Some Kind of Peace (6 page)

“Siri,
forget
Jenny now.”

But I was no longer listening.

Carefully he helped me up off the couch and led me into the kitchen, as if I were a child.

“Siri, I need help with the potatoes.”

I looked at him without understanding, unable to speak.

“Here.” He placed the potato peeler in my hand and poured what must have been several pounds of potatoes into the sink. Slowly, almost mechanically, I started peeling potatoes. At least an hour went by, and by the time I had peeled the last one, I had actually collected myself enough so that we could talk about something other than Jenny’s death.

Yet another one of Stefan’s talents: meeting me halfway and healing me without words. While I was convinced that everything could be figured out, sorted, and resolved in conversation. Sometimes I felt that was all I did, talk and talk—at the practice, with my friends, and with Stefan.

“People are what they do,” Stefan would always say. “Actions make us who we are.” So, who did that make me?

It started as a way to pass the time
.

Time: I had an ocean of it now, so why not investigate what she did when she wasn’t working? I already knew what she did during the day, of course
.

More and more often I made my way to the bars around Medborgarplatsen where I assumed she would hang out sometimes after work. I had no plan, didn’t know what I would do if I saw her. It was more like a compulsion, an implacable need to see her
.

An itch
.

Then suddenly one day she was standing right in front of where I was sitting in the sun on the stairs to Forsgrénska, smoking. That is, she was standing ten yards away, looking aimlessly out over the square. I was struck by how ugly she was. Small and bony with very short brown hair. As far as I could see, she had no makeup on at all and expectantly observed the crowd with gray, expressionless, dead eyes. Her mouth was pinched, which made it look like a little pink grub. Her arms and legs were skinny and tan, with chapped, bony kneecaps and elbows. Her attire was that of the typical Södermalm intellectual: short, formless khaki skirt, flat sandals, black, loose-fitting cotton blouse (I couldn’t even see a hint of breasts), and a scarf wrapped loosely several times around her neck. On her wrist she wore a bracelet with colorful beads, which made her look incredibly childish. Like the innocent preschool teacher she TRULY wasn’t. I put out the cigarette in the palm of my hand and welcomed the sharp pain because it kept my other emotions in check
.

It’s an unusually lovely evening, even if there is a chill in the air that announces that autumn is inexorably approaching. The outdoor cafés on Medborgarplatsen are full. It is as if everyone knows that summer will soon be over and they want to take hold of the evening and sit outside awhile longer. Over the square, a lone seagull hovers in search of food scraps.

Aina and I walk through Södermalm. We pass Björn’s Park, where a couple of teenagers entertain themselves on the skateboard ramp while the regulars drink out of unidentifiable bottles and serve as an enthusiastic audience. We go farther up toward Mosebacke Square and in through the gates to Mosebacke Etablissement.

It looks like there aren’t any available tables outdoors at the café. A mixture of young locals, Japanese tourists, and older couples are squeezed in at every seat.

Aina peers into the crowd. “Look over there. We’re in luck!”

Our colleague, Sven Widelius, is sitting at one of the tables with a cold beer and a newspaper. His wavy, graying hair falls like a curtain over his furrowed, tan forehead. If I didn’t know him, I would probably think he was an attractive man. Even though he’s twenty years older than I am.

There is something about the way he brushes his hair out of his face, something about his bony, well-defined cheekbones, his heavy eyelids, and the intensity of his gray eyes. Something about the way he fills a room with his presence and his nervous energy; he is constantly in motion. And he is physical: brushing my shoulder as he walks by, pressing my hand as he looks at me, giving me all his attention. And then his laugh. Not always nice—often cynical, teasing. Sometimes I feel insecure when he looks at me; he makes me feel younger, and naked.

Ignorant.

That’s what his gaze is like. And he takes his time. Lets his gray eyes rest on me without shame or hesitation. As if we had a secret pact.

He and I.

Aina and I move through the sea of tables and chairs, squeeze between a group of heavy-set women with Finnish accents, and step over an enormous black dog before we finally reach Sven, who looks up and cocks his head to one side.

“Ah, my young female colleagues,” he says, not without irony. “You want to keep me company? Is it me or the table you’re after?”

“Stop sulking, Sven!” says Aina. “We’ll treat you to a beer.”

“That’s no good,” Sven answers. “I’m waiting for Birgitta.”

Birgitta Börjesdotter Widelius is Sven’s wife. She’s a stocky woman with salt-and-pepper hair and sensual features who for many years has been a professor of gender studies at Uppsala University. Both Aina and I are impressed by Birgitta. Her academic career is without compare, her research significant, and her personality strong.

But, as impressed as we are by Birgitta, we are equally mystified by her relationship with Sven. He is charismatic and attractive, and aware of it. He is a charmer, and possibly also a seducer. Malicious rumors claim that his academic career was cut short due to an affair with a doctoral student, perhaps even with an undergraduate. It is hardly a secret anymore that he was unfaithful—even Birgitta must know by now. But despite all that, they’re still together. And if there are cracks in their relationship, they aren’t visible to the outside world. Birgitta doesn’t appear to be the type to go for public demonstrations of affection anyway. She is a private person, bordering on secretive, as Aina always says. She is more than happy to talk about her work but not about her personal life. And who can blame her? Being married to Sven can’t be easy.

“May we sit with you?” I ask politely.

