Some Kind of Peace (38 page)

“Well, I’ll see my dad and work a bit. Write dutifully in the food diary. And then I’m actually going on a date.”

“On a date, how nice.”

“Hmm. Don’t know if I’ve told you this, but I met a guy at that watercolor class I took at the Folk University. You know, on Götgatsbacken. We’ve gone out a few times, I assume it’s too soon to say anything yet… but it feels good.”

Suddenly, I am struck by an inexplicable concern. My stomach knots up and I move my gaze from the crowd on Medborgarplatsen to Charlotte’s calm, well-groomed figure. She looks perplexed and I realize she can sense my concern.

We say good-bye. It is always sad when patients finish. Sometimes it’s as if I forget why they are really here, that they are paying for my time, for my services. That they actually don’t just want to see me.

“Take care of yourself,” says Charlotte, giving me a light hug; it is as if she embraces me without touching me. An ethereal being through and through.

“And listen”—she tilts her head to one side—“good luck with that… person who’s following you.”

She looks at me for a long time.

“Uh, they’ll probably arrest him soon,” I say, because I don’t want her to worry.

A smile flashes on Charlotte’s face but disappears as quickly as it came and is replaced by a curl at the corner of her mouth that makes her look a little… condescending. As if she feels sorry for me and despises me at the same time. She opens her mouth, hesitates, and then says something that surprises me.

“And how do you know it’s a he?”

She says this in a light, gentle tone, making it sound as if she is commenting
on a new car or rattling off the ingredients for a recipe. There is absolutely nothing charged in her tone of voice, and nevertheless my hair stands on end. She turns and quickly leaves the room.

It is the day before Christmas Eve. For a week now, the temperature has been well below freezing and has transformed Götgatspuckeln into a gigantic glistening tongue of ice that pedestrians must move across with careful, tentative steps. A light snowfall buries the city under a dangerously beautiful, temporary white carpet that dampens all sounds. My collar catches the snowflakes, and as my body heat transforms them into droplets of water, the moisture makes its way farther toward my neck and down between my shoulder blades in small rivulets. My hands have turned into two stiff, unmoving clumps that I constantly have to massage to keep them from going numb. It is the price I pay for my own stinginess; paying hundreds of kronor for new gloves when I already have several pairs back at the house does not seem reasonable.

In the stores, Christmas shopping is at its peak. Expensive goods change hands while I silently pass outside the display windows. At the lamp store, blinking multicolor Christmas lighting shares the space with bright elves who bow in time to some inaudible Christmas song. And everywhere, there is resolute expectation in the eyes of everyone I encounter. They do not radiate joy or excitement but rather a kind of strained decisiveness as they move purposefully between the stores, forming small lines and sometimes large streams. Streams of consumers, I think.

Inside the café, a damp warmth strikes me. She is already waiting for me at the table in the back, by the window. Her cheeks are glowing red and I take a deep breath in her golden-yellow hair when we embrace. It smells of honey. Aina takes hold of my frozen hands and looks at me in mock horror.

“You’re ice-cold! Don’t you have any mittens?”

I shake my head and smile, as if mittens were a worldly problem that does not directly concern me.

We’ve met to exchange Christmas presents, a tradition we have kept up for years. It’s never anything expensive, just small but thoughtful presents: a book, a CD that carries a certain meaning, or maybe a concert ticket.

Aina twirls her honey-hair and hands me a small, hard package wrapped in what looks like green tinfoil. I accept it in silence. The package cannot be opened until tomorrow—that is our agreement. At exactly ten o’clock in the evening, we call each other and politely say thank you for the gift, whatever it may be.

I hand her my present. It, too, is a hard package wrapped in colorful gift paper and a lilac ribbon. Aina looks delighted as she takes it. Her sweater has slipped down over one shoulder, revealing a red bra strap. She laughs out loud when she sees my critical look.

“Don’t be such a prude, Siri. Maybe you need something a little revealing, too.”

I don’t know if it’s the heat inside the café or her comment, or perhaps just that I cannot digest the fact that Sven and Aina had an affair, but suddenly I feel my face getting hot. I get up and free myself from the wet weight of my coat before I sink down again on the chair.

“So how’s it going with Mr. Policeman?”

I answer truthfully that it’s just fine, thanks, but that there are certain details in our relationship I have a hard time accepting.

“I’m not comfortable with the role I’m stuck in. He’s the strong one and I’m the weak one; he’s the hero and I’m the victim. Whenever we get together, it ends with me starting to cry for one reason or other. And he consoles me, of course. And then I get angry with him, even though it’s not his fault. It’s so”—I search for the right word—“
banal
, you see? That’s not me,
you
know that, don’t you? Besides”—I hesitate—“sometimes I think he… takes me for granted. I mean, I don’t even know if I want to be with anyone. But he, he seems to think we’re a—”

“A what?”

“A… couple.” I purse my lips and my voice gets small as I say the dangerous words. I almost don’t want to say it.

Aina shrugs. “Do you know what I think?”

She licks the sugar residue from the giant pastry she had just eaten off her fingers.

