The Nightmare (32 page)

“Of course.” Jörgen Grünlicht smiles as he leaves the room.

61

always on his mind

Axel leaves the ISP office at ten o’clock in the morning to work from home. He puts all the paperwork needed into his briefcase. He still feels cold from being so tired, and now he’s hungry as well. He drives to the Grand Hotel and picks up brunch for two people.

Axel carries the food into his kitchen. Beverly is sitting cross-legged on top of the kitchen table, right in the middle, and she’s flipping through the bridal magazine
Amelia Brud & Bröllop
.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I don’t know if I want to wear white when I get married,” Beverly says. “Maybe light rose…”

“I like white,” Axel mumbles.

Axel prepares a tray and then the two of them ascend the stairs to the salon, where a red rococo sofa group is placed next to the large windows. As part of the grouping there’s an eight-sided table from the eighteenth century. It shows how much that era appreciated intarsia; this motif shows a garden with peacocks and a musician, a woman playing the
erhu
.

Axel sets the table with the family china. It is imprinted in silver. He sets matching silver-gray napkins and heavy wineglasses beside the plates. He pours Coca-Cola into Beverly’s glass and mineral water with slices of lime into his own.

Beverly’s childish face has a tiny, chiseled chin above a fragile neck. The entire curve of her head is clear under the fuzz of hair. She drinks the entire glass, then stretches her upper body indolently; a beautiful, innocent movement. Axel thinks that she’ll do it exactly that way when she’s an adult, maybe she’ll stretch that way even as an old lady.

“Tell me more about the music,” she asks him.

“Where were we?” Axel directs the remote toward his music system.

Alexander Malter’s incredibly perceptive interpretation of Arvo Pärt’s
Alina
comes out of the speakers. Axel sets his glass down on the table. The bubbles of the mineral water dance. Axel wishes with all his heart that it were champagne in that glass, champagne to go with this food. He wishes for another heart’s desire—sleeping pills to get through the night.

Axel pours more Coke into Beverly’s glass. She looks at him in thanks. He stares right into her large, dark eyes and doesn’t notice that he’s over-pouring until the Coke starts spreading over the table. The entire Chinese landscape darkens as if its sun is covered by a cloud. The liquid film shimmers over the park with its peacocks.

Axel stands up. He sees Beverly’s reflection in the glass of the windows. The curve of her chin is so strong … and then he makes a sudden blinding connection. He realizes all at once that she resembles Greta.

How could he not have seen this before?

All he wants to do now is run away, run from this room, run from this house. Instead, he forces himself to get a cloth to wipe up the spill until his heart has a chance to slow and return to its normal rhythm.

It’s not as if the two women would ever be confused one for the other, but now he spots one reminder, one trait after the other that they both share.

Axel stops and wipes his mouth. His hand is trembling.

There is not a single day when he does not think of Greta. And every day he does his best to forget.

The day after the competition still haunts him.

It was thirty-four years ago, but in his mind, everything since has been darkened by that event. His life was so new then; he was just seventeen, but all the bright hopes had come to an end.

62

sweet sleep

The Johan Fredrik Berwald Competition was northern Europe’s most prestigious competition for young violinists. Many of the world’s young virtuosi had come to be set directly in this blinding spotlight, but after six rounds before a closed jury, the number had been whittled down to just three. Now it was the final round, and the three violinists left would compete in the concert hall as part of a performance conducted by the legendary Herbert Blomstedt, and the music would be broadcast live on television.

In music circles, it was a sensation that two of the finalists, Axel Riessen and Greta Stiernlood, had both studied at the Royal College of Music in Stockholm. The other finalist was Shiro Sasaki from Japan.

For Alice Riessen, an uncelebrated professional musician, her son Axel’s success was an enormous triumph. Especially now. She’d ignored the warnings from the school’s principal about Axel’s absences from classes, sometimes for an entire day, and that he was growing careless, wasn’t concentrating.

Once Axel and Greta had reached the third round, they were granted permission to devote their time to rehearsal. The competition had brought them together, and, amazingly, each was happy about the other’s success. Lately they’d been meeting at Axel’s house for mutual support.

