Let the Old Dreams Die (35 page)

At night, when you walk around these silent spaces, you feel like…a custodian. Like someone out of a story by Borges. Do you know Borges? No? That’s a shame. When my time was up I tried to explain to them that I loved the place, that they’d never find another cleaner who was so happy in her work as me. Perhaps they would contact me if a job came up?

They never got in touch. It all goes out to contract now.

Anyway. Let’s move on.

I took out a couple of books by Joyce Carol Oates. One of those authors you’ve heard of, intended to read for ages, but never got round to. I probably wouldn’t get round to it this time either, I thought, with my Kerstin Ekmans in my bag.

That’s it. Something happened there.

When I got to the loans desk there was a woman standing there already. As you do, I had a look at the books she was borrowing. I remember exactly. Maria-Pia Boëthius. Geir Kjetsaas’ biography of Dostoevsky. An anthology of poems by Thomas Tidholm. And the real clincher:
Gravity and Grace
by Simone Weil.

Apart from
Gravity and Grace
, they’re not exactly the books I’d take with me to a desert island, but they come pretty close.

I glanced at the woman who was taking the books out. She was in her thirties, looked perfectly ordinary. One of those thick tops they make out of plastic bottles or whatever, fastened right up to the top. Hair caught up in a loose pony tail. Nothing like me when I was her age, and yet she was borrowing
my
books, so to speak.

When I got outside I followed her. She went into the McDonald’s just past the library, stood looking at the menu above the counter for a while, then came out again. She walked slowly, gazing around as if she was looking for something. I stayed ten paces behind her.

I don’t know. It was as if I was waiting for her to…drop
something. A glove, perhaps. I would pick it up, go over to her and we would start talking. No. Not like that. I just wanted to follow her and see what she got up to. What she did.

When we reached the subway station on Rådmansgatan she stopped and looked at the noticeboard outside. One funny thing about her was that she was holding her bag from the library in her arms, like this. I’ve never done that. She looked at the noticeboard. I looked at her. A kind of—what shall I call it?—solace came over me. There was a little warm feeling in my stomach. When she suddenly turned away and set off along Sveavägen, I stayed where I was. Enjoyed the warm feeling. Then I headed down to the subway and went home.

I could hear the phone ringing as I walked up the stairs. I unlocked the door quickly so I would get there before it stopped. It doesn’t ring often, so you have to make the most of it, ha ha.

It was Majken.

I presume she could tell from the way I spoke, because the first thing she asked was, ‘Were you out?’

Well yes, I was. I don’t know why, but I told her in some considerable detail about my raid on Åhlén’s. Majken laughed and laughed when I told her about the reduction in the sales tax on books which meant I could take both novels.

‘I’ve never thought of it in that way,’ she said.

We talked for a while about Kerstin Ekman. Oddly enough, Majken’s favourite was
Make Me Alive Again
. Personally I find it too fragmented, disjointed, but Majken thought that Ekman’s finest characterisations are to be found in that book. She also maintained that it had a completely different resonance if you were familiar with Eyvind Johnson’s Krilon Suite. I had to admit I hadn’t read a word of it.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘What you said to me yesterday: “Have I earned this?” I’ve been giving it some thought today.’

‘Oh yes? Did it make a difference?’

‘A huge difference. I can’t help it, I’ve always felt a bit dirty when I’ve been pinching stuff, but today—’

‘Pinching stuff!’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s not a very nice way of putting it.’

‘Well, when I’ve been shoplifting then,’ I said, slightly offended. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do. Perhaps we could agree on “picked up”?’

‘Picked up? I’ve been to Åhlén’s and…
picked up
a few things today?’

‘Yes.’

I let the words roll around inside my head, caressed them. Picked up.

Majken went on, ‘I mean, that’s what we do. We pick up things that are really ours.’

‘So you…pick things up as well?’

Majken laughed. ‘Yes, Dolly,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do.’

I didn’t understand what was so funny, but it was a relief to be in the same boat.

‘What kind of things do you pick up, then?’ I asked.

‘Oh, all sorts. Clothes. Lots of clothes.’

