Studio Sex

by Liza Marklund

  “You’ve got a week and a half left. Stick it out.”

  She gave a short laugh again. “So I can eat more shit?”

  “In small quantities and at the right moments, it can be good for one’s character,” Anders Schyman said with a smile.

  She pulled a wry face. “I’ve got compensatory leave to take.”

  “You do. But I’d rather you stayed and worked.”

  She walked toward the door but checked herself and stopped. “Just tell me one thing. Would this paper pay for a tip-off from a terrorist group?”

  “What do you mean?” He got to his feet.

  “Exactly what I say— pay money to be present during a terrorist act.”

  He crossed his arms and gave her a searching look. “Do you know something?”

  “I never disclose my sources,” she said mockingly.

  “You’re employed by this newspaper, and I’m your boss.”

  She fished out her pass from her pocket and put it on his desk. “Not any longer, you’re not.”

  “I want to know what made you ask.”

  “Answer my question first,” she retorted.

  He looked at her in silence for a few seconds. “Of course not. It would be out of the question. Never.”

  “If the paper had done this since you started, you would know about it?”

  “I take that for granted.”

  “And you can guarantee that this hasn’t happened?”

  He slowly nodded.

  “Okay,” she said in a light tone. “Then I’m satisfied. Well, then… It was short but sweet.”

  She held out her hand nonchalantly.

  He didn’t take it. “What are you going to do now?”

  Annika looked at the deputy editor with slight contempt. “And what’s that to you?”

  He answered calmly, “I’m interested.”

  “I’m going to the Caucasus. Actually, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  Schyman blinked. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. There’s a civil war down there.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be with the guerrillas, so I’m cool. See, the government has no weapons. The international community has seen to it that the slaughter is one-sided. Well, good luck getting this newspaper back on its feet. You’ve got a hell of a job ahead of you. The bosses here don’t know what the fuck they’re doing.”

  She put her hand on the door handle, paused. “You’ve got to get rid of that couch. It really stinks.”

  She left the door wide open behind her, Anders Schyman watching her weave her way through the newsroom. As she walked toward her desk, her movements jerky and angry, she didn’t stop to speak to a single person.

  *

  Anne Snapphane wasn’t at her desk.

  Just as well, Annika thought. I have to get out of here without breaking down. I’m not going to give them that.

  She threw her things together, a few boxes of pens, a pair of scissors, and a stapler thrown in. That was the least this shitty rag could give her.

  She left the newsroom without looking round. In the elevator down, she suddenly felt a heavy pressure across her chest. She had difficulty breathing as she stared at her face, bluish pale as usual, in the wall mirror.

  Damned lighting, she thought, and it’s summer. I wonder what you look like in this elevator in the winter.

  I’ll never find out was her next thought. This is the last time I’ll ever use it.

  The cage stopped with the familiar jerk. She pushed the door open, heavy as lead, and walked toward the fog outside. Tore Brand must have gone on holiday; a woman she didn’t recognize was behind the reception desk. The entrance doors slid closed behind her and that was the end of that.

  She stood for a while on the forecourt of the newspaper building, drawing the damp air into her lungs. It was raw and unpleasant.

  She recalled her words to Schyman.

  Where the hell did the idea about the Caucasus come from? she wondered. But maybe going abroad wasn’t such a bad idea, to just grab a last-minute trip anywhere.

  A figure emerged from the veils of fog in the street. Carl Wennergren was carrying two heavy bags full of bottles. Of course he was going to celebrate!

  “Congratulations,” Annika said tartly when he walked past her.

  He stopped and put the bags down. “Yeah, I feel great.” He flashed a wide smile. “Six months, that’s the longest contract they give you. Any longer and they would have to employ the person permanently.”

  “It must feel good, to get in here like that, by your own efforts— and with your own money.”

  The man smiled hesitantly. “What do you mean?”

  “Daddy’s little rich boy. Did you have the money to hand, or did you have to sell some stock?”

  His smile immediately faded and he looked away with a sneer on his face. “So they chucked you out?” he said nonchalantly.

  Her answer was shrill. “I’d rather eat cat food than buy my job from terrorists.”

  His contemptuous gaze swept across her body. “Well, bon appétit. You look a bit scrawny, actually. You could use something to eat.”

  He picked up his bags and turned around to go inside the newspaper offices. Annika saw that they were filled with Moët & Chandon bottles.

  “And not only did you buy a scoop and a contract, you also gave up your own sources. That’s quite a triple.”

  He stopped dead and looked around. “That’s bullshit.” She could see a hint of anxiety stirring around his eyes.

  She moved closer to him. “How the hell could the police know the Ninja Barbies would hit that place at that time? How the hell did they know to evacuate that particular block? And how could they know exactly where to hide?”

  “I don’t know.” Carl licked his lips.

  She took another step toward him and hissed straight in his face, “You sold out your own sources. You cooperated with the police to get pictures of the arrest, didn’t you?”

  He raised his eyebrows, leaned his head back, and gave her a contemptuous look. “And…?”