Axel and his younger brother, Robert, had the run of seven rooms on the top floor of the house in Lärkstaden. As a rule, Axel never practiced per se. Instead, he would find his way into a piece, exploring its undercurrent of sound as if in a new world. He loved to play and sometimes he was up long into the night playing his violin until even his toughened fingertips burned.

There was one day left before Axel and Greta would compete in the concert hall. Axel was sitting on the floor looking at the covers of his LPs spread out in front of his record player. He had three albums by David Bowie:
Space Oddity
,
Aladdin Sane
, and
Hunky Dory
.

His mother knocked on the door and came in with a bottle of Coca-Cola, two glasses with ice, and lemon slices. Axel was surprised to see her, but he thanked her, got up to take the tray, and set it on the coffee table.

“I thought you were practicing,” Alice said as she looked around the room.

“Greta needed to go home and eat.”

“You could still use this time for work.”

“I’m waiting for her to get back.”

“You know that the final is tomorrow,” Alice said as she sat down on the floor next to her son. “I devote myself to practice eight hours a day and sometimes ten.”

“I’m not even awake ten hours a day,” Axel joked.

“Axel, you have the gift.”

“Yes, Mamma.”

“You say yes. But you don’t understand. The gift is not enough. It’s not enough for anyone.”

“Mamma, I practice like crazy,” he lied.

“Play for me,” she requested.

“No,” he said.

“I know you don’t want your mother as a teacher, but let me help you just a little bit now when it really counts,” Alice continued patiently. “The last time I heard you was two years ago at the Christmas concert. No one understood what you’d played.”

“It was Bowie’s ‘Cracked Actor.’”

“A childish selection … but still a very impressive performance for a fifteen-year-old.” She reached out to touch him. “But, see, tomorrow—”

Axel pulled away from his mother’s hand.

“Stop nagging me.”

“Can you at least tell me which piece you’ve chosen?”

“It’s classical.”

“Thank the Lord for that at least.”

Axel shrugged and avoided his mother’s gaze. When the doorbell rang, he raced down the stairs.

Twilight was starting to fall, but the snow reflected indirect light so that darkness could not engulf the house. Greta was at the bottom step, holding her violin case and duffel bag. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, her striped scarf was wound close around her neck against it. Her hair was spread over her shoulders and sparkled from the snowflakes. She set her case on the dresser to hang up her coat and scarf. Then she took off her black boots and pulled out indoor shoes from her duffel bag.

Alice Riessen came down to the bottom of the stairs and held out her hands to her. Alice was exhilarated and her cheeks glowed with happiness.

“It’s good that the two of you are helping each other practice,” she said. “You have to be tough on Axel. Otherwise, he’ll just be lazy,” she scolded gently.

“I’ve noticed that.” Greta laughed.

Greta Stiernlood was the daughter of an industrial giant who had great holdings in Saab-Scania and Enskilda Banken. She’d been raised by her father—her parents had divorced when she was a baby, and her father had erected a barrier against her mother ever since. Very early in her life—perhaps even before she was born—her father had decided she would be a violinist.

After the two of them climbed the stairs to Axel’s music room, Greta went to the grand piano. Her shining hair curled to her shoulders. She was casually dressed in a Scottish plaid kilt, white blouse, dark blue cardigan, and striped socks.

She unpacked her violin, fastened the chin rest, wiped the rosin from the strings with a cotton cloth, tightened the bow, applied new rosin to it, set her music on the stand, and carefully tuned the instrument after its journey through the cold night.

Then she started to play. She played as she always did, with her eyes half shut as if concentrating on something inside herself. Her long eyelashes cast shadows over her serious face. Axel knew the piece well: the first movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major—a serious, searching theme.

He smiled as he listened. He respected Greta’s wonderful sense of music and the honesty in her interpretation.

“Nice,” he said as she finished.

Greta changed the music and stretched her fingers.

