She could no longer resist the temptation to fold her arms.
‘How do you mean?’
Schyman leaned back, his shirt coming loose above his navel.
‘I think you’re applying the term terrorism with pretty broad strokes these days,’ he said. ‘Not all criminals are terrorists, and not all violence is terrorism. We have to keep a bit of distance and relevance in our journalism, not give in to sensationalism and always use the most powerful words. We’ll have to use those words for real events, probably sooner than we imagine …’
She heard herself let out a deep sigh, and threw her arms out. ‘Oh, please,’ she said. ‘Don’t preach to me about press ethics.’
He clenched his jaw so hard that a vein started to throb in his neck.
‘I’m not preaching, I just want to point out—’
‘I thought you supported me in my role as an independent reporter,’ Annika said, leaning forward, feeling the blood rush to her head. ‘That you trusted my judgement about what’s important.’
‘Annika, believe me, I do, but—’
‘There’s something here, I can feel it. This guy had stumbled across something he shouldn’t have.’
‘If you’ll just let me finish, I’d like to stress that I support you completely in your role, but in spite of that I am also legally responsible for what gets published, so I take the decisions about whether or not we should identify people as terrorists. That’s why I’m explaining my position to you, to save you making a load of trips and doing masses of work for nothing.’
Annika had stopped in the middle of a gesture, almost standing, leaning across the editor-in-chief’s desk, mouth open, her face livid. In the silence left by his words the thoughts were racing through her head, trying to find solutions and explanations.
‘It’s Spike,’ she said. ‘Has Spike said something about my trips?’
Schyman sighed and stood up. ‘Not at all. I’m just pointing out that this business with terrorism and terrorists has started to take up a great deal of your time.’
‘Well, perhaps they’ve been fairly important subjects in recent years.’
Annika sat down, and Schyman walked around her chair and over to the conference table.
‘I’d just like you to consider whether there might be some other reason why you should be particularly interested in these things.’
‘What do you mean?’
Schyman sighed again, running his fingers over the tubes containing the graphs.
‘That I’m identifying myself with the terrorists, is that what you mean? That I’ve killed someone myself, and that makes my brain conjure up compulsive killers where there aren’t any? Or do you mean the tunnel, the dynamite the Bomber tied me up to? Has that made me so crazy that I’m seeing Bombers behind every bush?’
Anders Schyman raised both hands in a placatory, soothing way. ‘Annika,’ he said, ‘I don’t know. All I can say is that this story is really peculiar. I can’t run a story about a Ragnwald who might be dead and buried, or a gardener in Moscow, or a diver for the coastguards, or whatever the hell he might be, because this is serious stuff, serious allegations.’
‘Ragnwald is his codename, he isn’t identified anywhere.’
‘Maybe he’s better known as Ragnwald than his real name. We just don’t know, do we?’
She didn’t answer, feeling her teeth grind as she stared into the curtains that hid the embassy compound.
‘Besides,’ he said, ‘common sense suggests that the idea behind your article isn’t very sensible. The Swedish countryside isn’t exactly famous for producing fullblown terrorists, is it?’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Are you kidding? Or are you just ignorant? The letter bomb was invented by a man from Toreboda, and the first one blew up in the hands of director Lundin on Hamngatan in August nineteen hundred and four.’
‘Look,’ he said, his tone suggesting that he wanted to placate her. ‘Things are going really well for the paper right now. We can’t put ourselves in a position where we risk the credibility we’ve built up with our readers with some vague accusations of terrorism.’
She leaped up, adrenalin pumping. ‘Credibility? You mean you think people buy the paper for our serious and cutting-edge journalism?’
She let out a short burst of laughter.
‘Anne Nicole Smith on the front page three days in a row last week,’ she said. ‘A boy who masturbated on a reality show on Saturday. The Crown Princess kissing her boyfriend on Sunday. What is this? Can’t you see what you’ve done to this paper? Or are you kidding yourself as well?’
She could see he wanted to explode but was choosing not to.
‘I thought you were happy about the progress the paper’s been making,’ he said, his voice slightly strained.
‘Working with sale signals on the front cover and billboards, isn’t that what you call it? Do you know what I call it? Focusing on crap and shit.’
‘We’re a second paper. We have to push tabloid stories harder than a first paper. Or don’t you want us to get ahead?’
‘Not at any cost. I think it’s a tragedy that you’ve dropped all quality control on this paper.’
‘That’s not true,’ he said in a very controlled tone of voice. She was surprised at how angry he seemed. ‘We are still running bloody serious investigative journalism inside the paper, you know that perfectly well. Be fair.’
‘That doesn’t stop me from regretting the way journalism is going. Along with the other tabloids we’re writing about reality television as if it was the most important and relevant thing going on right now. Now that can’t be right, can it?’
‘You’re forgetting Cain and Abel,’ Schyman said, trying to smile.
‘What about them?’
Annika folded her arms on her chest, waiting.
‘Being seen, the most important thing for human beings, didn’t you once say that? About television, actually? Being in a reality show that’s being filmed and shown on the internet twenty-four hours a day is like being seen by God, all the time.’
