Vanished (20 page)

He got up quickly, pulled out a loose-leaf binder and looked up the Social Services personnel budget; the numbers danced in front of his eyes. Irritably he closed the book and went over to the window. The picturesque signs on the shops below taunted him: At The Seashore, the Vaxholm Tea & Spices Boutique.

He should go home. Eleonor would have dinner ready.

The traffic bound for Stockholm was considerably thinner than the steady stream of cars coming from the city. Through the windshield, Annika stared at the dismal suburban sprawl that closed in around the car. As soon as she had left downtown Vaxholm, the picturesque buildings had given way to anonymous high-rise apartment blocks.
This could be anywhere, like Flen
, she thought. A sign on the left told her it was Fredriksberg, Aida’s old neighbourhood. She slowed down, wondering if she should check out Aida’s address and then deciding not to.

A traffic advisory announcement came on the radio: the roads would be slippery due to freezing rain.

Well, at least I’m alive
, she thought.
I get to be around for a while longer.

Annika tried to look at the sky but the clouds were extremely thick. No stars could be seen. No one could see her from outer space.

She drove back slowly, cars passing her this time instead of the other way around. Her gut calmed down but her distress over her grandmother’s condition stayed like a rock in the pit of her stomach.

The surroundings along the route bound for Stockholm were uncommonly ordinary. Route 274 could have been the road between Hälleforsnäs and Katrineholm. She switched on the radio and found a station airing a Boney M marathon.
Brown girl in the ring, sha-la-la-la. Ma Baker, she taught her four sons, ma-ma-ma-ma, Ma Baker, to handle their guns. Run, run, Rasputin, lover of the Russian queen.

It started to drizzle a little when she reached Arninge and turned out on the E18 again, but the proper rain remained in the air, suspended there. She listened to German disco music the whole way back to the newspaper building in Marieberg.

No attendants were on duty, so she left the car keys on the counter. Then she headed for Hantverkaregatan, home, by way of the park at Rålambshov and along the northern shore of Lake Mälaren. It was cold and damp, the darkness relieved at intervals by street lights and neon signs but somehow still pervasive and massive. Her thoughts went to her grandmother: what should they do?

The cramping sensation in her gut increased as dread throbbed within her.

By the time Annika got home she was chilled to the bone, her teeth chattering. The phone rang and she dashed inside with muddy shoes.

Gran! Oh, dear God, something’s happened to Gran!

Shame shot through her. Her calm had been merely a front and she felt guilty about not being there.

‘I’m going to that Thai place to pick up a cashew chicken wok,’ her friend Anne said. ‘Want some?’

Annika slumped down to the floor.

‘Yes, please.’

Anne Snapphane showed up half an hour later with two foil boxes in a bag.

‘Damn, it’s cold,’ she said when she’d wiped her feet. ‘This damp air is hell on the airways. I can feel bronchitis zeroing in on me.’

Anne had a flair for hypochondria.

‘Put on a pair of thick woollen socks. Keep your feet toasty and you’ll be fine, that’s what Gran always says,’ Annika said and burst into tears.

‘Oh, honey, what’s wrong?’

Anne went over, sat next to Annika on the couch and waited. Annika sobbed, felt the rock in her stomach grow warm, soften and slowly disintegrate.

‘It’s Gran,’ she said. ‘She’s had a stroke and she’s over at Kullbergska Hospital in Katrineholm. She’s not going to get better.’

‘What a shame,’ Anne said, full of sympathy. ‘What’s going to happen to her now?’

Annika took a tissue and blew her nose, wiped her face and let her breath out in a slow
whoosh.

‘No one knows. There isn’t space for her anywhere, and no one has the time to take care of her, and she needs loads of support and rehabilitation. I figure I might have to stop working and have her stay with me.’

Anne cocked her head to one side.

‘Three flights of stairs, no toilet and no hot water?’

Annika put words to the thoughts that had churned in her gut all day.

‘I guess I’ll have to move to Katrineholm. It’s not the end of the world. I mean, what do I actually do? Rewrite stuff other reporters have done for a lousy rag with no cred. Is that more important than taking care of the only person you love?’