“But I still can’t decide … You know, Pappa wants me to play the Tartini Violin Sonata in G Minor. But I’m not so sure…”

She was silent, looking at the music, reading it, counting, and going over her memorization of the complicated legato.

“Can I hear it?” Axel asked.

“It sounds terrible,” she said, blushing a little.

She played the last movement. Her face was tense, beautiful, and sad, but at the end, she lost the tempo just as the violin’s highest notes were supposed to rise like a catching fire.

“Damn,” she whispered, resting the violin under her arm. “I slowed down. I’ve been working like a beast but I have to give more to the sixteenths and the triplets, which—”

“Though I liked the swing, as if you were bending a large mirror toward—”

“I didn’t play it correctly,” she said, and blushed even deeper. “I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to be nice, but it won’t work. I have to play properly. It’s crazy that on the night before the performance I’m still not able to make up my mind. Should I take the easy way out or put all my effort into the difficult piece?”

“You know both of them well, so—”

“No, I don’t. It would be a big risk,” she said. “Perhaps, though … I’d need a few hours, maybe three hours, and then I might risk the Tartini tomorrow.”

“You shouldn’t do it just because your father thinks—”

“But he’s right.”

“No, he’s not,” Axel said. He began to roll a joint.

“I know the easy piece well,” she said. “But it might not be on a high enough level. It all depends on what you and Shiro Sasaki pick.”

“You shouldn’t think like that.”

“How am I supposed to think? You’ve never let me see you practice even once. What are you planning to play—have you even picked out a piece?”

“The Ravel,” he answered.

“The Ravel? Without even practicing?”

She laughed out loud.

“No, seriously, which piece?” she asked.

“Ravel’s
Tzigane
—and that’s the truth.”

“I’m sorry, Axel, but that’s a crazy choice. You know that yourself. It’s too complicated, too quick, too reckless, and—”

“I’m going to play like Perlman, but without being in a hurry … because the piece shouldn’t be rushed.”

“Axel, it’s supposed to be allegro,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, for the hare that’s being chased … but for the wolf, it should go a bit more slowly.”

She gave him an exhausted look.

“Where did you read that?”

“Attribution”—he waved the joint—“Paganini.”

“Well, then, I only have to worry about our Japanese competitor,” she said as she tucked the violin back underneath her chin. “Since you never practice, you’ll never be able to play the
Tzigane.
”

“It’s not as hard as people say,” he replied as he lit the joint.

“No, indeed.” She smiled as she started to play again.

After a while, she stopped and looked levelly at Axel.

“You’re really going to play the Ravel?”

“Yep.”

She was serious. “Have you lied to me and been practicing all this time? Maybe for four years? And not even telling me? Or what?”

“I decided this minute—the minute you asked.”

She laughed. “How can you be such an idiot?”

“I don’t care if I come in last,” he said as he stretched out on the sofa.

“I care,” she said simply.

“I know, but there’ll be other chances.”

“Not for me.”

She started to play the Tartini. It was better, but she stopped. She repeated the complicated passage again and then once more.

Axel clapped his hands and then he put David Bowie’s
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars
on the record player. He put the needle over the LP and as the music started, he lay down, closed his eyes, and began to sing along:

Ziggy really sang, screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo.

Like some cat from Japan, he could lick ’em by smiling.

He could leave ’em to hang.

Greta hesitated, put down her violin, walked over to him, and took the joint from his hand. She took a toke, another one, coughed, and handed it back.

“How can anyone be as dumb as you?” she asked as she touched his lips.

She bent over and wanted to kiss him on the lips, but her aim was off and she touched his cheek instead. She whispered “Sorry” and then kissed him again. They kept their lips together, searching and seeking. He drew off her cardigan and her hair sparked from static electricity. He received a little charge when he touched her cheek and snatched his hand back. They smiled nervously at each other and then they kissed again. He unbuttoned her white, stiffly ironed blouse and felt her tiny breasts through her simple bra. She helped him take off his T-shirt. Her long, lustrous hair smelled like the fresh air of snow and winter, but her body was as warm as newly baked bread.