All my friends thought Stefan was good for me. He made me blossom and dampened my dark, brooding traits. He had an uncomplicated relationship to the big questions in life and often answered my despondency with statements along the lines of, “If you only got out more you wouldn’t feel like this” or “Stop thinking about that and help me with this plank instead.” He had a way of resolutely but carefully guiding my thoughts away from dark abysses, and I never missed my difficult side. I was never really happy with the way I intellectualized emotions and problems, and so I received his frank, simple manner with joy.
Then Stefan started his specialist training at the Stockholm South General Hospital. No one was surprised when he chose orthopedics. That was so very Stefan. If something was broken, he wanted to fix it, not just study it or talk about why it didn’t work.
When Jenny Andersson, one of my patients, committed suicide, Stefan was a big support. I lost myself in doubt and self-examination, questioning both my choice of profession and my capacity for empathy. Stefan made me realize that it was not my responsibility. In his resolute, analytical way, he explained that if someone truly wanted to take her own life, then neither I nor anyone else could prevent it. I still remember our conversation that evening, as Stefan tucked me in on the couch under the patchwork quilt his grandmother had sewn out of old handkerchiefs in the 1960s.
I told Stefan that I thought I ought to have seen that it was about to happen.
“Why is that?” he asked, shrugging.
“If anyone should have known, it was me.”
“Do you think, in retrospect, that there were signs?”
I hesitated for a moment and tried to recall my last encounters with Jenny. She had appeared both happier and a little calmer than usual. Perhaps she had already decided? Was that a sign of relief—that the understanding of the choice she had made, and its consequences, was like a weight that had been taken off her chest? Peace?
“No, not really. Not at all,” I corrected myself, shaking my head. “There were no signs. I mean, of course there were signs: Jenny suffered from anxiety, she was depressed, but she denied that she was thinking about taking her own life. I asked her, asked the standard questions about thoughts of death, thoughts of taking her own life, plans… Jenny just laughed. She said that suicide was for the weak. The losers. I didn’t ask if she saw herself as a loser.”
“Would you blame her family or friends because they didn’t see what was about to happen?”
“No, absolutely not.”
“Then why do you blame yourself?”
“Because it’s my job to see that kind of thing.”
“Siri, dear Siri.” Stefan took my hands in his, as he always did when he wanted my full attention. “You and I both know that even a trained psychologist can’t read minds, can’t see into someone’s future, prevent her from making mistakes, or even interpret her intentions with any great certainty. There are no blood tests you can prescribe, you can’t send your patients to the lab and get results the next day. You asked the questions, you got answers. You couldn’t do more than that.”
Actually, I knew deep down that Stefan was right, but that hopeless, suffocating, chafing feeling of guilt would still not release its grip on me. I could not say with certainty that I had not contributed to Jenny’s death.
“Siri, forget Jenny now.”
But I was no longer listening.
Carefully he helped me up off the couch and led me into the kitchen, as if I were a child.
“Siri, I need help with the potatoes.”
I looked at him without understanding, unable to speak.
“Here.” He placed the potato peeler in my hand and poured what must have been several pounds of potatoes into the sink. Slowly, almost mechanically, I started peeling potatoes. At least an hour went by, and by the time I had peeled the last one, I had actually collected myself enough so that we could talk about something other than Jenny’s death.
Yet another one of Stefan’s talents: meeting me halfway and healing me without words. While I was convinced that everything could be figured out, sorted, and resolved in conversation. Sometimes I felt that was all I did, talk and talk—at the practice, with my friends, and with Stefan.
“People are what they do,” Stefan would always say. “Actions make us who we are.” So, who did that make me?
It started as a way to pass the time.
Time: I had an ocean of it now, so why not investigate what she did when she wasn’t working? I already knew what she did during the day, of course.
More and more often I made my way to the bars around Medborgarplatsen where I assumed she would hang out sometimes after work. I had no plan, didn’t know what I would do if I saw her. It was more like a compulsion, an implacable need to see her.
An itch.
Then suddenly one day she was standing right in front of where I was sitting in the sun on the stairs to Forsgrénska, smoking. That is, she was standing ten yards away, looking aimlessly out over the square. I was struck by how ugly she was. Small and bony with very short brown hair. As far as I could see, she had no makeup on at all and expectantly observed the crowd with gray, expressionless, dead eyes. Her mouth was pinched, which made it look like a little pink grub. Her arms and legs were skinny and tan, with chapped, bony kneecaps and elbows. Her attire was that of the typical Södermalm intellectual: short, formless khaki skirt, flat sandals, black, loose-fitting cotton blouse (I couldn’t even see a hint of breasts), and a scarf wrapped loosely several times around her neck. On her wrist she wore a bracelet with colorful beads, which made her look incredibly childish. Like the innocent preschool teacher she TRULY wasn’t. I put out the cigarette in the palm of my hand and welcomed the sharp pain because it kept my other emotions in check.
It’s an unusually lovely evening, even if there is a chill in the air that announces that autumn is inexorably approaching. The outdoor cafés on Medborgarplatsen are full. It is as if everyone knows that summer will soon be over and they want to take hold of the evening and sit outside awhile longer. Over the square, a lone seagull hovers in search of food scraps.
