“When was this?”
She pauses. “Maybe a year ago. Though I haven’t seen him for months.”
“And the club, Vertigo. What kind of place is it?”
“Well, it’s just a regular club, though most of our patrons are interested in various fetish or queer cultures and like to party. But not everyone is kinky. You do have to be dressed right to get in, though. Granny panties and Crocs need not apply.”
She wrinkles her nose a little as she says the last bit, as if granny panties are the most disgusting thing she could imagine, obscene in some way.
“And Jesper is one of the…kinky ones?”
I can’t help but smile at Manfred, who’s been noticeably put off balance, despite his long experience interrogating all kinds of people. But perhaps it’s not so much the fetish talk that makes him uncomfortable, but the fact that she’s young, beautiful, and, on top of it all, praised his beloved jacket.
“Jesper’s really not that kinky. I think he’s just curious about testing the limits a little. A thrill seeker, you might say. Though basically he’s a very sweet and gentle guy.”
“ ‘Sweet and gentle’ are not exactly the words his colleagues use to describe him.”
The woman sighs. “Well…I don’t know what he’s like on the job. Just how he acts when we used to see each other.”
“And how was he then?”
Again her eyes wander toward the ceiling.
“Well. Happy, nice. He could seem a little stressed sometimes, obsessively checking his phone all the time and stuff like that. But I assumed it was part of his job to be available at all times. I remember that I felt sorry for him. And of course, he didn’t really want to be seen around town with me. Which was probably because the tabloids were always after him. Yeah, I really felt sorry for him.”
She falls silent. Her intense blue eyes meet mine.
“So, where did you meet?” asks Manfred.
“Like I said, at the club or my apartment in Midsommarkransen.”
“And how long were you together? You said you met a year ago, and you haven’t him seen for several months.”
The woman laughs softly.
“Oh my God. We weren’t ‘together.’ We just met up. Hooked up. Had sex. You know.”
Manfred looks as if he doesn’t know. “Sex with no strings attached?”
“That’s the best kind. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Manfred nods hesitantly.
“Was he ever violent during sex? Did anything happen that frightened you?”
“Frightened?” She laughs. “Nope. He was sweet, like I said. A little rough. He liked it rough. But I do too, so that wasn’t a problem.”
“Rough? Like S&M?”
“Nothing like that. He was just…oh, you know. Liked to grab me hard and stuff.”
She looks committed now, as if it’s important for her to explain in exactly what way Jesper Orre was rough. As if she wants to avoid any misunderstandings in her deposition at all costs.
“Did you ever meet at his home?”
She shakes her head. “Never. He lives out in the suburbs.”
“And what did you talk about when you weren’t having sex?”
“Pretty much everything. Politics, sports. He was really into sports. I think he worked out a lot too, because he was very fit for his age. It was obvious that he took good care of himself. Never ate peanuts or chips or that sort of thing at the club. Drank mostly water with ice and lemon.”
“Okay. So a wholesome kind of guy?”
She knits her brows and leans back. Crosses her arms over her chest, and I sense that she doesn’t like how this conversation is developing.
“Yes. Actually,” she says.
—
Just as Manfred is about to show Anja out, she turns and meets my gaze. “Well, there was one more thing.”
“Yes?” I say.
“He stole my underwear sometimes.”
“He stole your underwear?”
“Yes. I assumed he liked lingerie. I didn’t really care, except that they were pretty expensive, so he could at least have given me new ones, considering what he earns. Don’t you think?”
—
After Jesper Orre’s friend has left, Manfred and I go back up to the third floor again. Manfred is panting slightly. I’m guessing it’s the stairs, but I’ve stopped nagging him about losing the weight. He’s an adult, and I assume he knows just how unhealthy those extra fifty pounds are.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. “He’s a pervert.”
“It’s not illegal to fuck ladies in latex or play rough in bed.”
“But stealing underwear is.”
“What a great fucking idea! Let’s bring him in for theft.”
Manfred grins. Takes off his jacket and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
“Half the force is out looking for Orre. We don’t need an excuse to bring him in.” Manfred seems to shift gears for a moment, then says, “It never ceases to amaze me how different people are beneath their polished surfaces.”
I nod, but also think there are worse things to hide than having an exciting sex life. For example, having nothing at all under the surface. Being hollow inside, like an empty milk carton.
Like me.
“Outwardly, a respected and hardworking CEO, but really a latex peeper who can’t handle a real relationship. Afraid of responsibility. Afraid of life,” Manfred says, as if he were a doctor with the authority to deliver a fatal diagnosis.
—
I’m still sitting at my desk long after Manfred has gone. Watching the sky over Stockholm darken. Changing from a dirty gray to a deep black. A few lonely snowflakes swirl by in a gust of wind. The windows in the apartment buildings across the street are lit a warm yellow, revealing that all the normal, responsible people—whatever that means—are home preparing dinner or slumped in front of their TVs.
The image of Hanne pops into my mind. How she shook my hand in the conference room without really meeting my eyes. It was as if she was looking at the wall next to my head instead. And, of course, I felt something when we touched: a kind of grief for what never came to be, perhaps. Or a silly desire to explain, to clarify why I acted the way I did. To say all the things that I didn’t dare to say back then.
