Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  ‘I hope that wasn’t my grandmother’s vase,’ she shouted, just as she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. The sinews in her neck were fully extended, making her look grotesque.

  ‘No . . . fuck. No, it was just a glass some idiot had left on the stairs. Me no doubt. Shit . . . Listen, sweetheart, I’m horribly late, I’m going to leave you to clean this up. I’ll wash up for the rest of the week, promise. Love you!’

  He left for the second time. Rebecca turned up the volume so she wouldn’t have to hear him setting off towards Mariaplan, where Axel lived alone. She pulled a blanket over her legs and made a nest of pillows. In the ad break she would go down and fetch a glass of wine.

  3

  Henrik was in a hurry. He almost came off his bike outside the ICA supermarket when his wheel got stuck in a tram line. Luckily, he managed to put one foot on the ground, suffering a severe blow in the solar plexus but emerging otherwise unscathed. He reflected on the fact that he was the only person who cycled without a helmet these days, the last rebel in a circle of acquaintances who were mostly the weary parents of small children. Even Rebecca had fallen in line. When she was in a rush in the mornings, she would slip her contact lenses into her pocket and put on her thick glasses and shiny red helmet. He didn’t even recognise her then.

  He carried on along the cycle track at a more measured pace, down Bragebacken to the car park on the edge of Slottsskogen Park. In the past this spot had been rumoured to be a haunt of rent boys, and all manner of shady dealings were supposed to go on. He hurried on when he saw a black van parked behind the deserted ice-cream kiosk.

  But the kiosk would be opening up soon. The long winter was over. The demonstration that had taken place the previous day was usually the first sign of spring. The weather was always good on May Day.

  Henrik was in his usual state: hungover but content.

  Today outdoor types were hunting for the best spot for a barbecue. The May evening was the warmest of the year so far – no doubt the festivities would continue well into the small hours. Just as he was passing the Domen College of Art, his mobile beeped: c u wknd 4 revision. nd 2 wrk hrd.

  Axel. Should he tell him the official version of events? Axel wouldn’t ask questions; Henrik’s relationship with Ann-Marie Karpov was hardly news to him.

  Sometimes Henrik had the feeling that the knowledge bothered his friend. Perhaps it had something to do with the firm convictions Axel held, even though he rarely made a big deal of them. Axel had only brought the affair up once, and had been blunt: And what the hell does she see in you? Even if that sort of comment wasn’t good for Henrik’s self-confidence, at least it was honest. Henrik valued directness.

  They hadn’t been friends for very long, although they had passed in and out of each other’s circles for several years now. They first met at the Nefertiti, back in the good old days; Henrik played regularly at the jazz club and Axel seemed out of place – but then again he did everywhere. Henrik took pity and bought him a couple of beers out of his fee. Later, they had kept on choosing the same courses. When they both enrolled for archaeology, they couldn’t help exchanging a wry smile: ‘Fancy seeing you here . . .’

  But it had taken a week in the creative chaos of Istanbul for Henrik and Axel to become close. Before the study visit they had never spent time together one on one. Axel was regarded by fellow students as the slightly eccentric country bumpkin, whose defining feature was his fanatical opposition to computers. He and Henrik were both independent when it came to their work, and in any case it was rare to strike up close friendships in adulthood. But it just so happened that on the trip to Istanbul they both wanted to experience the feeling of being in one of the world’s most fascinating cities; they weren’t interested in downing shots, going to noisy bars or even to the techno clubs with belly dancers at the top of the Galata Tower, where the dry air was dotted with nesting swallows. And, as a result, they unexpectedly found each other.

  Axel had become the person Henrik spent most time with, apart from Rebecca.

  And Ann-Marie.

  Because it was during this trip that Henrik and Ann-Marie Karpov, researcher and tutor in the Department of Archaeology and Ancient Civilisations, had also found each other.

  Afterwards, Henrik found it difficult to understand how it had all happened. The triumphant scale of the city, the bewitching blend of the past and the future – Henrik at least was overwhelmed by the countless museums he visited, by the hustle and bustle of Beyoglu at night. Everyday life had begun to seem distant, irrelevant.

  Their hotel lay between the historic Sultanahmet Mosque and the point at which the waters of the Bosphorus flowed into the Golden Horn and Lake Marmara. In its salons the raki and sweet Turkish wine had flowed in a most un-Swedish manner during the trip’s spontaneous seminars. He remembered Ann-Marie watching him through the curtains of mist. His sense of reality had diminished; he had thought: Go with the flow.

