by Joe Meno
The security guard mumbles each of these requests.
—What kind of car would you like? the security guard asks.
Jan Olsson turns, staring out the immense glass windows. It is just past 1 in the afternoon. The afternoon itself has no idea what is happening: Automobiles hurry past, shoppers shift their bags from hand to hand, a girl on a bicycle pedals along, her skirt yellow and flimsy, flirting with the breeze.
—I don’t care what kind of car it is as long as it’s fast. And as long as it’s not yellow. Jan says this and then waits for the security guard to transmit the information.
The guard mumbles this final demand and then looks up.
—They said they will do their best. They said they will call back when they’ve gotten everything.
—Good.
Jan looks around the bank, suddenly very pleased with himself.
—What do you want us to do until then? the security guard asks.
Jan has no idea what the answer to that question might be. He thinks for a few moments and then has an idea.
—You will all stay here. I am going to take a hostage now.
—A hostage? Don’t be ridiculous! the wounded policeman shouts. There is no need to involve anybody else in this.
Jan peers at the customers lying there, scattered across the marble floor. They all appear sad and white and pasty, like animals who have been skinned, then turned into rugs. Behind the large glass and marble counter, there are four bank tellers, each of them women, each young and bright and pretty. In colorful turtlenecks and blouses and skirts, they look like far-off planets Jan would like to visit.
—The four of you will come with me, he says, pointing his gun at the tellers. You will stay with me until my partner arrives.
—What about the rest of us? the security guard asks.
—The rest of you are free to go, Jan says.
He points his pistol at the first teller, Kristin Ehnemark, a thin blond girl with a striking pair of blue eyes.
—Where is the best place to hide? Jan asks the girl, pressing the muzzle of the pistol against her fluffy orange sweater.
—The main vault.
—We will go to the vault to wait for my friend Clark to arrive. Does anyone have a transistor radio with them?
—I do, one of the bank tellers, Elizabeth Gullberg, whispers, meekly raising her tiny right hand.
—Perfect. Bring it with you and we will see if any of you can dance.
Jan marches behind the four tellers, his pistol aimed at Kristin’s back: There is Kristin, blond, with stunning good looks; the mousy but charming Elizabeth; and two identical twin sisters, Sandra and Diane Ekelund, who have dark eyes and straight brown hair. The four young women walk in single file, silently disappearing down the long white corridor while the rest of the bank’s patrons pull themselves to their feet and rush through the front glass doors, screaming.
The tall policeman stops singing and lifts his partner to his feet, dragging him as best as he can through the revolving glass door. A dark smear of blood follows the wounded police officer out, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the floor. Within a few moments, the bank lobby has become entirely empty, a still life of despair and quiet.
In the main bank vault, which is dark and rectangular, filled with tiny shelves and silver deposit boxes, Jan commands Elizabeth to turn on the radio. There is not much on besides disco and the reception inside the vault is quite terrible.
—Who among you can dance? Jan asks.
—I can dance pretty well, Kristin says.
—Anyone else?
The other three girls all shake their heads.
—Okay, then you dance.
Kristin nods and begins to dance, very slowly at first, moving her feet and hips from the right side to the left. Jan points at the radio with his pistol and asks Elizabeth to please turn up the music. Kristin closes her eyes; she pretends that she is all alone, back in her tiny apartment. She pretends it is Saturday night and she is waiting for her date to telephone her.
Jan finds the light switch and begins to flick it on and off: light effects. The two sisters, Diane and Sandra, smile at the exact same moment, surprised by the bank robber’s strange sense of humor.
—What about you? Jan asks the twins.
Together, they shrug their shoulders and begin to dance, mirror reflections of one another’s stiff movements. Even their long dark hair seems to flip and swish at the same time.
—Good, Jan says. Okay, now we are getting somewhere.
Before the long disco track ends, Jan can hear the police shouting at him through a megaphone outside. He motions to Elizabeth with the pistol; she quickly shuts off the radio, looking worried once again.
—Jan Olsson! comes the amplified voice. We have located your friend, Clark Olofsson! He is now going to enter the bank!
Jan points the pistol at Kristin and says, No monkey business, then leads her back toward the bank lobby. Before he crosses into the afternoon’s blank sunlight, he pauses. He suddenly imagines a police sniper depositing a single bullet into the front of his brain. He begins to tremble a little. He holds onto Kristin for support. Then he takes another two amphetamine capsules, offering one to Kristin first. Kristin kindly refuses. Together, they slowly step into the sunlit lobby. Through the glass doors and windows, Jan can see a battalion of blue police uniforms, of drawn weapons, of blue helmets, of black bulletproof vests, of police cars and vans, of flashing blue lights.
—I did not want this to happen the way it is, Jan says sadly. I really did not. From behind the police barricade, Jan spots his best friend, Clark Olofsson. Clark is wearing a tan leather jacket, a loud flowered shirt, and bell-bottoms. He looks as if he has been rousted from a discothèque. Jan slowly raises his hand to Clark, who, behind his dark brown beard, smiles, rolling his eyes, as if to say, What crazy mess is all this, my friend?
