The Circle (Hammer)

by Elfgren, Sara B. ,Strandberg, Mats

  Nicke gives his beer a quick wave in the air, takes a big gulp and suppresses a burp, which he instead releases silently through his pursed lips.

  Wille is drinking cola, like Vanessa, everything to emphasise that he’s a well-behaved young man. She takes a sip and meets his gaze across the table. He chews carefully and smiles at her. The atmosphere is more tense than ever. Even Melvin seems to notice. He’s poking at his food with his little fork.

  Nicke and Vanessa’s mother are eating, staring at their plates as if there was something incrredibly interesting on them, like a spyhole leading all the way to China. The clinking of the cutlery seems unnaturally loud. Clink. Scrape. Squeak. Clink. Scrape. Squeak. Scrape. Clink.

  Vanessa doesn’t have much appetite, but cuts a little piece of lasagne and puts it into her mouth. It’s hard and tough and has absolutely no taste. It’s the gustatory equivalent of grey. Or beige. ‘This is inedible,’ she says and pushes away her plate.

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s great,’ Wille says.

  ‘M-hm,’ her mother says, with her mouth full.

  ‘I’ll want seconds,’ Wille says.

  Nicke walks over to the refrigerator and returns with a bottle of ketchup, which he almost empties on to his plate.

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘where are you working, these days, Wille?’

  Wille glances at Vanessa. Nicke knows he doesn’t have a job. ‘It’s difficult to find anything in this town.’

  ‘Yeah, I can imagine. You left school without any qualifications, didn’t you?’ Nicke says.

  ‘I passed my exams,’ Wille says. He sounds embarrassed because he did it by the skin of his teeth. Vanessa wishes he was sitting next to her so she could squeeze his hand under the table.

  Her mother clears her throat. ‘How’s Sirpa?’

  ‘She’s fine. She’s had some trouble with her neck.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ her mother says.

  Vanessa wonders if her mother is thinking the same thing. That she’d said she’d rather have Sirpa as a mother.

  ‘She’s got a tough job,’ Vanessa’s mother says now. ‘Sometimes I think she lives at that supermarket. No matter what time I go there, she always seems to be sitting at the checkout.’

  ‘It’s harder than many people realise,’ Wille says.

  The whole time Nicke has been gazing at Wille with open contempt. Now he turns to Vanessa’s mother and says, in a completely normal tone: ‘Of course she’s working all the time. She’s got a grown-up son to support. A strong, healthy young man she’s breaking her back for.’

  The silence that settles around the table is so tense that even Melvin looks up from playing with his food. His eyes are wide and take in everything.

  ‘That was uncalled for,’ Vanessa’s mother says to Nicke. But she doesn’t sound upset. She doesn’t say it as though she means ‘That was unfair and I don’t agree with you,’ but more ‘That’s not the sort of thing you say when the subject can hear you.’

  ‘As I said,’ Wille mutters, ‘jobs are difficult to come by in this town.’

  ‘There’s nothing stopping you moving somewhere else,’ says Nicke. ‘Is there?’

  He glances at Vanessa, but she refuses to meet his eye. She looks at Wille. They belong together. She’s never truly felt that until now. It’s the two of them against the world. And why, she asks herself, should she sit here quietly, all polite and grown-up, when the so-called adults at the table are behaving like a couple of playground bullies?

  The flowers that Wille brought suddenly look pathetic in the middle of the table.

  Vanessa turns to Nicke. ‘Can’t you behave like a normal human being for once?’

  ‘Please don’t start arguing now,’ her mother says, as if Vanessa were the one causing the trouble.

  Rage explodes inside Vanessa. She can’t hold it back any longer. It’s too unfair, beyond belief. ‘Excuse me, but haven’t you by any chance noticed how Nicke’s been behaving throughout dinner? And as soon as I say something it’s me who’s acting up?’

  ‘Vanessa—’

  ‘You always take his side! You’re such a great team, you and Nicke. You can never do anything wrong. And I’m just causing trouble all the time and being a pain in the arse.’

  ‘We’ve got a guest here,’ her mother says.

