Red Wolf: A Novel (12 page)

‘That makes a lot of sense,’ she said. ‘Can I note that down?’

He gave a short nod, looking round for Cramne, then turned his attention to his beer.

‘Something else I was thinking,’ Sophia went on, as she wrote in her notebook. ‘What do you think of doing a more general survey? An opinion poll to find
out what people think about violence to politicians?’

He looked at her, aware that he hadn’t been listening.

She put her pen and notebook in her bag.

‘I mean,’ she said, ‘what values do we apply to attempts to silence politicians? Shouldn’t we find out?’

Thomas frowned, hiding his enthusiasm.

‘You mean what people think about threats to politicians?’

‘Yes,’ she said, leaning forwards, ‘and at the same time see how we can change those opinions by an awareness campaign.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Maybe we could get some support in the press,’ he said. ‘Get a debate going, influence people’s opinions the old-fashioned way.’

‘Yes!’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘Get the PR department involved, speed up press releases.’

‘A series of articles about our new heroes,’ Thomas said, seeing the headline in his mind. ‘The local politician battling right-wing extremists and anarchists in his small town.’

‘But without exaggerating the threat and scaring off the people starting out in politics,’ Sophia said.

‘Are you the ones having the meeting about democracy?’ the young waiter said as he put the glass of beer down on Thomas’s papers.

Quick as a flash Thomas lifted the glass, but he was too slow to stop a ring of bubbles soaking into the proposal for clearer guidelines.

‘Cramne rang,’ the waiter continued. ‘He asked me to tell you he can’t make it tonight. That’ll be thirty-two kronor.’

He stood there expectantly, waiting to be paid for the beer.

Thomas felt himself getting angry for several reasons
at once, bubbling over like the head on the beer that was dripping onto his hands and trousers.

‘What the fuck?’ he said. ‘What is this?’

Sophia Grenborg straightened up and leaned towards the waiter.

‘Did Cramne say why?’

The young man shrugged, shifting impatiently as he waited to be paid. ‘Just that he couldn’t make it, and that I should tell you. And he said you were welcome to go down and eat, and he’ll pay the bill next time he comes in.’

Thomas and Sophia looked at each other.

‘Cramne lives upstairs,’ the waiter said, pointing with his pen. ‘Fifth floor. He’s in here all the time. We have a table reserved in the restaurant, down the narrow staircase behind the toilets.’

Thomas took out exactly thirty-two kronor from his wallet, then put it and all his papers back in his briefcase.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ he said, getting ready to stand up.

The waiter disappeared.

‘We could go through what this sort of survey might look like,’ Sophia said. ‘Seeing as we’re already here. And see if we could simplify the advice about threats. That’s the most important thing, after all. That politicians feel more secure in their posts, and know how to deal with threats and violence.’

‘I cancelled my tennis for this,’ Thomas heard himself say, sounding like a disappointed child.

‘And I cancelled my salsa class. We could at least let the government pay for dinner to make up for it.’

He relaxed and smiled back at her.

Anne Snapphane was breathing hard in the stairwell, looking up at its curved shape, slowly calmed by the gentle curves of the wall. It was so far to the second floor, and she felt unsteady.

She stopped on the next landing, peering out through the tinted glass at the courtyard. There was a light in Annika’s old window in the little house down there. So picturesque, and so cramped. She couldn’t put up with living in the city again, she realized, just as she realized that this hangover really wasn’t any fun.

The doors of Annika’s apartment were tall as church-doors, heavy as stone. She knocked cautiously, conscious that the children would only just have gone to bed.

‘Come in,’ Annika said quietly, backing into the hall. ‘I’ve just got to say goodnight to Kalle, then I’ll be with you.’

Anne sank onto the bench in the hall and pulled the too-tight shoes off her feet. She could hear Annika laugh and the boy giggle, and sat there with her outdoor clothes on until her forehead began to itch under her hat. Then she went into the living room with all the ornate plaster detailing, slumped onto the sofa and leaned her head back.

‘Do you want coffee?’ Annika said as she came into the room with a plate of macaroons.

The thought was enough to make Anne’s stomach churn.

‘Have you got any wine?’

Annika put the plate down.