Aina and I walk through Södermalm. We pass Björn’s Park, where a couple of teenagers entertain themselves on the skateboard ramp while the regulars drink out of unidentifiable bottles and serve as an enthusiastic audience. We go farther up toward Mosebacke Square and in through the gates to Mosebacke Etablissement.
It looks like there aren’t any available tables outdoors at the café. A mixture of young locals, Japanese tourists, and older couples are squeezed in at every seat.
Aina peers into the crowd. “Look over there. We’re in luck!”
Our colleague, Sven Widelius, is sitting at one of the tables with a cold beer and a newspaper. His wavy, graying hair falls like a curtain over his furrowed, tan forehead. If I didn’t know him, I would probably think he was an attractive man. Even though he’s twenty years older than I am.
There is something about the way he brushes his hair out of his face, something about his bony, well-defined cheekbones, his heavy eyelids, and the intensity of his gray eyes. Something about the way he fills a room with his presence and his nervous energy; he is constantly in motion. And he is physical: brushing my shoulder as he walks by, pressing my hand as he looks at me, giving me all his attention. And then his laugh. Not always nice—often cynical, teasing. Sometimes I feel insecure when he looks at me; he makes me feel younger, and naked.
Ignorant.
That’s what his gaze is like. And he takes his time. Lets his gray eyes rest on me without shame or hesitation. As if we had a secret pact.
He and I.
Aina and I move through the sea of tables and chairs, squeeze between a group of heavy-set women with Finnish accents, and step over an enormous black dog before we finally reach Sven, who looks up and cocks his head to one side.
“Ah, my young female colleagues,” he says, not without irony. “You want to keep me company? Is it me or the table you’re
after?”
“Stop sulking, Sven!” says Aina. “We’ll treat you to a beer.”
“That’s no good,” Sven answers. “I’m waiting for Birgitta.”
Birgitta Börjesdotter Widelius is Sven’s wife. She’s a stocky woman with salt-and-pepper hair and sensual features who for many years has been a professor of gender studies at Uppsala University. Both Aina and I are impressed by Birgitta. Her academic career is without compare, her research significant, and her personality strong.
But, as impressed as we are by Birgitta, we are equally mystified by her relationship with Sven. He is charismatic and attractive, and aware of it. He is a charmer, and possibly also a seducer. Malicious rumors claim that his academic career was cut short due to an affair with a doctoral student, perhaps even with an undergraduate. It is hardly a secret anymore that he was unfaithful—even Birgitta must know by now. But despite all that, they’re still together. And if there are cracks in their relationship, they aren’t visible to the outside world. Birgitta doesn’t appear to be the type to go for public demonstrations of affection anyway. She is a private person, bordering on secretive, as Aina always says. She is more than happy to talk about her work but not about her personal life. And who can blame her? Being married to Sven can’t be easy.
“May we sit with you?” I ask politely.
“Be my guests,” Sven replies, once again running his hand through his hair. “We’re only meeting here, we’re going to a concert at Katarina Church,” he continues, slapping the seat beside him with the palm of his hand in a welcoming gesture.
Aina fights her way to the bar, pushing to get past an old couple and a long-haired guy with dreadlocks carrying a baby on his hip, wrapped in a kind of hand-woven shawl. Sven and I stay at the table and take in the scene.
We fall silent, look at each other, and start laughing. Embarrassed.
“If we met more often outside the office, maybe it wouldn’t be so awkward.”
Sven looks at me and smiles again, and for a moment it feels as if I’m on a roller-coaster ride. He is looking right into me. He sees my loneliness, I’m sure.
“Maybe we could get together, Siri, just the two of us?”
The roller-coaster ride is over and I feel anger rising, even if it’s hard to tell whether or not Sven is being serious. However that may be, I don’t need to have this conversation with a colleague, who is married to boot.
“Sven, knock it off,” I say curtly.
Sven’s laugh is loud and ringing, and it rolls out over the café, making me even more uncomfortable.
“If it wouldn’t make me come off like an uneducated, male chauvinist pig, I would say that you need a man, Siri. Do you intend to live like a—”
I cut him off. “Here comes Birgitta. And by the way, Sven, maybe I do need a man, but not a married colleague who is twenty years older than me. Surely there are other, more suitable candidates…”
I smile at one of the guys at the next table.
But Sven no longer notices me and my move goes right over his head. As he gets up and hugs Birgitta, I am astonished at his ability to switch between various situations as if there were no overlap.
Everything in a separate compartment.
Birgitta greets me and Aina, who has returned with two glasses of wine. We chat for a while about an article that Aina has read, and then Sven and Birgitta wander off in the summer night, side by side.
Aina can tell immediately that I am annoyed.
“I see that our colleague has tried to seduce you again.”
“It’s nothing,” I answer. “It’s just…”
I pause. Usually, Sven is okay. He is easy to share a practice space with. He always pays his portion of the expenses and does so on time. He is knowledgeable and has a lot of experience that he is more than happy to share. He has helped me often with my patients when I felt I wasn’t getting anywhere. But sometimes he crosses the line. And although I ought to be able to handle his flirting, it makes me uncomfortable. But maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a prudish, dried-up woman who desperately needs a man. But I don’t think so. What I actually need is to learn not to take everything so seriously.