—He is my best friend in all of the world, Jan confides, whispering the words into Kristin’s neck. He will know what to do.
Clark walks across the tiny avenue, then opens one of the bank’s heavy glass doors. Jan stares at his friend’s wide face, and from the shape of his dark eyes and the unruliness of his shaggy beard, he at once knows the entire story of Clark’s troubled life. Even though he can see that his best friend Clark is one equally destructive mess, that he will be arrested over and over again, that nothing good will ever come of their friendship, Jan still begins to weep with gratitude. Clark has two bulletproof vests with him as well as two formidable-looking assault rifles.
—You came, Jan whispers.
—Of course, Clark says with a wide grin.
They hurry back into the safety of the bank’s long corridor, Jan gently placing the pistol against Kristin’s ribs, leading his friend toward the main bank vault. He stops suddenly, his eyebrows raised in worry.
—What about the helmets? Jan asks. Where are the helmets?
—We don’t need them. We have hostages, Clark says. The police assured me they would not try and open fire as long as we didn’t hurt the bank tellers.
—What about the fast car?
—It’s parked around the corner.
—What color is it?
—Yellow.
—See! Jan shouts. See, they are fucking with me!
—We can ask for another car, Clark says.
—Of course. I’m sorry I lost my temper, Jan says.
Clark steps inside the bank vault and smiles. He has the smile of a television spokesman, of an insurance salesman, of your favorite dentist. You trust it though you know you should not. He grins at brown-eyed Elizabeth and the two sisters.
—If I may please ask a question: Is anyone in this bank vault worried about anything? Clark asks.
The four women are silent, unsure how to answer.
—Because you can tell me. I would really like to know, Clark adds. It will be helpful for us to know your fears. You, he says, singling out shy Elizabeth. What are you afraid of?
—Good. Anything else?
—Stories about witches.
—Okay, that is what I’m talking about. It’s important that we are open with each other. That is how we are going to get through this.
Clark itches his beard knowingly, then nods at the twins.
—What about you two, what are you afraid of?
—We are afraid to be alone, they both say in unison.
—Of course, like anybody. And you, what is your name? Clark asks, motioning toward Kristin. Kristin blinks at him bravely. She thinks she may have danced with him once at some disco downtown, or maybe not. Maybe it’s just his eyes, or his wiry beard. Maybe he looks exactly like every young man she has ever fallen in love with only to have her heart broken later. The boy who bought her a kitten for Christmas, with a red bow around its neck, who then slept with her best friend, Monica. Or the boy who made her a painting—a scene of them happily living on the moon together—and then asked for it back so that he could sell it. Or the other boy who named each freckle on her body, only to disappear a month later. This man has the same kind of charm, the kind that suggests weakness, the kind that indicates how sad he will always make her feel. There is something dependable, unfailing in this sort of sadness. Kristin immediately finds herself taken with him.
—Go on, what’s your name? Clark shouts.
—Kristin Ehnemark.
—Okay, Kristin Ehnemark, what frightens you?
—I am afraid of nuclear war.
—Good. Anything else?
—And fireworks. I don’t like loud noises.
—Good. Anything more?
—I am also afraid of the police.
—Wonderful. I’m afraid of the police too. Why are you afraid of them?
—I’m afraid they will try to storm the bank. I’m afraid they will accidentally kill us all.
—It’s as if you could read my mind, Clark says, winking. That is exactly what I most fear right now. We must make sure that does not happen.
—In 1999, you will be arrested in Denmark on drug charges, Jan suddenly blurts out.
Clark stares at his friend. Jan is slimmer than he is, with a longer nose and an untrustworthy face. Clark pats his friend on the shoulder and whispers, Please try and relax, Jan.
—I think we need to leave, Jan says. We need to leave as soon as possible. Or we will all die here. They will send things to harm us through the electricity.
—Listen to me. There is a car waiting for us, Clark whispers. The problem is that they said we could not take the hostages with us.
—Then they will shoot us! I told you we needed helmets. If we had helmets, we could escape!
—No, no, no, no, Clark says. You are trying to think rationally about all of this. You must try and think irrationally. I am going to call the Prime Minister and tell him we want to be able to leave with the hostages. That he must get us a different vehicle. And that we want a flight out of here, to Switzerland, and then when we get there, we want another car to take us to a secret location, some mountain somewhere, where all of us can live together for a while. We want a place that has a lot of trees. And birds, so we can go for a walk in the woods, all of us, and listen to the different birds and talk about what we liked about their different songs.
The girls all look at Clark questioningly.
—If anyone has a problem with that, they should say something now, he says.
The young women are all still silent.
—You, Clark says to Kristin, smiling his soft, unreliable smile. You come with me.
Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he carefully takes Kristin’s wrist and leads her down the long corridor to the bank’s lobby. He picks up the yellow telephone and dials the police, then hands the phone to Kristin.
—Tell them who you are. Tell them you want to speak to the Prime Minister. Tell them you are going to be shot if they don’t let you.
Kristin speaks quickly into the receiver.
—What did they say? Clark asks.