Anne didn’t reply, she just let Annika cry herself out. She went to the kitchen and got glasses and utensils. Annika turned on the TV set and they watched the news,
Rapport
, and ate chicken wok straight from the package. The stock market had gone back up. There was more unrest in Mitrovica. The state of the Social Democratic Party prior to the congress was explored.

‘Are you serious about quitting?’ Anne Snapphane wondered as she sank back against the cushions, too stuffed to move.

Annika rubbed her forehead and sighed deeply.

‘As a last resort. I don’t want to stop working, but what else can you do if there aren’t any other options?’

‘Competing for the “Martyrs’ World Cup” isn’t going to make anyone happy,’ Anne said. ‘You have a responsibility to yourself, too – you can’t make other people your world. Want some wine?’

‘The doctor actually prescribed liquor,’ Annika replied. ‘White, please.’

‘What else? Red wine brings my face out in boils. God, it’s cold in here. Are any of your windows open?’

Anne got up and went into the kitchen.

‘The wind totaled one of my windows,’ Annika called after her.

Anne returned with the wine. Wrapped in a blanket each, they sipped Chardonnay poured from a carton.

‘How are things otherwise?’ Anne asked.

Annika sighed, shut her eyes and leaned back against the cushions.

‘I had a fight with my mother. She doesn’t like me. I’ve always known that was the case, but it felt pretty damn awful to hear it spelled out like that.’

Pain welled up inside her: not being loved had its own particular brand of agony.

Anne Snapphane wore a sceptical expression on her face.

‘I don’t know anyone who gets along with their mother.’

Annika shook her head, discovered she could manage a smile and looked down at her wineglass.

‘I really don’t think she likes me. To be honest, I’m not sure I like her either. Do you have to?’

Anne considered this.

‘Not really. It depends on the mother. If she deserves it, you can love her if you like, but there’s no obligation. On the other hand,’ Anne declared, index finger in the air admonishingly, ‘mothers have to love their children. It’s an obligation that there’s no getting out of.’

‘She doesn’t think I deserve love,’ Annika said.

Anne Snapphane shrugged.

‘She’s wrong. It just proves she’s a moron. Now give me some upbeat news, please. Hasn’t anything fun happened to you?’

The tightness in her chest relaxed and Annika felt relieved. She smiled.

‘I’ve got a hot story going at work. A really fishy foundation that wipes people whose lives are in danger off the record.’

Anne Snapphane took a sip of her wine and cocked an eyebrow at her, Annika went on.

‘And I met this civil-servant guy today – he’s doing business with this foundation. If I played my cards right I might have an in there.’

‘Was he a hottie?’

Anne Snapphane downed her wine and poured herself some more.

‘A desk jockey,’ Annika said. ‘All he did was drone on about bureaucratic junk. I tried to get him to loosen up; you know, a little small talk and all that, but no way. Must have been the first time he’d ever run into a reporter – talk about nervous . . .’

‘Come on,’ Anne said, swirling the wine in her glass. ‘I’m positive those boobs of yours were getting him all hot under the collar.’

Annika stared at her friend.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ she said. ‘A civil servant?’

‘He’s got a penis, right? And what was he doing down at the free port?’

Annika groaned, put down her glass and got up.

‘You’re not keeping up with me. The free-port thing was the day before yesterday. This guy’s office is in Vaxholm. Want some water?’

She got a pitcher and two fresh glasses. The long-haired weather hunk, Per, wound up his forecast and a new programme began; a bunch of middle-aged women with cultural aspirations initiated a meaningless, pretentious discussion.

Annika turned the TV off.

‘How’s “The Women’s Sofa” going?’

Now it was Anne’s turn to groan.

‘Michelle Carlsson, the new girl, wants to be on camera all the time. She does her stand-up schtick in every segment and won’t let anyone edit them. She’s suggested that we should have a panel seated on the sofa, to discuss issues like sex and stuff, and that she should be on the panel.’

‘She actually said that?’ Annika asked. ‘That she should be on the panel?’

Anne Snapphane groaned again.

‘No, but it’s pretty obvious that’s why she suggested it.’

‘It’s a good thing someone wants to be on camera,’ Annika said. ‘I would flat-out refuse. I’d rather die.’