‘So who’s God?’ Annika said. ‘The camera lens?’
‘Nope,’ Schyman said. ‘The viewing public. When did any of us last have the chance to be God?’
‘You get to be God every day, at least on the paper,’ Annika said. ‘Just as omnipotent, unjust and full of poor judgements as the real God was with Cain and Abel.’
Now it was Schyman’s turn to be speechless. Annika could hear her accusations echo in the silence, and wished she’d bitten her tongue.
‘I’m just extremely bloody upset that my story about Benny Ekland’s murder was thrown off the front page,’ she said, in an effort to excuse her remarks.
He snorted, shook his head, and walked over to the window.
‘Benny Ekland wasn’t a name,’ Anders Schyman said, towards the glass of the window. ‘And besides, the link to terrorism was extremely vague.’
‘And how much of a name is Paula from Pop Factory?’
‘Paula came second in the competition last spring and released a single that got to number seven in the charts. She’s reported the incident to the police and is prepared to have her name and picture published, even in tears,’ Anders Schyman said, without sounding the slightest bit ashamed.
Annika took two steps towards his back.
‘And why does she do that? Because she’s fallen out of the charts. Surely we ought to think for a moment before we start doing the bidding of two-bit celebrities like her?’
‘Do you know, Annika,’ he said, ‘I can’t be bothered to argue with you about this. I don’t need to justify to you the priorities that are actually responsible for saving this paper from closure.’
‘So why are you doing it, then?’
‘What?’
She gathered her papers, tears bubbling under the surface.
‘I’m going to carry on,’ she said, ‘if you’ve no objection. But I know that you have to prioritize. If Ozzy Osbourne throws a
nother T-bone steak into his neighbour’s garden, I realize that I’m fucked.’
She walked out before he could see her tears of rage.
19
They were sitting in front of the television, two glasses of wine in front of them. Annika was staring at the flickering picture without registering it. The children were asleep, the dishwasher was rattling away in the kitchen, the vacuum cleaner was waiting for her out in the hall. She felt completely paralysed, staring at a man walking to and fro in the foyer of a hotel, as the day, the week, hammered against the inside of her skull, heavy pressure weighing on her chest.
Her mind drifted to that boy, Linus, who had been so sweet with his spiky hair, so sensitive and hesitant … She closed her eyes and saw his eyes, intelligent, watchful. Schyman’s dry voice echoed through her head, Benny Ekland wasn’t a name … I don’t need to justify myself to you.
Thomas suddenly laughed out loud, making Annika jump.
‘What is it?’
‘He’s so fucking brilliant.’
‘Who?’
Her husband stared at her as though she was a bit slow.
‘John Cleese, of course,’ he said, waving his hand towards the television. ‘Fawlty Towers.’
He looked away from her, concentrating on the television again, leaning forward and taking a sip of wine, smacking his lips appreciatively.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘did you drink up my Villa Puccini?’
She shut her eyes for a moment, then glanced at him.
‘What do you mean, your?’
He looked at her in surprise.
‘What’s up with you? I just asked if you’d drunk my wine, I was thinking of opening it tomorrow.’
She got up.
‘I’m going to bed.’
‘What is it now?’
He threw out his arms as he sat in the sofa, she turned her back on him and sailed out towards the hall.
‘Anki, for God’s sake. Come here. I love you. Come and sit with me.’
She stopped in the doorway. He got up, walked over to her, wrapped his arms round her shoulders. She felt his heavy arms on her and around her, one hand on each breast.
‘Annika,’ he whispered, ‘come on. You haven’t touched your wine.’
She couldn’t help letting out a tearful sob.
‘Do you want to know what I did at work today?’ he said enthusiastically, pulling her back to the sofa again, pressing her down and sitting beside her, holding her to him. She ended up with her nose in his armpit, it smelled of deodorant and washing powder.
‘What?’ she muttered into his ribs.
‘I gave a bloody good presentation of the project for the whole working group.’
She sat still, waiting, expecting him to go on.
‘What about you?’ he said eventually.
‘Nothing special,’ she whispered.
Saturday 14 November
20
The man was walking hesitantly, breathlessly, up Linnégatan towards the Fyris River. He was clutching his left hand against his stomach, and holding the right one up to protect his ear, grimacing slightly, not at the pain but rather at the wave of nostalgia the train journey had released. He was defenceless – the memories flooded over him, thundering through him, crashing like a tidal wave right into his mind, stirring up the sludge that had been lying on the bottom so long that he had forgotten it existed. Now it had all come back, the images and smells and sounds that had never done any harm as long as they were hidden among the other forgotten nonsense. But now they were singing, chanting and proclaiming so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think.
He found himself staring up at a window on the second floor of the Fjellstedska student hostel, one with an Advent star and a little plant on the window sill. They were there again, the girls he had had behind that barred window three and a half decades ago, his first women; he could feel their beery breath and blushed at his own clumsy shyness.
He had been so amazed. The world had seemed so strange. What naïve astonishment at its scope and opportunities. What bitter disappointment when its limitations slammed in his face like iron gates.