—They said you can speak with the Prime Minister whenever you want.
—Good.
Kristin hands the telephone back to Clark.
—Is this Prime Minister Palme? he asks.
The voice on the other end of the line is formal and shaky.
—Yes. Whom am I speaking to? the voice says.
—Whom are you speaking to? Whom are you speaking to? You are speaking to Clark Olofsson. I have a rifle. I am sitting here pointing it at a pretty girl. I am about to blow her head off.
—Yes, I apologize. I wanted to make sure I was talking to the right person.
—I am definitely the right person.
—Good, the Prime Minister says.
—You bet it’s good. Now, I want you to know something. If you don’t let us leave with the hostages, we are going to begin shooting them. Do you understand this?
—Perhaps, Mr. Olofsson …
—No, I want you to listen. I want you to hear what you are doing.
Clark grabs Kristin tightly, his right hand gripping her thin throat. He holds the phone up to her pink mouth, her lips curling as she struggles to breathe.
—You have one hour to clear the street of police. Or else we start shooting. Clark slams down the phone and releases his grip on Kristin. She looks up at him, holding the red spot where his hand has just been.
—I am sorry I had to do that, Clark says. I had to make him think we’re serious. I want you to know that no harm will come to you.
—Why are you doing this? You don’t have to … I mean … why are you here? Did you even want to rob this bank?
—No, Clark says. But Jan asked me to help him. He is my only friend in the world. The only one who isn’t in prison. I had no choice.
—He’s not your friend. A friend wants to help you, wants to make you happy. You can’t be friends with someone who doesn’t want you to be happy.
—We are all going to be happy. Together. On the little mountain. We’ll get some animals: some goats, some cats maybe. You can name one after me and then I’ll name one after you.
—They’ll never let you. They won’t let you leave the building with us.
—They have to.
—But they won’t let you. And then we’ll all be killed.
—Listen, if we are to be killed, then there’s nothing we can do about that. For now we must return to the safety of the vault.
But Kristin does not move. She holds her throat, staring at him, her eyes wet with tears. Clark recognizes the look: She thinks she has been betrayed by something.
—I told you about what I was afraid of, she says. And I don’t want you to die either. You didn’t come here to do anything wrong. You’re like us. Why should you be killed too?
—Listen, he says. I am very sorry. Look, look, he whispers, digging through his jacket. Here, look, look at this. He takes out a small silver ring. This is my mother’s, it’s hers. It’s her wedding ring. I want you to have it. It’s good luck. It’s my good-luck charm. I’m giving it to you. Nothing bad will happen to you if you have it.
He takes Kristin’s small white hand and places the ring against her palm.
—Now, let’s hurry back to the vault, okay?
Kristin nods, marching ahead of Clark, who gazes at the impossible smallness of Kristin’s ankles and feet. Years later, while imprisoned for drug charges, he will think of those tiny feet and know he is forever doomed for having lied to her, for having harmed something so delicate, so defenseless, so small, so weak.
By the end of the day, the police have decided they will not leave. The bank robbers try and phone the Prime Minister once again. By then, Jan Olsson has nearly given up. He sits in the corner of the enormous bank vault, sobbing, the police assault rifle resting uselessly at his feet. Clark, unsure how to proceed, ties up the four young women with electrical wire. He knots a loop around their necks so that if they try to escape,
or try to untie the wire, they will end up choking themselves. He searches the empty bank offices and finds a phone behind the information counter with a very long cord, then drags it into the vault with him.
When Elizabeth’s transistor radio runs out of batteries, Clark sings Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly” over and over again. After that, there are a few hours of marked silence. Outside it must be midnight. Clark crawls out of the vault again and down the long corridor. He stares into the unlit lobby, where the marble floor reflects the night and the bright searchlights of dozens of police vehicles. Clark hisses, then quickly moves back to the vault. He picks up the telephone, asks for the Prime Minster, and then begins to shout.
—Why are there police still on the street?
—They said they were unable to withdraw until the hostages have been released.
—You are fucking with us, man! Clark screams. Don’t you want these girls to live?
—I do.
—Well, it doesn’t seem like it. We want to leave now. We are going to take the hostages with us. We want a car that is fast and not yellow. We want a flight out of here and a mountain for ourselves in Switzerland.
—I don’t think I can arrange all that, Mr. Olofsson.
—Well, you better try! Or these girls are going to start getting shot. Now, I want you to listen …
Clark looks around the vault, then drags the telephone over to Kristin.
—Tell him, Clark hisses. Tell him we are going to kill you if they don’t let us take you.
Kristin closes her eyes as Clark places the receiver against her ear and mouth.
—Sir, she whispers. Sir, you are putting us in great danger. These men, they don’t want to harm us, but they will.
—We are afraid for your safety, the Prime Minister says. We’re afraid they will try and kill you once they escape with you.
—Sir, Kristin says, I am very displeased with your attitude. Please allow us to leave with the robbers.
—My dear girl, the Prime Minister responds quietly, you are in all our thoughts and prayers. We will get you out of there safely, I promise. But we cannot let them leave with you.
