up to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.

A short scream resounded within her eardrums. It took a few seconds before she realized it came from herself.

“What am I doing?” she said out loud. She straightened up and heard her spine creak and pop.

She’d just turned off the motor when she heard footsteps above her on the main level. Her heart began to pound. She spied the axe in the corner. Nobody had used it after Hasse had passed away. She got out of the car, picked it up, and snuck back through the laundry room.

Yes, someone was upstairs, all right. She saw a pair of muddy shoes. She could taste iron in her mouth.

“Hello? Anyone up there?” she managed to croak.

“Mama!”

Relief spread through her like a warm wave. “Anneli? Is that you?”

Her daughter’s face was red and glowing. “What are you doing, Mama? Cutting wood?”

“No, well...”

“Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I’ve been calling over and over. I started to worry. You have to pick up the phone, Mama! You have to pick up when people call you!”

“I dropped it on the floor and it broke in half,” she said, suddenly remembering what had happened.

Anneli raised her shoulders. She was tense and stressed, standing in the middle of the hallway floor. “How could it break in half?”

“Go see for yourself.” She gestured toward the bedroom, but Anneli shook her head.

“I believe you. But now how am I supposed to reach you?”

“I’ll just have to buy a new phone.”

Anneli shook back her dry, henna-dyed hair. “No, I’ll take care of it. But I don’t have time this week.”

Maj stepped closer to her daughter to give her a hug. Just to show she loved her. They were still mother and daughter. They would always be mother and daughter. Until the end of time. But something in Anneli’s rigid stance made her draw back.

“I’ve got to get going.” Anneli glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “Is that the right time?”

Maj nodded.

“Mama, have you thought about it some more? You know...”

Maj’s stomach clenched. “About what?”

“Really, Mama, it would be so much easier for me if I knew you were all right. If I knew there was someone who could look in on you, someone who made you meals, and all the rest of it. You have to try to understand my side, Mama. I can’t just pick up and leave work when you don’t answer the phone. Things are difficult right now. There might be more layoffs.”

“Sweetie, you don’t have to worry about me, I’m doing just fine—”

“But for how long, Mama? How long? You have to think about the future too.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Anneli grimaced. She looked tired and worn. Her jacket had frayed along the bottom edge.

“Wait a moment,” Maj said. She went into her bedroom and opened her linen cabinet. She moved a heap of pillows aside and took out a few hundred kronor from their hiding place. “Here. Take this and buy something nice for yourself. Spoil yourself a little.”

Anneli turned her face away and mumbled something Maj couldn’t hear.

Maj stuffed the bills into Anneli’s jacket pocket. “Go on, so your boss doesn’t get angry at you. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Maj stayed inside all day. The cats too. They came out to sniff at their food bowls, but she never saw them eat. She wasn’t hungry either.

Anneli worked at Scania. She was one of the ones able to keep her job after the layoffs a few years back. Still, Anneli had had to take a wage cut. Johnny had also worked at Scania, which was where they’d met. He’d been one of the ones who lost his job.

“You should find someone else,” she’d grumbled to Anneli. “My daughter deserves a better man.”

Maj decided to lie down and rest for a while. A strange despair came over her and tears welled up in her eyes. She hardly ever cried. Not even when Hasse was in the hospital and they moved him to a hospice room, and she’d realized what that meant. Not even then!

Their black-and-white wedding photo hung on the wall in the bedroom. They looked so incomprehensibly young! Shy and expectant. Where had all the years gone?

She pulled her blanket over her and shut her eyes. Perhaps she slept. Yes, she must have fallen asleep in the mix of wool and warmth. When she opened them again, it was dark. At first, she didn’t know where she was. She tried to sit up, but her tailbone was aching and she felt a stab of pain that made her cry out. This happened sometimes. It must be age.

What time was it? As if it had read her thoughts, the grandfather clock began to strike. She counted the strokes — it was nine. Nine at night? Must be. It was dark outside. Had she really slept the day away?

She was thirsty. She walked into the kitchen and switched on the light. She was just about to turn on the faucet when she saw what was on the counter. Her wedding picture. She and Hasse on their wedding day. Fear shook her shoulders. She swallowed hard and stared at the bouquet of roses in the young girl’s hand — the hand that had been her own a very long time ago.

At that moment, she heard a loud bang on the stairs. Terror struck her with great force. She saw the cats had crept beneath the table and pressed against each other. Their eyes were wide and filled with fear.

“You heard it too, didn’t you, kitties?” she whispered.

Kitten got up and his tail hit the floor hard a few times. He crept toward her on his silent paws and wound around her legs.

Mama Cat had also gotten up and moved toward the kitchen door. She raised her back and all her fur stood on end. She hissed. Her brushy tail swished. Her ears flattened.

“What is it?” Maj asked. Her voice was shriller than she realized.

The cat bared its teeth. Maj saw its canines, its fierce predator stare. She could hear the pleading in her own voice. She tried to calm down and speak quietly.