  ‘Now all of a sudden you notice we’ve got a guest! But when Nicke’s having a go at my fiancé, that’s okay, is it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  It’s one of her mother’s catchphrases, normally coupled with that sad look. She thinks she’s being so fucking clever: she doesn’t say anything straight out so she can play the innocent victim when you confront her with it.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Vanessa shouts. ‘I don’t know what gave me the idea I could cook a celebratory meal, invite Wille over and think it was going to make any difference. You’ve already made up your minds.’

  Her mother looks at her with big, offended eyes.

  ‘All you do is just sit there feeling so fucking sorry for yourself,’ Vanessa continues, ‘but I’m the one who’s been forced to live with the fact that you’ve dragged home a succession of losers. Wille is better than any of the men you’ve ever been with. He’s a thousand times better than that one!’ She points at Nicke without looking at him.

  ‘Nessa mad,’ Melvin says.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Vanessa says, looking at her little brother. ‘And you’re going to be mad, too, when you grow up and realise what sort of parents you have.’

  ‘Maybe I should go,’ Wille says.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Vanessa says. ‘This is my house, too.’

  ‘I agree with Wille,’ Nicke says. ‘It would be better if he left.’

  ‘No, it would be better if you left!’

  ‘That’s enough, damn it!’ Nicke shouts, and pounds his fist on the table.

  Melvin bursts into tears and Vanessa rushes to pick him up, but her mother beats her to it. She lifts him out of the high chair, turns his face to her chest and pats his little head. The crying gives way to bawling, drawn-out, heart-wrenching – and ear-piercing.

  ‘There, there,’ his mother coos, as she glares accusingly at Vanessa.

  ‘I’m not the one who frightened him!’

  ‘That’s enough, Vanessa,’ her mother says. ‘Wille, it’s probably better if you go now.’

  ‘See you round,’ Nicke says, with a smug smirk. ‘Down at the station, no doubt.’

  ‘Thanks for dinner,’ Wille says. He pushes in his chair and puts his plate on the counter.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Vanessa says.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere until we’ve talked this through,’ her mother says loudly, over Melvin’s howling.

  Vanessa meets her gaze and feels a wave of pure hatred shoot through her. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ she says. She walks out into the hall, where Wille is already putting on his shoes, steps into her own and wriggles into her jacket. She grabs her bag.

  ‘If you leave now, don’t bother to come back!’ her mother shouts.

  ‘I’m not going to!’ Vanessa screams back.

  ‘Nessa not go!’ Melvin shrieks.

  She wants to put her hands over her ears. She doesn’t want to hear him now. She loves him too much. Instead she makes herself cold and hard.

  She runs down the steps after Wille, looking at the back of his neck. She may be leaving her home for the last time. She convinces herself that it’s worth it – that he’s worth it.

  33

  MINOO HAS OFTEN fantasised about taking this route. But the realisation of how pathetic it would be has always prevented her. Tonight, though, it feels right – she’s already so pitiful that she may as well humiliate herself even more. She has no pride left to lose.

  On either side of her there are identical single-storey buildings in which a few residents have attempted to defy the uniformity by putting up decorative fans and brightly coloured lamps. She is walking along the even-numbe
red side, looking at the odd numbers. She stops beneath a streetlamp, opposite Uggelbovägen number thirty-seven.

  Minoo looks at the yellow house. It has a tiled roof with a tall black chimney. A pair of windows flanks the front door: to the left, a square bathroom window with frosted glass, and to the right, a bigger one with the blinds lowered. It’s dark inside.

  She tries to imagine what Max looks like when he comes home in the evening, how he strides up to the door, unlocks it and goes inside … But it’s as if her imagination has stopped working. She can’t picture him living in this house. It’s too ordinary. Anyone could be living there.

  Minoo remembers what Rebecka said that autumn day. If you feel there’s something between you, you’re probably right.

  She could have done with Rebecka beside her right now. She’s never felt more alone.

  Minoo gasps, and seconds later, tears are welling in her eyes. They run down her cheeks and wet her scarf. She snivels, digs out a crumpled handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blows her nose.