The howl of the sounds became lonely. He could feel the draught from the floor, the rat that had stared at him from the window sill that ice-cold morning, the same window sill. He saw it in another light, the frost on the inside of the glass, the rug he had taken with him to remind him of Mother, the nice one where she had woven in his childhood smock and her worn-out petticoat.
‘It came from Kexholm,’ she had said, letting him feel the fine fabric beneath his child’s fingers, and he had appreciated the power of the old country, Mother’s childhood home, and understood her terrible sense of loss.
He gave a snort. This was too difficult. However would he manage?
The task. He had not failed yet, and he wasn’t about to start now where his family was concerned. They were all he had left.
He turned his back on the student hostel, keeping the window in the corner of his eye as long as he could, letting it slide away. He would never see it again.
He took a few stumbling steps along Svartbäcksgatan. The noise subsided, and it became easier to breathe. Slowly everything around him settled down. He had no memories of this place being full of the commercialism of Christmas. It must have looked completely different at the end of the sixties. He straightened his back, letting the hand fall from his ear, allowing reality to wash over him. Half-naked and headless plastic mannequins begged and enticed from the shop windows, with noisy battery-driven toys made in China, flashing strings of lights running across dressing gowns and silk ties, cordless electric tools to charge and use, charge and use.
He raised his head to escape the windows and his eyes fixed on a green artificial pine garland stretched across the whole street. He turned off to the right, across the river, up to the university.
Stopping to catch his breath, he heard the howling monster of consumer society like a waterfall behind him.
The cold was particularly harsh today. He could hardly remember ground this frozen. He was amazed at how the stillness of air from the arctic could emphasize colours and light, sharpening and clarifying his perceptions. He stared up at the cathedral’s twin towers as they struggled, heavy and full of shadows, to reach the translucent sky. He closed his eyes, it was long ago, so long ago; he had almost forgotten what it felt like to breathe in the glass-clear air that could only be found in Uppsala. Now the cold was taking possession of his insides, freezing his airways and the soles of his feet. His teeth started to chatter unconsciously.
He struggled on and stopped outside the ornate main building of the university, brick and limestone, looking up the long flights of steps and studying the four statues above the entrance, the four faculties of the university when it was founded: theology, law, medicine and philosophy. His gaze wandered back to the first of these, the woman with the cross, his faculty.
You betrayed me, he thought. You should have been my life’s work, but you turned into a lifetime of denial.
He walked up the steps, his eyes fixed on the three heavy oak doors, the huge iron handles. Well-oiled hinges swung the door open surprisingly easily, and he walked cautiously into the entrance hall. The cathedrallike space opened up above him with its three enormous glass domes. His steps echoed against the mosaic floor and smooth granite pillars, the stucco detailing, the paintings on the ceiling, bouncing off the staircase up to the auditorium as it curved past the wise, gilded words of the great humanist, Thorild: To think freely is great, but to think correctly is greater.
Freedom, he thought, the tyranny of our age. The betrayal of our simple medieval way of life, where everyone knew their place in society. People who set the salvation of the soul above all else: economic gain, personal freedom, the questioning of social structures.
He turned his back on the room. The developments during the Renaissance made him want to weep with rage – Eve’s betrayal of Adam, the whore who tricked humanity int
o biting into the fruit of the tree of knowledge, its innocence raped. The rise of greed that went on and on for centuries, poisoning people’s relationships with ambitions of profit and glory. He hurried out of the heavy academic atmosphere and the burned colour scheme, turning right outside the door and finding himself facing a strangely familiar building, and all of a sudden he was back again, back when the building was new, he had never seen such a modern building, the student union hall.
That was where he belonged, his spiritual home, where he had discovered all that was inadequate and evasive in the great tented meetings and grinding services of Læstadianism. This was where he encountered the Master’s words for the first time: People of the world, unite and defeat the American aggressors and all their lackeys. People of the world, be courageous, and dare to fight, defy difficulties and advance wave upon wave. Then the whole world will belong to the people. Monsters of all kinds shall be destroyed.
He shut his eyes and it was suddenly dark around him and within him. It was late at night again, as it had been before, windswept and cold, he was a lone island in the night sea, standing between ecstasy and the applause rolling out through one of the modern building’s misted windows. Mao’s words were like fireflies in the darkness, recited by trembling young voices and received euphorically, without any trace of doubt: The Chinese and Japanese peoples should unite, the people of various Asian nations should unite, all oppressed people and nations of the world should unite, all peace-loving countries should unite, all countries and individuals subject to US imperial aggression, control, intervention or bullying should unite and form a broad united front against US imperialism to frustrate its plans for aggression and war and to defend world peace.
Soon afterwards they came out – sweaty, pumped up, happy, satisfied, and he went up to them and they saw him. People saw him, they asked him if he was a true revolutionary and he said yes, people of the world, unite and defeat the American aggressors and all their lackeys. And they slapped him on the back and said, tomorrow, comrade, Laboremus, seven o’clock, and he nodded and was left standing there with a new fire in his soul. The landing strip of life suddenly lit up beneath him and he knew it was time to go down.
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