“You’re not in danger, kitties. You don’t have to be frightened. I’m here to watch over you.”

She tried to turn on the light in the hallway and remembered the bulb was out. Where was her flashlight? It was no longer in her junk drawer. She found a paraffin candle and some matches. This is the way people lived in the olden days, she thought. People survived without electricity. They were fine.

Her hand gripped the candle as she started to walk downstairs. The flame flickered and she noticed her own shadow grow. She was in stocking feet. She felt dampness on her foot and lowered her candle to see. It looked like blood.

Something is seriously wrong, she thought. Someone was there. Someone was trying to scare her on purpose. Someone wished her ill. And this person, whoever it was, was here inside her house.

She hurried back upstairs and grabbed her purse. She glanced inside, saw her keys and money. She added a few cans of cat food. She put on her coat and her heavy outdoor shoes.

“Come, kitties, come with me,” she called them. To her relief, they followed her. “We’re going on a car ride.” They had to flee. She decided to leave through the upstairs front door.

Of course, the police, she thought. I have to go to the police. They can come and search the house and find the intruder. They’ll arrest him for sure!

With difficulty, she managed to raise the garage door from outside. Hasse’s Volvo was right there, waiting for her. She opened the back door and the cats jumped in. They settled intertwined on top of Hasse’s cap.

She got into the driver’s seat, pressed down the clutch, shifted into reverse, and hit the gas.

The door slammed. Anneli leapt up from her chair and stumbled into the hallway.

“Johnny?”

He was pale and traces of blood had spread beneath his nose.

She wanted to cry.

She watched him take off his sneakers and head right for the kitchen. He opened the cupboard door, took out the vodka bottle, and poured himself a drink.

“Want some?”

She nodded.

Johnny sank down by the kitchen table. He pushed aside the newspaper and took a swig. “Damn, it’s slippery outside.Sirens were going off constantly out there.”

“They announced the dangerous conditions on the radio.”

He pointed at his nose. “But I didn’t slip on the sidewalk. I fell on her goddamn outside stairs. This hurts like hell!”

“Poor thing,” she said. She took a sip of vodka. It both warmed and burned her throat. “What about...?”

He gave her a wry smile. “My nose kept bleeding all the way to her door. I had to rummage around inside the house to find something to stop it.”

“Did she notice you inside?”

“She kept getting up and looking around, just like last night. Up and down the stairs like a yo-yo. But she never saw me.”

Anneli covered her eyes with her hands. “I hate this. I hate all of this.”

His glass slammed down on the table. Drops of vodka flew out. “Don’t think for a moment I don’t hate it too!”

“I know...” she whined.

“We both agreed to this. So don’t start saying it was all my idea.”

She shook her head heavily.

“It’s for her own good!” he yelled.

A short sob escaped her throat. “Yes.”

“And we need the money. We need it now! Not two years from now. Not a decade from now. Right now! With that view, we can get four to five million.”

“I know.”

“If only she hadn’t been so stubborn We had to do it. She forced us into it.”

“Yes.”

He lowered his voice but still did not look at her. “She’ll be fine, Anneli.”

She pulled a paper towel off the roll and blew her nose. “Yes,” she said again.

The doorbell rang. A sharp, demanding sound. They stared at each other. She saw fear in his eyes.

Don’t open it, he mouthed.

But she’d already gotten up and was looking out the peephole. Two people were standing outside. One man and one woman. She opened the door.

The two people pulled out their police identification.

“Are you Anneli?” the policewoman asked.

She nodded.

“May we come in?”

She stepped aside to let them past. Something had happened. Something worse than she’d imagined. She turned around, glared at Johnny.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” the policewoman said. She had short, almost stubbly blond hair. “It’s your mother, Maj Lindberg.”

A white blaze lit her skull. With a wail, she began to pound Johnny with her fists like hammers.

“You bastard! What the hell did you do to her?”

He did not defend himself. He shrank; became soft and small.

She felt the policewoman grab her shoulder. She quieted down.

“Let’s sit down for a minute, shall we?” the policeman said. “Let’s all be calm.”

Anneli pulled out a cigarette. Her hands shook as she lit it. She inhaled deeply and kept staring at Johnny. He looked at the floor. Blood had begun to drip from his nose.

“What did you just say?” asked the policewoman. “What are you talking about?”

Anneli shook her head.

The policewoman remained silent for a moment and stared at her. “Well,” she finally said, “again, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. For some reason, your mother was driving—”

“My mother never drives. Never! Not at night.”

The policewoman gave her a look that managed to be both sharp and sympathetic. “I’m afraid she was driving tonight. Do you have any idea why she would leave home on a night like this?”

Anneli took a deep ragged drag, wanted to scream.

The policewoman’s voice came from far away, as if it were a mournful chant: “She must have had some reason. She had two cats with her in the car. None of them... well, it’s extremely slippery outside, black ice, you know. It comes every year, but still takes us by surprise. So your mother, well... she lost control of the car and drove off the road by the bridge... Must have been an hour ago... and I’m sorry to inform you...”