‘But how? They’ve got security tags on them.’

‘There are ways.’

I told her about the nightdress I’d seen in Åhlén’s. Majken said she thought she knew the one I meant, that it was beautiful but not quite her style.

‘What kind of ways?’ I asked.

I didn’t think she was going to answer; there was something kind of secretive about her, but she started to go through them: ‘Tools to unlock the tag, diversionary tactics. Setting off the alarm before you leave the shop—’

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘You sound like an expert in all this. What’s a girl like you doing working for Konsum customer services?’

More laughter. I liked it when she laughed.

‘Dolly,’ she said. ‘Would you do me a favour?’

‘Just say the word,’ I replied.

I don’t know how to describe it. A kind of playful flirtation had quickly sprung up between us. As if we were trying to impress each other, charm each other. In spite of the fact that she was slightly mysterious, or perhaps for that very reason, I felt a strong, instinctive closeness to her. Maybe I was just starving, how should I know.

‘It’s nothing major,’ she said. ‘It’s just picking up a bag.’

‘I can pick up a bag,’ I said. ‘As long as I know where it is and where it’s going.’

I listened carefully to her description and wrote it down on a piece of paper. The bag would be in the right-hand Armani fitting room in the women’s department at NK. It was to be picked up at 14.00 the following day. Outside the store I was to hand it to a woman wearing a pale blue scarf.

‘Is that you, the woman with the scarf?’ I asked.

‘No. She’s another member.’

‘Member?’

‘Yes. We’ll get to that.’

I couldn’t get any more out of her. When we’d said ‘speak to you soon’ and hung up, I read what I’d written on the piece of paper:

NK. Armani. Right-hand fitting room. 14.00. Blue scarf.

It was like being in a Graham Greene novel. The detail of the blue scarf in particular was classic. Perhaps that was the intention. I have to confess that at this point I thought Majken was slightly crazy. Of course there would be no bag, no woman in a blue scarf.

But I liked the game. The fact is that I started sketching out a scenario of my own right there and then. I imagined speaking to Majken the following day, telling her that the mission was
accomplished and giving her one of my own. A man sitting on a bench in the park at Humlegården. She was to give him a carton of milk that I’d left in the reading room at the Royal Library.

Or something like that. I don’t remember exactly.

I went and saw to Börje. He was sitting on the sofa as usual. I felt underneath him to check that he hadn’t wet himself. He hadn’t. Which meant he’d managed to get himself to the toilet. I heated up some vegetable soup and spent half an hour feeding him. It was a slow process, even though he’d eaten next to nothing all day. I think he’s in the final phase of simply fading away. I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Perhaps I ought to put him in a home after all. If things carry on like this, he’s going to need a drip in order to get any nutrition at all. But if I let him go, his pension will be used to pay for the care home, and I will lose the money.

It sounds crass and terrible, but what do people in my situation do?

Of course I’ll make sure he gets help in the best possible way if it does become necessary, but until then…I’m intending to keep him. And he is company of a kind, in spite of everything. Another person’s eyes, even if they are empty.

He carries my life within him, if you know what I mean. He is my only witness. When he disappears, there will only be me and a few old photo albums to prove that I ever existed.

Tomas, of course. But he rings so rarely.

It was that film that really broke Börje.
They Call Us Mods.
Lena’s in it, you see. It’s only a short scene. Kenta and Stoffe are talking to some friends in the square in Vällingby. One of them is Lena.

She died just a couple of weeks after they’d filmed it. An overdose. Börje had never really accepted what she was up to. When she came home and wanted to sleep and looked completely wrecked,
when she borrowed money. To the very end he refused to believe things were as bad as they actually were.

The film came out about six months after she died, and Börje heard she was in it. I didn’t want to see it, stupid of me perhaps, but he went.

And he saw the world she’d lived in. He took it very badly. He came home shaking his head, and said, ‘My little girl, my little girl…’ It hurt him so much. Perhaps I wasn’t as understanding as I should have been, but I had my hands full trying to stop the same thing happening to Tomas. He was well on his way, and Börje was even more in denial than he had been with Lena. He just didn’t want to see.