  ‘Minoo?’

  She turns to see Max walking towards her.

  Deep down this was what she’d been hoping for. That something would happen with Max tonight, good or bad, it doesn’t matter. So what if he laughs at her, pities her? It doesn’t matter, just so long as he sees her.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  Max stops in front of her. His breath shrouds his face in clouds of steam. ‘What are you doing here?’

  His eyes probe her. It’s impossible to read his expression. ‘I was out for a walk,’ Minoo answers. ‘I felt shut in.’ That isn’t a lie at least.

  ‘Is anything the matter?’

  Minoo shrugs.

  ‘Is it Rebecka?’ Max asks.

  ‘M-hm.’

  She doesn’t dare say any more.

  Max nods thoughtfully. Then he casts a quick glance at the house opposite. ‘I live there.’

  ‘Really?’ Minoo lowers her gaze and hopes he hasn’t realised that she came here in a stalker mode.

  ‘Would you like to come in?’ he asks.

  She nods.

  They walk across the street together. She can hardly believe she’s on her way to Max’s house. With him.

  He unlocks the door and turns on the light in the hall. ‘Shall I take your jacket?’ he asks.

  She pulls down the zip and he helps her off with it. It ought perhaps to make her feel like an adult, but she feels more like a toddler at nursery. While he hangs up her jacket, she removes her shoes and hopes he doesn’t notice they’re an abnormally large forty-one.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Max goes to the kitchen. Minoo catches sight of the bathroom door and slips inside.

  When she turns on the light she’s met by grey tiles and a blue linoleum floor. It’s just an ordinary bathroom, yet she’s in an enchanted place because it’s Max’s. It’s full of clues about who he is. He brushes his teeth with an electric toothbrush, but shaves with a manual razor. He washes his hands with unscented soap from a pump bottle. He buys toothpaste in huge economy-size tubes. Perhaps she’ll crack some important code if she stares at these things long enough. But then, of course, he’d wonder what on earth she was doing in there.

  Minoo turns towards the mirror and sees her unmade-up face. It’s as red with acne as her eyes are with crying. If only she didn’t look so grotesque she’d dare to imagine that Max wanted her here. That he isn’t just taking pity on her for being so pathetic.

  ‘Stop it,’ she whispers to herself. ‘Get out of here!’

  She unlocks the door and steps into the hall. Music comes on further inside the house. A moment later Max appears with two cups of tea. He looks so warm and friendly standing there like that. Not to mention hot. So hot she can feel her ears flushing. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him. To kiss anyone, for that matter. She feels a tingling in her wrists and the strength drains from her arms.

  I have to go, she thinks, before I make a total fool of myself.

  ‘Are you coming?’ he asks.

  She follows him into the living room. It’s tastefully furnished yet homely. There is a sofa against the far wall. To the right of it stand shelves filled with books, films and a few old LPs. A framed poster of a woman with dark, curly hair in three-quarter profile hangs on the opposite wall. She’s wearing a draped blue silk dress. Her head is angled slightly downward and her expression is serious and introspective – suffering. In one hand she’s holding a pomegranate, while the other grasps the wrist. There’s something angst-ridden about the pose. Minoo takes an instant liking to the painting. She feels somehow as if she knows the woman.

  She glances at the books. An assortment of Swedish and English titles. She’s glad they aren’t the tired old selection of novels that you see in everyone’s bookshelves and will flood the flea markets ten years from now.

  ‘See anything you like?’

  Her gaze falls on The Lover and her cheeks heat.

  ‘This one’s great,’ she answers and fingers the spine of Steppenwolf. Great? She could hit herself. Interesting, fascinating, fantastic. Any other superlative would have sounded better. But Max seems pleasantly surprised.

  ‘It’s one of my favourites,’ he says.

  ‘And I really like those,’ she continues, and points, hoping it isn’t too obvious how hard she’s trying to impress him. Sure, she’s read those books and she likes them. But she reads other stuff, too. Fantasy and science fiction. Max would probably find that immature. Wouldn’t he?