‘Thomas has,’ she said, ‘but he’s so fussy about it. Don’t take any of the fancy stuff, it’s . . .’ She gestured towards the glass cabinet.

All of a sudden it was easy to stand up. Anne’s feet scarcely touched the floor as she glided towards the wine-rack. She turned the bottles, read the labels.

‘Villa Puccini,’ she said. ‘That costs eighty-two kronor a bottle and is completely wonderful. Can we have that?’

‘Why not?’ Annika said from the hall.

With a practised hand Anne soon had the foil off and pulled the cork out so hard that she splashed her top. Her hands trembled slightly as she took a crystal glass from the shelf below and poured out the dark-red liquid. The taste was divine; full-bodied and round and healthy all at the same time. She took several large gulps, filled the glass again, then stood the bottle back in the cupboard. Then she settled into a corner of the sofa, pulling out a table for her glass. Suddenly life seemed much simpler.

Annika walked into the living room, breathing out. Once the children were in bed it always felt as though a huge weight had lifted. She no longer had to rush around like a mad thing, but slowing down meant that everything caught up with her. Her thoughts came back, and she started to feel empty again. The apartment became a desert to wander aimlessly around, a stuccoed and ornately panelled prison.

She sank into the other corner of the sofa, her body
light and her head empty, and became aware that she was cold. She pulled her knees up, forming a tight ball, and looked at her friend. She could see that Anne was a bundle of nerves, from her drawn features, and the fevered search for something that could put the world in its place again. She knew that Anne wouldn’t find it. In contrast, Annika had learned the trick of abstaining, of shutting off, of waiting for things to balance out again.

Anne was working her way through Thomas’s wine in deep gulps.

‘I can understand your frustration,’ she said, glancing at Annika as she put her glass down. ‘Even I don’t remember Paula from Pop Factory.’

Annika pointed at the biscuits, pushed a few stray crumbs around with her finger, wondering if she could manage a bite. She gave up, leaned back into the sofa and closed her eyes.

‘I have to choose my battles,’ she said, ‘otherwise I run out of energy. Going and making a fuss in front of Schyman would be shooting myself in the foot. No thanks, not this time.’

‘Trust me, you really wouldn’t want my job,’ Anne said. ‘I can promise you that much.’

They sat listening to the background sounds for a moment. Through the noise of the number three bus on the street below dark shadows crept across the corners, rising and falling.

‘I just need to check the news,’ Annika said, reaching for the remote. The shadows withdrew with a hiss.

The television flickered into life, and Anne stiffened.

‘Mehmet’s new monogamous fuck is a news editor there,’ she said.

Annika nodded without taking her eyes from the screen. ‘So you said,’ she said. ‘Hang on a moment.’

She turned up the volume. Over the beat of the
theme-music the newsreader read out the headlines in verbless soundbites: ‘Suspected murder of a journalist in Luleå; four thousand laid off at Ericsson; new library proposals from the Ministry of Culture. Good evening, but first the Middle East, where a suicide bomber has this evening killed nine young people outside a café in Tel Aviv . . . ’

Annika lowered the volume to a murmur.

‘Do you think it’s serious, then, Mehmet and this one?’

Anne took a gulp of wine, swallowing audibly.

‘She’s started picking Miranda up from nursery,’ she said, her voice flat and peculiar.

Annika thought for a moment, trying to imagine how that would feel.

‘I couldn’t handle that,’ she said, ‘another woman looking after my children.’

Anne pulled a face. ‘I haven’t got much choice, have I?’

‘Do you want more children?’

Annika heard the loaded subtext of her question, as if she had been working up to asking it. Anne looked up in surprise, and shook her head.

‘I want to be an individual,’ she said. ‘Not a function.’

Annika raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s the whole point,’ she said. ‘Becoming part of something bigger, something more important. Voluntarily giving up your freedom for someone else; that never happens anywhere else in our culture.’

‘I’ve never thought of it like that,’ Anne said, taking another drink. ‘But when you put it like that, that was one of the reasons why I didn’t want to live with Mehmet. Being alone with my thoughts is vital; otherwise I’d go mad again.’

Annika knew that Anne thought she had never understood the way she and her husband had lived, had never seen how well it worked until it suddenly collapsed.