‘Most people feel the other way around,’ Anne Snapphane said. ‘Lots of people would kill to get on the air.’

The televised debate dealt with the position of the arts in society, a subject that was almost always timely.

‘Let me ask the panel,’ the host said. ‘What does art mean to you?’

The first guest made a circle in the air with her right hand while she spoke: ‘A never-ending dialogue,’ she said.

‘Good art has a certain urgency to it. It goes in new directions, it has substance and an ability to move many people,’ the second guest said, slicing her left hand in a horizontal fashion.

‘Serious artists mirror their time. Personally, I think it’s good that art comes up for discussion, controversy signals that art is an urgent matter,’ the third guest said, eyebrows arched.

‘But is art important only when it stirs up a debate?’ the host wondered.

‘There are limits,’ the third guest continued, ‘and it’s something you have to decide from case to case. If you know who the artist is, you generally know how serious they are, but you can’t have preconceived ideas. Conceptual art, where the theme of the exhibit is the point, is—’

Thomas got up from the couch.

‘I’m going to get a beer – would you like one?’

Eleonor didn’t reply, the furrow between her eyes showing that she didn’t want to be disturbed. He went upstairs, the cultivated voices ringing in his ears.

‘. . . Contemporary art has always been an affront to the society of the day. It could very well be that churchgoers clutched their collection money tightly in their cold fists when they saw how Giotto di Bondone modernized the religious art of his time . . .’

Thomas went to the fridge: no cold beers. He sighed, went over to the pantry and opened a lukewarm one. Looked for the evening papers without finding them.

‘Aren’t you going to watch this?’ Eleonor called to him.

He sat on a kitchen chair for a few seconds, took a large swig, gas bubbles going to his nose, sighed and went downstairs again.

‘Feminism has influenced the way literature is discussed as well as the conditions for describing the history of literature,’ the host remarked. ‘But has it affected literature itself? And if that’s the case, in what way?’

Thomas sat down on the couch. The woman taking the floor bore a striking resemblance to a pear. She was the publisher of a periodical about literature and was such a gasbag that it made Thomas want to laugh.

‘. . . A boon to female authors,’ the pear declared, ‘by singling them out in this way. The words of a Danish author come to mind . . .’

‘Talk about taking yourself seriously!’ he exclaimed.

‘Be quiet, I’m listening to this.’

He got up abruptly and went back to the kitchen.

‘Thomas, what’s the matter?’ Eleonor called after him.

He groaned to himself and rummaged through his briefcase in search of the evening papers.

‘Nothing.’

There they were. He fished them out; they were wrinkled, soon to be obsolete and uninteresting.

‘Aren’t you going to watch the debate? We’re going to discuss it at the Cultural Society on Saturday.’

He didn’t answer and started reading
Kvällspressen.
That was where Annika Bengtzon worked. He hadn’t recognized her and presumed that she didn’t write any of those articles with the little picture byline.

‘Thomas . . .’

‘What?’

‘You don’t have to shout. Do we have any video cassettes that I could use? I want to record this programme.’

He lowered the paper and squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Thomas?’

‘I don’t know. Christ, let me read in peace!’

Demonstratively, he opened the paper again. A large man in dark clothing stared at him from the pages, the leader of some cigarette ring. He heard Eleonor fiddle with the VCR downstairs, and knew what would happen next. Soon she would start yelling at the machine and banging on it. And demand that he come down to fix it.

‘Thomas!’

He threw the paper aside and bounded downstairs in three strides.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Here I am. Tell me what the hell you want me to do so I can go back upstairs and finish reading my paper in peace!’

She looked at him as if he were a ghost.

‘What’s the matter with you? Your face is all red. All I need is a little help with the VCR – is that too much to ask?’

‘You could learn how to push the button yourself.’

‘Don’t be so intense,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I’m missing the debate.’

‘Pretentious middle-class bags jerking each other off onscreen – like that’s something to miss?’

Eleonor stared at him, her mouth half-open.

‘You’re out of your mind,’ she said. ‘Sweden would be a cultural wasteland if it wasn’t for those women! They represent, and define, our cultural status, our view of contemporary society.’

Thomas looked at her, so well-spoken, so much in tune with the times.