“Be my guests,” Sven replies, once again running his hand through his hair. “We’re only meeting here, we’re going to a concert at Katarina Church,” he continues, slapping the seat beside him with the palm of his hand in a welcoming gesture.

Aina fights her way to the bar, pushing to get past an old couple and a long-haired guy with dreadlocks carrying a baby on his hip, wrapped in a kind of hand-woven shawl. Sven and I stay at the table and take in the scene.

We fall silent, look at each other, and start laughing. Embarrassed.

“If we met more often outside the office, maybe it wouldn’t be so awkward.”

Sven looks at me and smiles again, and for a moment it feels as if I’m on a roller-coaster ride. He is looking right into me. He sees my loneliness, I’m sure.

“Maybe we could get together, Siri, just the two of us?”

The roller-coaster ride is over and I feel anger rising, even if it’s hard to tell whether or not Sven is being serious. However that may be, I don’t need to have this conversation with a colleague, who is married to boot.

“Sven,
knock it off
,” I say curtly.

Sven’s laugh is loud and ringing, and it rolls out over the café, making me even more uncomfortable.

“If it wouldn’t make me come off like an uneducated, male chauvinist pig, I would say that you need a man, Siri. Do you intend to live like a—”

I cut him off. “Here comes Birgitta. And by the way, Sven, maybe I do need a man, but not a married colleague who is twenty years older than me. Surely there are other, more suitable candidates…”

I smile at one of the guys at the next table.

But Sven no longer notices me and my move goes right over his head. As he gets up and hugs Birgitta, I am astonished at his ability to switch between various situations as if there were no overlap.

Everything in a separate compartment.

Birgitta greets me and Aina, who has returned with two glasses of wine. We chat for a while about an article that Aina has read, and then Sven and Birgitta wander off in the summer night, side by side.

Aina can tell immediately that I am annoyed.

“I see that our colleague has tried to seduce you again.”

“It’s nothing,” I answer. “It’s just…”

I pause. Usually, Sven is okay. He is easy to share a practice space with. He always pays his portion of the expenses and does so on time. He is knowledgeable and has a lot of experience that he is more than happy to share. He has helped me often with my patients when I felt I wasn’t getting anywhere. But sometimes he crosses the line. And although I ought
to be able to handle his flirting, it makes me uncomfortable. But maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a prudish, dried-up woman who desperately needs a man. But I don’t think so. What I actually need is to learn not to take everything so seriously.

This is why I say, “Forget it.”

Instead, I sip my wine and listen to the latest chapter in Aina’s ongoing conflict with her mother. What the disagreement is really about has long been forgotten. It has a life of its own, and neither of them seems able or willing to resolve it.

I have a hard time concentrating on Aina’s story. My thoughts are constantly sliding back to my conversation with Sara Matteus earlier that day. Something bothers me more than I can explain.

Aina notices my lack of engagement, but instead of being offended she confronts me: “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Yes, but not here.”

An outdoor café is hardly the right place to discuss confidential matters. So we empty our wineglasses, leave our table, and walk aimlessly through the streets around Katarina Church as the summer sky darkens above the buildings and the air fills with the odors of the night: an indefinite, damp-saturated stench from rotting plants, the smell of frying from the crêperie around the corner, and the cigarette smoke from the customers at sidewalk cafés. And everywhere we are surrounded by that strange murmur, the buzzing sound produced collectively by the city’s many inhabitants. In the distance I hear Arabic music and the sighing, far-off sound of the traffic on Folkungagatan.

“It’s Sara Matteus,” I begin. “Something worries me. She’s met someone. A guy.”

Aina interrupts me with a short, bubbling laugh.

“Sara Matteus met a guy and you’re
worried
. Come on, hasn’t she met guys before? What is it about this one that makes you nervous?”

Aina’s teasing helps direct my train of thought.

“It’s the man himself, I think. He is, according to Sara, older, established, settled. He gives her presents. And has already started talking about moving in together. What does he want with Sara? Why would an
older man with money want to be with a twenty-five-year-old girl who so obviously has problems, if he doesn’t—”

“If he doesn’t want to
exploit
her,” Anna fills in. “What does Sara herself say?”

“Oh, the usual. That it’s different this time. That he
sees
her, that this is
for real
. Which also frightens me. Because it makes her vulnerable. And if she gets hurt, that increases the risk of a relapse. She has almost stopped cutting herself, she’s much more stable than she was before. But if something happens… I’m truly afraid that she’ll…”

I pause.

Aina looks expectantly at me.

“If something happens,
then what
, Siri? She has to live her life, and you know that. And you have to stop viewing Sara simply as a victim.”

“But she
is
a victim. She is a victim of a school that could not understand, of poorly functioning child psychiatry, and of social services that couldn’t help her or her family.”

Aina pats my arm almost tenderly.

“Of course, Sara is partially a victim, but you know that she has resources, too. Come on, she’s a smart girl. Sure, she has had some tough experiences, but she’s moved on and she’s done it with her own strength. How many people do you know who have stopped using drugs on their own? Just as an example. And now she’s met a guy who
you
intuitively think is bad for her. If he really is, then Sara herself will be able to break up with him, with or without your help. And Sara must be able to continue to have her own experiences. Should she never again risk being hurt? Never again feel pain? Then she probably has to live the rest of her life away from other people.”