This is why I say, “Forget it.”
Instead, I sip my wine and listen to the latest chapter in Aina’s ongoing conflict with her mother. What the disagreement is really about has long been forgotten. It has a life of its own, and neither of them seems able or willing to resolve it.
I have a hard time concentrating on Aina’s story. My thoughts are constantly sliding back to my conversation with Sara Matteus earlier that day. Something bothers me more than I can explain.
Aina notices my lack of engagement, but instead of being offended she confronts me: “Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Yes, but not here.”
An outdoor café is hardly the right place to discuss confidential matters. So we empty our wineglasses, leave our table, and walk aimlessly through the streets around Katarina Church as the summer sky darkens above the buildings and the air fills with the odors of the night: an indefinite, damp-saturated stench from rotting plants, the smell of frying from the crêperie around the corner, and the cigarette smoke from the customers at sidewalk cafés. And everywhere we are surrounded by that strange murmur, the buzzing sound produced collectively by the city’s many inhabitants. In the distance I hear Arabic music and the sighing, far-off sound of the traffic on Folkungagatan.
“It’s Sara Matteus,” I begin. “Something worries me. She’s met someone. A guy.”
Aina interrupts me with a short, bubbling laugh.
“Sara Matteus met a guy and you’re worried. Come on, hasn’t she met guys before? What is it about this one that makes you nervous?”
Aina’s teasing helps direct my train of thought.
“It’s the man himself, I think. He is, according to Sara, older, established, settled. He gives her presents. And has already started talking about moving in together. What does he want with Sara? Why would an older man with money want to be with a twenty-five-year-old girl who so obviously has problems, if he doesn’t—”
“If he doesn’t want to exploit her,” Anna fills in. “What does Sara herself say?”
“Oh, the usual. That it’s different this time. That he sees her, that this is for real. Which also frightens me. Because it makes her vulnerable. And if she gets hurt, that increases the risk of a relapse. She has almost stopped cutting herself, she’s much more stable than she was before. But if something happens… I’m truly afraid that she’ll…”
I pause.
Aina looks expectantly at me.
“If something happens, then what, Siri? She has to live her life, and you know that. And you have to stop viewing Sara simply as a victim.”
“But she is a victim. She is a victim of a school that could not understand, of poorly functioning child psychiatry, and of social services that couldn’t help her or her family.”
Aina pats my arm almost tenderly.
“Of course, Sara is partially a victim, but you know that she has resources, too. Come on, she’s a smart girl. Sure, she has had some tough experiences, but she’s moved on and she’s done it with her own strength. How many people do you know who have stopped using drugs on their own? Just as an example. And now she’s met a guy who you intuitively think is bad for her. If he really is, then Sara herself will be able to break up with him, with or without your help. And Sara must be able to continue to have her own experiences. Should she never again risk being hurt? Never again feel pain? Then she probably has to live the rest of her life away from other people.”
Aina falls silent and gives me time to let her message sink in. I know she’s right. I only wish that Sara could wait a little.
It’s early. Too early.
One mild summer evening I followed the other one, her slutty colleague. I followed her the whole way from Medborgarplatsen to Hornstull Beach via Mariatorget and Fogelströmska High School, as twilight fell over Söder. I was caref
ul to keep a distance so she wouldn’t see me. But I didn’t need to worry, because she never turned around, just walked as if she was in a hurry; as a matter of fact she was almost scampering, she looked a little crazy.
Like an overgrown kid.
At Hornstull, she veered off and went down toward the water, the market, and the outdoor café by the pier. I watched as she embraced a man, kissed him lightly on the mouth, and sat down with him at the café.
I was sitting on a pile of lumber at a safe distance, smoking, while I observed them through the throngs of people; she looked cheap but I have to admit, not without a certain style. She was wearing a pink T-shirt dress with a deer printed on the chest and a deep neckline that she consciously let slide down over one shoulder to reveal an angry green bra strap. Bare, tanned legs, worn Converses on her feet, her hair tied back in a careless bun.
The man across from her looked younger than her. He was wearing worn jeans, a hoodie, and something that looked like a Palestinian scarf wrapped tightly around his bearded neck. His long, frizzy hair was fastened in a ponytail at his neck.
I really wanted to know what they were talking about, but it was impossible, even though they were sitting only a few yards away, with the loud mass of people scurrying back and forth the whole time.
Then the other one leaned over toward the man and played with a lock of hair that had come loose from his ponytail. She smiled and looked at him with a gaze that could not be described in any other way than horny. The guy in the Palestinian scarf took her hand, laughed, and squeezed it. She laughed back, wriggled out of her shoes, and unabashedly put her feet on his lap.
I leaned forward to see better. The man’s facial expression had frozen and he was squeezing her hand harder now. It looked white. She grinned, and as I leaned forward I could see her feet kneading, massaging, and caressing his crotch. A sudden wave of nausea and dizziness forced me to turn around and take a deep breath of the damp night air.
Some Kind of Peace: A Novel Page 4