  She lost her head and started yelling. “You are such a fucking asshole! Fuck you!”

  He turned around and stumbled toward the entrance. “You crazy bitch!” he yelled over his shoulder.

  He disappeared through the glass doors and Annika felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Screw them! He gets to go in with the champagne while they throw me out on the street.

  “Hey, Bengtzon, do you want a lift?”

  She spun around and saw Jansson sitting in a clapped-out old Volvo at the exit to the street.

  “What are you doing here?” she called to him.

  “The recruitment meeting.” He switched off the engine. She walked over toward the car and the night editor stepped out.

  “You look tired,” she said.

  “Yeah, I was on last night. But I really wanted to go to this meeting. To do my bit of lobbying for you.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “Why?”

  He lit up a cigarette. “I think you’re the best cover we had this summer. I thought the six-month contract should go to you. So did Schyman.”

  Annika raised her eyebrows. “Really. So why didn’t it?”

  “The editor in chief said no. He’s a real idiot. He’s shit-scared of criticism. And you had the union against you.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  They stood there for a while in silence, Jansson smoking his cigarette.

  “Are you leaving right away?”

  Annika nodded. “No point in prolonging the agony.”

  “Maybe you could come back.”

  She laughed quietly. “I wouldn’t bet my last dollar on it.”

  The night editor shrugged. “So, can I drop you anywhere?”

  She looked into the man’s dog-tired face and shook her head. “Thanks, I’ll walk. Enjoy the fantastic weather.”

  They both looked around into the fog and laughed.

  *

  Her clothes stan
k of stale tobacco. She pulled them off and left them in a heap on the floor in the hallway. She put on her dressing gown and sat down on the couch.

  Patricia had gone out somewhere. Just as well. She reached for the telephone directories.

  “You can’t leave the Union of Journalists just like that,” an administrator at the union central office told her reproachfully.

  “I can’t? So how do I do it?”

  “First you have to write to your local branch and withdraw your name from the union, and then you have to write to us here at the central office. Then, after six months, you have to confirm your withdrawal, both locally and centrally.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  “The waiting period is counted from the first day of the following month. So you can’t leave the union until the first of March next year at the earliest.”

  “And I have to pay my dues in full until then?”

  “Yes, unless you stop practicing journalism.”

  “Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. As of this moment.”

  “So you’ve left your present employment?”

  Annika sighed. “No, I’ve got a permanent job on the Katrineholms-Kuriren.”

  “Then you can’t leave the union just like that.”

  I’m going to reach down the telephone wire and strangle the woman. “Now listen. I’m leaving the union now. Today. Forever. What I’m doing is none of your damned business. I won’t pay another cent. Just strike me off the register right now.”

  The woman on the phone got angry. “Obviously I can’t do that. And it’s not our union, it’s your union.”

  Annika laughed out loud.

  “You’re too much! Well, then, if I can’t leave, I just won’t pay the full dues, only the unemployment benefit fund contribution. Just send me a form.”

  “Well, that’s not the correct procedure.”

  Annika closed her eyes and swallowed. Her brain was about to explode.

  “Okay. Tell you what. Forget it. I’ll leave the unemployment benefit fund as well. Just go to hell.”

  She hung up, searched the phone directory, then phoned the syndicalist union, the SAC, the Swedish Workers Confederation.

  “I’d like to join the unemployment benefit fund…. Oh, great! Sure, I’ll send you the papers straightaway.”

  Things could be so simple.

  She went into the kitchen and made a sandwich, ate half of it, and threw the rest away. Then she went and got her notepad and settled down. She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, then she wrote both the letters. She could buy envelopes and stamps at the corner shop.

  *

  It was evening when Patricia got home and stepped on the heap of clothes on the floor.

  “Hello?“she called out. “Have you been to a bar or something?”

  Annika popped her head around the kitchen door. “Why?”

  “Your clothes smell like an ashtray.”

  “I’ve been fired.”

  Patricia hung up her jacket and walked into the kitchen. “Have you eaten?”

  Annika shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ve got to eat.”

  “Or what, I get bad karma?”

  Patricia smiled. “Karma is sins from previous lives that strike you in your present life. This is called hunger. People die from it.”

  She went up to the stove and started cracking eggs. Annika looked out the window; the rain pattered, emphasizing the dark gray of the evening.

  “It’ll be fall soon,” Annika said after a couple of minutes.

  “Here you are, a mushroom omelette.” Patricia sat down opposite her.

  To her surprise, Annika finished the omelette.

  “So, tell me, what do you mean, you’ve been fired?”

  Annika stared down at her empty plate. “I didn’t get another contract. The union wanted me out right away.”

  “Idiots,” Patricia said with such force that Annika started laughing.

  “Yes, they are actually. I’ve left the union.”

  Patricia cleared the table and did the dishes.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Annika swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I’ve just resigned from my job at Katrineholms-Kuriren and given my landlord in Hälleforsnäs notice. I posted the letters this afternoon.”

  Patricia opened her eyes wide. “How are you going to make any money?”

  Annika shrugged. “It’ll be a month before I get unemployment benefits. I’ve got some money in the bank.”