As if that could make anything better.
Then I think about what Manfred said, that Jesper Orre was afraid of responsibility. If my mother were alive, sitting here today opposite me, she would probably say I was the one who was afraid of responsibility. Any responsibility. Responsibility for relationships, for money. Yes, for the whole damn planet.
I imagine my mother sitting on the chair opposite me. Her long dark hair gathered in a thick braid on her back. Her dainty body with the slightly broad backside. Wearing eighties-style glasses too big for her lean, tanned face.
“Ulla Margareta Lindgren, I’ve asked you to come in to give a statement about your son, Peter Ernst Lindgren. Yes, me, that is.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“It won’t take long.”
“Well then, in that case. But can we speed it up a little? I don’t have all day.” Pause. Mom fiddles with her hair and gives me a stern look that can’t be avoided.
“Would you describe me as a responsible person?”
A deep sigh.
“You know I’ve always loved you, Peter. You have a heart of gold, you really do; no one can deny it. But you have never taken responsibility. Just look at how you live. So sloppy. Eating food from plastic packages that are bad for the environment. And you don’t recycle either. You never see your son. Poor Janet has had to bear the burden alone—well, I’m not saying you should live together; adults have to decide those sorts of things themselves. And to be completely honest, I never really thought you were that compatible. But, for God’s sake, you could have helped. Albin is your flesh and blood.
“And you don’t show any interest in the world around you either, even though you’re a co
p. You barely read the papers. In Syria and Gaza children are dying like flies, and all you care about is watching bad movies and working. It’s so…shabby, Peter. That’s all I’m saying. When I was young, I was an activist. Worked for what I believed in. Even though I had a job and two kids. You went with me to rallies. There was nothing strange about that. I don’t understand why you can’t do that too. Take that opportunity now, you, who are in the middle of your life. Before you know it, it’s over.”
I get up, go over to the window, rest my forehead against the cold, black window frame. Close my eyes and let the memories wash over me.
My mother was involved in the anti–Vietnam War movement. She was a graphic designer and helped with the layout of the Vietnam Bulletin and with various posters and leaflets. Sometimes my sister, Annika, and I would help her paint placards or put together newspapers in the small house in the Kronobergs Park where the group met. I remember that my father hated when we went along, because he thought we were too small to have any understanding of the Vietnam question, or any political issue for that matter. But we begged and finally Dad gave in, kissed Mom on the cheek, and admonished her to take good care of us, protect us from the worst of the anti-imperialist propaganda.
I loved those meetings.
There were always other children and the atmosphere was jolly and permissive. Though everybody worked hard, nobody was in a hurry. Children had the run of the place, but were never in anybody’s way.
Because I was so small, I got the easiest assignments—coloring the letters on signs like “USA Out of Indochina” with red on a white background. Annika, who was older, got to paint the American rockets, which made me jealous.
When we were finished working, the adults drank wine and played the guitar, or they might discuss the situation in Indochina. I played with the other children. And sometimes I fell asleep on the floor in front of my mother’s legs.
Sometimes the Freedom Singers sang for us, and what started as a routine evening of work culminated in—or perhaps descended into—a raucous party.
Sometimes one of the skinny young guys with corduroy blazers and sideburns would sit very close to my mother, offering her cigarettes and indignantly pushing up their horn-rimmed glasses while talking about the Swedish Vietnam Committee or the friendly but oh so naïve radical pacifists. Sometimes one of those men would put an arm around my mother, touch her long, dark hair. But she always smiled and pulled away a bit. And somehow I knew, despite my young age, that that move signified security and stability. My mother belonged with my father, even if she called him a “reactionary”—which I could tell was a very ugly word—now and then.
Then one day, the war was over. The freedom fighters had won, and the imperialists had gone home to the USA to eat hamburgers and drink Coca-Cola. Firebombs no longer fell on the jungles and rice paddies, on the unprotected children. Napalm no longer cut through flesh and bone as easily as a hot knife cutting through butter.
And I remember that somehow I knew it should make me happy. Mom said it was a good thing, and that I should be proud I had taken responsibility and helped stop the war, but instead I felt sad. Empty.
No more rallies. No more demonstrations. No placards to be colored in.
I prayed to God to bring another war soon, but harbored no great hopes, because my mother had told me long ago that God was a capitalist fabrication created to keep the poor in their place.
I turn around. My mother is gone; in an instant she’s been transported from the chair opposite me back to the cold ground of the Woodland Cemetery. In the hallway outside I can hear my colleagues leaving the office. Conversations punctuated by laughter disappear and die out.
It’s time to go home.
To turn on the TV and pass one more evening of my life, aimlessly.
EMMA
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“Oh, you sick?”
Olga sounds uninterested. In the background, I can hear the wretched playlist, and it suddenly feels like a relief not to have to go to work today.
“It’s nothing serious. I think I just ate something bad. I’ll probably come in tomorrow. Can you talk to Björne?”
Pause. “Sure.”