So…there are things I should perhaps have done differently. But Tomas made it. He’s a vet now. In Södertälje.

Anyway, let’s move on.

At ten to two the following day I was standing outside the NK department store.

I’d never pinched or picked up anything in there before. Why not? Well, it’s certainly not because NK doesn’t deserve to have things stolen. Quite the reverse, if anything.

No, it’s just a feeling. I always feel a bit insecure in NK. I feel as if I don’t fit in there, as if there’s a kind of warning glow around me. It
could
be to do with the fact that security is tighter there. But it’s probably a question of class, if you understand what I mean. The aroma in NK is different from the one in Åhlén’s. Perhaps it’s the absence of sweat.

I remember an advert for NK a couple of Christmases ago.
This year’s perfect gifts
. One of them was a duck press for twelve thousand. I don’t think it ended up under many Christmas trees in Blackeberg. Do you know what a duck press is? Me neither. But people who shop at NK know.

At two o’clock precisely I was upstairs in the women’s
department and spotted the shop with Armani Collezione on a sign above the entrance. I walked past but didn’t go in. It looked exclusive, to put it mildly. More like a temple than a shop, a sacred space dedicated to style. The security alarms discreetly embedded in black blocks of wood. Two assistants standing with their hands behind their backs, looking both elegant and indifferent. No customers.

I took a stroll past the other franchises as the sweat broke out on my scalp. I have never felt less well dressed, more likely to arouse suspicion. I had no business going into Armani Collezione, and I felt guilty even though I hadn’t done anything, even though it was all a game.

I stood outside Gants, keeping an eye on things. When one of the Armani assistants went out, and then a customer went in a couple of minutes later, I took my chance. Without glancing to either side I walked straight into the holy place and headed for the right-hand fitting room.

It will soon be over, I thought as I pushed open a door so tall it almost reached the ceiling. When I walked into the spartan room I gasped out loud. There was a bag on the floor. A plastic Konsum carrier bag.

This changed everything, of course, as you can imagine. No carton of milk in the Royal Library; this was serious. Like when Palme got shot. You didn’t believe it at first, it just sounded too unlikely. Then you went to Sveavägen and saw all the flowers and candles, caught a glimpse of the blood. Then you understood. Well, I say understood. You
accepted
it. Irrespective of what had happened or what hadn’t happened, you just had to adjust to the situation. Same thing when Lena—

Well.

Of course I couldn’t help looking inside the bag. There was a bundle of clothes in there, neatly folded and piled up. I pressed them down with my hand, felt around and couldn’t find a single security
tag. So all I had to do was pick up the bag and walk out.

My back was sweaty. I took a couple of deep breaths, picked up the bag and walked out of the fitting room. I hadn’t looked at the price tags, but I was still certain that the value of what was in the bag was way over the limit for shoplifting. I had felt that from the quality. With my eyes firmly fixed on the escalators, I walked through the security check. No alarm went off, no one stopped me. I carried on down to the ground floor.

Despite a little sweat and hesitancy, I think I conducted myself pretty well. Routine, as I said. Once you’ve embarked on a task all you have to do is switch off, disconnect the fear and the uncertainty. And besides.

Have I earned this?

Yes. Yes. Although the question was formulated slightly differently:

Have we earned this?

Who ‘we’ were I didn’t know at the time. It was what Majken had said about ‘another member’. I had already begun to form a vague picture of what this was all about.

I was wrong, but we’ll come to that.

When I got outside I stopped for the first time, pretending to look for something along the street while at the same time sneaking a glance at the entrance to see if anyone was following me. I wouldn’t normally have done that, because I’ve got no chance of getting away in any case if someone young and fit is after me. But this time my role was different: in a way I didn’t understand, I was a link in a chain.

No one was following me, and the sweat on my back cooled as I headed for the meeting point at the junction of Regeringsgatan and Hamngatan.

I laughed out loud when I caught sight of the scarf. It was so blue it wasn’t even attractive. And worn with a blue coat, may I add. Brr.
I don’t know, perhaps I’d expected some kind of…style. I have a romantic streak. Otherwise I don’t suppose I’d be sitting here.