  ‘The Stranger and Notes from the Underground,’ Max says, when he sees which titles she’s pointing at. He laughs. ‘You’re not a fan of happy books, are you?’

  ‘Happy books depress me,’ she answers, which is true. But she hears how it sounds and smiles sheepishly. ‘And that didn’t sound pretentious in the least.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Max says, returning her smile. ‘Especially for a sixteen-year-old.’

  The comment about her age stings a little, but she’s still intoxicated by the attention. She sits down on the black sofa. Max puts the cups on the table and sinks down beside her. There’s just a metre between them. She could reach out and touch him. At least, she could if she were a different, much braver and better-looking person. Vanessa, for example.

  ‘What a nice place you’ve got,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’ He doesn’t say more. He just looks at her with his greenish-brown eyes.

  Minoo’s gaze wanders towards the steaming cups on the coffee-table. ‘Do you like it here?’ she asks. ‘In Engelsfors, I mean.’

  ‘No.’

  When she looks at him he smiles. Minoo can’t help but smile, too. ‘Are we so terrible?’

  ‘It’s not the students but the other teachers. They want everything to be as it’s always been. In the beginning I thought they might be more open to change. But now it’s been almost a whole term …’

  Minoo had always thought teachers stuck together. That they agreed on everything. He’s speaking to me like he would to a grown-up, she realises. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll stay till the summer anyway. Then we’ll have to see.’

  Minoo reaches out for her cup and hopes she can wash down the desperate cry of Don’t go! that’s trying to erupt from her throat. Tea spills over the rim of the cup as she lifts it, and droplets of boiling liquid spatter her skin.

  ‘Careful,’ Max says, taking it from her.

  His hand touches hers and she’s happy that he’s holding the cup or she would have spilt it over both of them. ‘Thanks,’ she mumbles.

  He dries the cup with a napkin, then hands it back to her. Minoo’s damp fingers slip on the smooth porcelain handle. She raises the cup slowly to her lips again and sips.

  ‘How about you?’ he asks.

  ‘What?’

  Max pulls up his leg slightly so that he’s facing her. His arm is resting on the back of the sofa. If she
moved a little closer he’d be able to put it around her, like he did when they were sitting on the steps at school. She’d curl up against him, rest her head on his chest.

  ‘I suspect you and Engelsfors don’t mix very well either,’ he says.

  Minoo gives a silly, nervous laugh and puts down her cup. Her hand is far too unsteady. ‘I hate this town,’ she says.

  ‘I can understand that,’ he says. ‘You don’t fit in here.’ He must have seen the anxious look in her eyes because he reaches out and lays his hand on hers. ‘I meant it as a compliment,’ he says.

  His hand is so warm and soft against hers. And he doesn’t take it away.

  ‘I grew up in a little backwater, not far from here, that’s just like Engelsfors,’ he says. ‘I remember how trapped I felt. How lonely and claustrophobic. But later you see that there doesn’t have to be anything wrong with you because you don’t fit in. Could even be the other way around.’

  ‘Rebecka fitted in,’ Minoo says. ‘At least, nobody thought she was strange. But she was still different.’

  ‘She meant a lot to you,’ Max says softly.

  That was an opening, as if he’d said, ‘It’s okay to talk if you want to.’

  ‘Not just to me,’ she says. ‘Everybody loved her. Especially Gustaf, her boyfriend. They were such a nice couple.’

  Minoo manages to stop talking and leans back into the sofa. His hand is still on hers. She wonders if the back of your hand can sweat. She turns her gaze towards the woman on the wall. ‘Who painted that? The original, I mean.’ Good thing I pointed out I knew it was a poster and not an original, she thinks to herself.

  Max removes his hand. ‘Dante Gabriel Rossetti,’ he says, sounding a little like his teacher-self. ‘He belonged to an English art movement – the Pre-Raphaelites. The model’s name was Jane Morris. She was Rossetti’s muse. In this one he painted her as Persephone, who was carried off by Hades, god of the underworld. She became his sad queen.’

  Minoo gazes at the woman’s milky-white skin and thinks that she must look like a monster by comparison. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, and turns back to Max. ‘She’s beautiful.’