“Sure, spread your wisdom…”

She doesn’t look at me directly, doesn’t pick up on my sarcasm, but I decide not to make a scene. Not this time, too. I already succeeded in ruining my last date with Markus before Christmas.

“I think that you never, I mean
never
, would have been interested in him if he wasn’t a policeman and you a victim. I mean, good Lord, how old is he? Does he even have an education?”

“What a damn snob you are. Does that even matter?”

“Siri, I don’t think you get it. I only want what’s best for you. But you’re so… fragile. People can exploit you.”

Damn Aina. Damn Aina and her well-intentioned, condescending interpretations of reality. Of my life. I look at her sitting there with her eyes wide open and a worried expression. She senses my indignation and tries to lighten the mood.

“Oh, if you want to have fun… I mean, I won’t prevent you. Go ahead and see inspector… baton. Inspector Orgasm.”

Aina grins.

I can’t help it. Suddenly I have a giggle attack that just won’t end. We double over with laughter.

•  •  •

Our good-bye hug is warm and long. Once again, I take in the sweet honey aroma of her hair. I get sugar crystals on my cheek. Her hands are strong and warm as she grasps me around the shoulders and looks me deep in the eyes.

“So we’ll talk tomorrow at ten. Promise that you’ll come over if you’re bored. You’re welcome anytime, you know that. I don’t get why you want to celebrate Christmas Eve in a studio on Kungsholmen.”

This last sentence she says in a mumble, almost inaudibly. I watch her as she disappears down Götgatsbacken in the twilight. She alternately jumps and jogs off into the darkness, a grown-up Pippi Longstocking in a red bra.

The last thing I see is her bright red scarf and red mittens that are eventually also swallowed up by the darkness. It’s time to go home now. Soon it will be dark.

Much too dark.

Markus’s phone call comes right before midnight. I am lying in bed, reading. Every corner of the apartment is lit up and the flashlight on my nightstand is surrounded by empty wineglasses.

“We’ve arrested him. It’s over, Siri.”

“What?” is all I can get out.

“They brought in Peter Carlsson today. Do you know what they found on his coffee table?”

“What are you talking about? The police arrested Peter?”

It’s as if my thoughts are on fast-forward. I have a hard time understanding what Markus is trying to tell me. Slowly I manage to put the words together. Formulate a sentence. The police have arrested Peter.

“The photo, the photo of Sara Matteus. You know, the one you found with Marianne? It was at Peter’s, or more precisely, a similar one was on his coffee table.”

“What photo?”

“Siri, the photo of Sara on the rock. You know, when she was topless.”

The photo of Sara. I think of her eyes in that picture. Her vulnerability. Anger boils inside me. Anger and sorrow over Sara’s death.

“Do you know for sure that it’s him?”

Markus sounds calm and reassuring when he answers. “Why else would he have the photo?”

“I don’t know. What has he said?”

“He claims he doesn’t know how it got there, that it wasn’t there in the morning. Does he really think we’ll believe him? There were more things, too. They found a book about how to stuff animals up on his bookshelf. A little hard to explain, that. And a lot of links to sick websites about serial killers and torture on his computer. Besides, he has a prior record, for possession, five years ago.”

“Narcotics possession? But what does that have to do with this?”

“Listen, Siri, I’ve seen this so many times before. It all begins with finding one thing that doesn’t add up. A white lie, a note on his criminal record. Then you start to unravel and it never ends. Besides, he fell apart immediately, he said that he was a bad person and a bunch of other crap.”

“What exactly did he say?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there, of course. I was… taken off the case. This is what I heard. I thought you’d want to know right away. Thought you would have a more peaceful Christmas.”

I still don’t fully understand everything Markus is saying. Images of Sara, curled up in my chair with a cigarette in her hand, come to me. But there’s also the image of a shapeless stranger who is chasing me. Observing me. Who wishes me harm. An image that suddenly has a face: Peter Carlsson. I am not prepared for my own reaction. Don’t understand at first what is happening. I have a hard time getting air. I take a deep breath. Then comes a sound. I know that it is coming from me, but I can’t seem to do anything to stop it. It starts as a muffled moan and then turns into loud sobbing. It is as if I am watching myself from outside. I see the weeping, hear the loud sniffling. But I feel nothing at first. Then an almost unfamiliar feeling spreads inside me.

It is relief.

I have made a decision: I will celebrate Christmas in my own house. The logic is simple. Peter Carlsson is sitting in a cell somewhere and no one requires my presence today.

My gloveless, frozen fingers suffer under the weight of the grocery bag I am carrying along Munkbron toward Slussen and the Värmdö buses. The low morning sun paints Stockholm in a light golden shimmer and the snow crunches under my boots. It is cold today, really cold. This morning, the thermometer outside my kitchen showed five degrees.

Bus 438 is full to the brim of families with children and grandparents celebrating Christmas. Bags full of gifts are crammed into every conceivable corner, bags that will be taken home in a few hours, full of crap that no one really needs. In my bag, there is only one gift; flashing green, it rests like a jewel on top of a hunk of cheese and a pack of crackers.