‘But being an egotist doesn’t necessarily make you any truer to yourself,’ Annika said, then realized how harsh her words sounded. ‘I mean, we have to deal with any number of things every day. Not just kids, but jobs, sports, anything. How many people get to go around being individuals in their jobs? How much could I be Annika Bengtzon if I was in the national ice-hockey team?’

‘I knew there was a reason why I hate sports journalists,’ Anne muttered.

‘But seriously,’ Annika said, leaning forward, ‘being part of a context is vital, having a function that’s bigger than us individually. Why else would people be attracted to sects and other groups of nutters if there wasn’t something really appealing about it?’

‘I don’t like sects either,’ Anne said, taking another gulp of wine.

An image of Svartöstaden filled the screen behind the newsreader, and Annika turned the sound up again.

‘Police have confirmed that the death of journalist Benny Ekland is being treated as suspected murder, and that he was killed by a stolen Volvo V70.’

‘They haven’t come up with anything new,’ Annika said, lowering the volume again.

‘He was murdered by a Volvo?’ Anne asked, putting her hands down again.

‘Didn’t you read my article?’

Anne smiled briefly in apology.

‘Do you want some water?’

‘No, I’d like some more wine,’ Anne called after her.

The passageway to the kitchen was dark and full of
silent sound. In the kitchen the subdued lighting of the extraction unit looked like a campfire from a distance. The water sloshed in the dishwasher, sending cascades up against its stainless-steel walls.

She poured two large glasses of water, even though Anne didn’t want any.

When she came back her friend was still sitting in the sofa with her empty wineglass in her hand. The alcohol had made her face relax. Her eyes were drawn to the silent television, and Annika followed her gaze and suddenly saw the broad, dark figure of the Minister of Culture fill the screen. She turned up the sound.

‘From July first, every council district will be obliged to have at least one public library,’ Karina Björnlund, the Minister of Culture, announced, her gaze fluttering about. ‘This new libraries law is a great step towards equality.’

She nodded emphatically on the screen, and the unseen reporter was evidently expecting her to go on. Karina Björnlund cleared her throat, leaned towards the microphone and said: ‘For knowledge. Equality. Potential. For knowledge.’

The reporter withdrew the microphone with his gloved hand and asked, ‘Doesn’t this initiative tread on the toes of local accountability?’

The microphone came back in a shot, as Karina Björnlund bit her lip.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is an issue that has been debated over many years, but we are proposing new state subsidies of twenty-five million kronor for the purchase of books for public and school libraries.’

‘God, she’s mad, isn’t she?’ Annika said, turning the volume down again.

Anne raised her eyebrows, seemingly unconcerned. ‘I don’t understand why you’re so against it,’ she said.
‘That proposal she’s talking about is what’s making my TV channel possible.’

‘She should never have been made a minister,’ Annika said. ‘Something went wrong after the whole Studio Six business. She was only the Trade Minister’s press secretary back then – Christer Lundgren, you remember him . . . ?’

Anne frowned, thinking hard.

‘And she didn’t make a very good press secretary either, and then she gets to be Minister of Culture after the election.’

‘Aah,’ Anne said, ‘Christer Lundgren, the minister everyone thought killed that stripper.’

‘Josefin Liljeberg, exactly. Even though he didn’t do it.’

They sat in silence again, watching Karina Björnlund talk soundlessly. Annika had an idea of why the press secretary had become a minister, and suspected that she herself, entirely innocently, had been a contributing factor to her appointment.

‘Do you mind if I turn it off?’ she asked.

Anne shrugged. Annika considered getting up and fetching something else, anything else, to eat or drink or look at, something to consume, but she stopped herself, gathered her thoughts, allowed the grey anxiety to wash over her, and hopefully go away.

‘I got a load of really sensitive information from a policeman in Luleå today,’ she said. ‘About a bloke from the Torne Valley who probably blew up that plane at F21 and went on to become an international terrorist. What would make anyone leak that after thirty years?’

Anne let the words sink in.

‘Depends on what the policeman said,’ she replied. ‘I don’t suppose he was stupid, so there’s a reason behind the leak. What do you think he was after?’