I can see her in front of me, the way the phone rests between her shoulder and chin, while she gives all of her attention to her nails, holding them up to the light to check that there are no cracks or scratches, that the shimmering rhinestones remain fastened to the polish.
“See you tomorrow, then,” I say, but she’s already hung up.
I try calling Jesper again, even though I no longer expect him to answer. I mostly want to hear his voice, but I don’t reach the recorded message. Instead I hear a voice explaining that this number is no longer in use.
I decide to try another method. I look up the phone number of the corporate office. With trembling fingers, I dial the number. The woman who answers connects me without question when I say I want to talk to Jesper Orre, which surprises me a little. Is it really that easy to contact a company’s CEO? Can just anyone call the switchboard and be put through to him?
But of course, Jesper isn’t the one who answers.
Jesper’s assistant answers, identifies herself, and asks in her unplaceable accent how she can help me. I explain that I’m looking for Jesper, and it’s a private matter. She asks for my name and number so he can call me back. I hesitate. Surely this was why Jesper asked me not to call his office: so that no secretary or receptionist would take my name?
I ask her if she can connect me directly instead, and she responds politely that he’s in a meeting.
“So is he all right?” There’s a pause.
“What do you mean?” she asks, and I think I hear a hint of suspicion in her voice.
“It’s just that he promised to call me…several days ago, and when I couldn’t get ahold of him, I got worried that something had happened.”
“He’s doing just fine. If you give me your name and number, I can ask him to call you when he comes out of his meeting,” she says in her pleasant, professional voice.
I say that I’ll try to call back later instead, and she says that’s fine. Then we hang up, and I’m left sitting at my kitchen table, the clock above the table ticking so loudly it feels like its hands are inside my head.
Why is Jesper avoiding me? Did he get cold feet, regret the engagement? Or is he just a really sick bastard, a sadist who enjoys making me suffer?
Could there be some other explanation? Could something have happened that caused him to withdraw: a death in the family, a crisis at work? Sure, but what could be so serious that you can’t make a phone call or send a text message?
—
Three weeks earlier, we were lying naked on my living room floor. The sepia-toned evening light crept through my blinds, outlining a soft grid of light and shadow on our bodies. One window was ajar, and the curtain billowed a little in the chilly air.
Jesper was smoking. It didn’t happen often, only after we had a few glasses of wine, or sometimes after we made love. He looked up at the ceiling while his large hand rested on my stomach. With his fingers he drew small circles on my sweaty skin.
“What happened?” he asked.
“She got sick and died.”
Jesper inhaled deeply. “Yes. I got that. But what did she die of?”
“Inflammation of the pancreas. They said it was because she drank too much.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yes and no. Sometimes I can’t help thinking that she has only herself to blame. It was nobody’s fault that she drank.”
Jesper turned his head toward me. Met my eyes. “It wasn’t her I was thinking of. It was you.”
“Me?”
He laughed and shook his head slightly, as if I’d said something silly. “Yes. You.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
There was silence for a moment. Sirens blared in the distance. In the kitchen, the refrigerator turned on with a sigh.
“I’
m so sorry I can’t go with you to the funeral,” he said after a moment, as if it was something he’d been thinking about.
“I’ll be fine.”
“No one should have to go to their mother’s funeral alone.”
I didn’t respond. What could I say? He was right, of course; we’d been seeing each other for months by now, and it had become increasingly difficult to keep our relationship secret.
“Will it always be like this?”
He stubbed out his cigarette in his wineglass and turned to me. Heaved himself up on his elbow, kissed me softly. A kiss that tasted like ashes and wine. I turned my head away, something he must have interpreted as a protest of our situation rather than his breath.
“Of course it won’t always be like this.”
“How long, then?”
He sank back down. Sighed deeply, clearly frustrated.
“We’ve talked about this a thousand times. You know how the tabloids chase me. Just yesterday there were two journalists who used the term ‘slave contracts’ when they wrote about our employees’ conditions. If the media sniffed this out…You know well enough yourself what would happen. I’d be fired. We have to wait until things have calmed down.”
“And when exactly will it calm down?”
“How the hell should I know? Whenever the hyenas find another company to focus on. By the way, you should start looking for another job. It would help if you weren’t employed by the company.”
He leaned forward, fished up the blanket, and spread it over us. “It’s cold,” he said. “Should I close the window?”
“It’s just so hard. Everyone is wondering who you are, and I can’t say anything. It feels a bit…adolescent.”
He turned his face toward me. The draft had died down. A smile played at the corner of his mouth.
“Adolescent?”
“Yes, I seem like a damn teenager. With a secret boyfriend.”
He laughed. Kissed my neck and continued on down toward my stomach. “Am I your secret boyfriend?”
“I guess you are.”
“And you, then? My little lamb chop?”
I giggled. His tongue ran over my chest, dug into my belly button, twirling around in circles, as if he were eating some invisible dish from my body. Then he continued down, let his tongue run along the inside of my thigh. I froze. Uncomfortably aware of my body. All its cavities, smells, and sounds. He must have felt me tense up, because he lifted his head a bit and looked me in the eyes.
The Ice Beneath Her Page 10