  “Where are you going to live?”

  Annika threw her arms out. “Here, for the time being. It’s only a short lease, but it could be for as long as a year. After that, I’ll have to see.”

  “We always need people at the club.”

  Annika gave a shrill, cheerless laugh. “Well, I’ve got the main qualifications: tits and a pussy. Mind you, I have spun the roulette wheel a few times in my day.”

  “Really?”

  “I worked as a croupier at the Katrineholm Hotel while I was at college. I can spin the wheel eleven times. I used to be able to make the ball land on thirty-four if I snapped the ball out from zero just right.”

  “Actually we need someone for the roulette table.”

  “I’m going to go away for a while.”

  “Where to?”

  Annika shrugged. “I can’t remember what it’s called. It’s in Turkey, by the Mediterranean.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  They sat in silence for a long while.

  “You should find out where you’re going,” Patricia said.

  “Sure.”

  “Hang on, let me get my cards.”

  Patricia got up from her chair and padded into her room. Annika heard her unzip her bag. A few moments later, Patricia appeared in the doorway, holding a small brown box.

  Patricia put the box on the kitchen table and opened it. Inside was a bundle wrapped in black material that she slowly untangled.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tarot is an ancient source of knowledge.” Patricia placed the deck on the table. “It’s a philosophy described in esoteric images on cards. A tool for moving toward greater awareness.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in this kind of stuff.”

  Patricia sat down. “It’s not about believing. It’s about listening. Opening up and gazing into one’s inner realm.”

  Annika couldn’t help smiling.

  “Don’t laugh, this is serious,” Patricia said sternly. “Look, there are seventy-eight cards, the Major Arcana, the Minor Arcana, and the court cards. They represent different insights and perspectives.”

  Annika shook her head and got to her feet.

  “No, sit down.” Patricia caught Annika’s wrist. “Let me tell you your fortune!”

  Annika hesitated, sighed, and sat down. “Well, all right. What do I have to do?”

  “Here.” Patricia placed the deck of cards in Annika’s hand. “Shuffle and cut.”

  Annika shuffled the cards, cut the deck, and held it out to Patricia.

  “No. First you cut it three times and then you shuffle again and cut it twice.”

  Annika gave her a skeptical look. “Why?”

  “For the energies. Go ahead.”

  Annika sighed inwardly and shuffled and cut, shuffled and cut.

  “Good,” Patricia said. “Now, don’t put the two piles together but choose one of them with your left hand and shuffle it again.”

  Annika rolled her eyes and did as she was told.

  “Great. Now you have to concentrate on the question you want an answer to. Are you facing a great change?”

  “Jesus, you know I am,” Annika said sharply.

  “Okay, then I’ll do a Celtic cross.”

  Patricia laid out the cards all over the table.

  “Nice pictures,” Annika said. “Weird-looking creatures.”

  “The deck was designed by Frieda Harris, aft
er sketches by Aleister Crowley. It took five years to finish the whole deck. The symbols have their roots in the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn.”

  “Whatever that is,” Annika said incredulously. “And now they’re going to show me my future?”

  Patricia nodded gravely and pointed at a card that lay underneath another. “Here, in the first position, is the card that represents your present situation. Tower Struck by Lightning, the sixteenth card in the Major Arcana. As you can see, it’s falling down. That’s your life, Annika. Everything that has stood for security in your world is crumbling— I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Annika gave Patricia a searching look. “What else?”

  Patricia moved her finger and pointed at the card that lay on top of the tower. “Five of Disks crosses your present situation, obstructing or promoting it. The card signifies Mercury in Taurus— depression and fear.”

  “And?”

  “You’re afraid of the change, but there’s no need to be.”

  “Right, and then what?”

  “Your view of the situation is what might be expected, Aeon, the twentieth card, which stands for self-criticism and thoughtfulness. You feel you’ve failed and are searching yourself. But your unconscious interpretation is much more interesting. Look here, Knight of Swords. He’s a master of creativity. He’s trying to break away from all the narrow-minded idiots.”

  Annika leaned back in her chair, and Patricia continued, “You come from the Seven of Disks, limitation and failure, and you are moving toward the Eight of Swords, interference.”

  Annika sighed. “Sounds like hard work.”

  “This is you. The Moon. That’s funny— last time I told my own fortune I also got the Moon. The female sex, the final test. I’m sorry but it’s not a good card.”

  Annika didn’t reply. Patricia looked at the remaining cards in silence, then said, “This is what you’re most afraid of. The Hanged Man. Rigidity, that your own spirit should be broken.”

  “But how’s it going to end?” Annika sounded a little less dismissive.

  Hesitating, Patricia pointed at the tenth card. “This is the outcome. Don’t be afraid. It’s only a symbol. Don’t take it literally.”

  Annika leaned forward. The card showed the figure of a black skeleton wielding a scythe. “Death.”

  “It doesn’t necessarily signify physical death but rather a radical change. Old relationships need to be dissolved. Death has two faces. One that tears down and destroys, another that sets you free of old bonds.”