  What she had thought was less clear, but so far he had chosen not to speculate on her reasons. She was an authority in the subject he wanted to master more than any other. Her self-confidence made her attractive, in fact she was positively beautiful for a woman in her fifties, with a steel-grey bob exposing her long neck and defined facial features.

  She saw something in him that he sometimes, though not often, doubted was really there. Admittedly he wasn’t bad-looking, even if he had to admit in moments of self-doubt that a shaggy pageboy haircut was more charming on the twenty-four-year-old musician he had once been than the rather too mature student he had become. And his leather jacket, which he alternated with 1950s jackets, had been around since his youth and was threatening to fall apart.

  He was definitely one of the more gifted students in the class. Their first conversation had arisen from his studies, which was only to be expected. Karpov had admired the way he challenged the limitations of the syllabus and asked for advice on the areas he wanted to pursue further. She had given him encouragement, and on one occasion they had conducted a long and remarkably relaxed conversation over coffee.

  She intrigued him. Those who knew Henrik could have seen it in the very first week: he wanted Ann-Marie Karpov. And Ann-Marie Karpov had fallen for him – not immediately, but later, in Istanbul. Since then they had been a couple, albeit only to a limited group within the thick stone walls of the archaeology department. Their relationship was a secret from the rest of the world.

  He just had to take the chance. Not to seize the opportunity when Ann-Marie Karpov offered him the post as her lover would have been just as absurd as Alice deliberately ignoring the key to Wonderland, just as stupid as those cowards on game shows who answer quits when they should have said double. You had to believe that double is better than quits. Perhaps this was what all those who were unfaithful claimed, but surely there was a kind of logic there that balanced out his guilt.

  OK was his only response to Axel’s message. There were limits to how dishonest a person could be. Forcing others to lie for him was definitely overstepping the mark. If Rebecca should ring Axel, against all the odds, and if Axel was stupid enough not to realise what was going on, then the entire house of cards would come tumbling down. In which case, so be it. At least it would mean an end to all the lies. Inshallah.

  He thought about Rebecca with a pang of conscience as he cycled out of the park and down Rosengatan; his guilt was partly genuine, partly liberating. Rebecca’s pathological jealousy had been a constant source of problems in their relationship. She had started seeing a therapist again, ironically after an ultimatum on his part. This might seem particularly heartless, given that he was now acting out her worst fears. But he still wasn’t ready to end the affair.

  He needed it.

  He tried to rationalise the situation. Rebecca had driven him to infidelity with her constant suspicions; we become as others see us and so on. Qualified nonsense, but it was still true. He had enjoyed feeling appreciated and acknowledged by a woman who didn’t use him only
to vent her displeasure. He was sick and tired of hearing that he disappointed Rebecca on every level – sexually, emotionally, and not least financially. For several years now he had been forced to constantly justify himself, insisting that his finances would soon take a turn for the better.

  He had decided to put his jazz career on the back burner and go back to his studies. Get a proper job – it was impossible to make a living as a musician in Gothenburg. Rebecca had been happy with that idea until she realised that his student loan would hardly cover his share of their outgoings, and that was when she had resigned herself to her fate. She had thrown in her lot with a pauper. These days she hardly seemed to have the energy to talk about the injustice of it all; their arguments had given way to a muted air of discontent which came to a head at the end of each month when the bills had to be paid. It was a time neither of them looked forward to.

  Their relationship wasn’t sustainable in the long term; there weren’t enough reasons to stay with Rebecca, and he’d been thinking that way for a while.

  But Henrik had major plans for himself and Ann-Marie. All he had to do was set the ball rolling. Things had gone wrong lately, he couldn’t deny that, but today they would talk. Ann-Marie would listen and she would understand.

  Because he needed her.

  He braked outside the house on Linnégatan, then stood there for a while catching his breath. He took out his phone and called Axel.

  ‘We’re revising tonight,’ he informed his friend, and as he said that he made his decision once and for all. ‘Sorry to drag you into this, but soon there’ll be no more lies. I want to be with Ann-Marie, and the whole world is going to know that. I’ve got a plan, but I have to carry it out in my own time. And I want to tell Rebecca myself. If she calls you, I want you to lie for me.’

  Axel said he understood.

  After their conversation Henrik felt more exhilarated than he had done for a long time.

  The city centre was full of life and movement. He loved how the streets were lined with restaurants. When he met up with his old friends they would usually stay around Järntorget: Jazzå or Solrosen, Pusterviks Theatre. He particularly liked the cosmopolitan atmosphere surrounding Andra Långgatan, where the porn shops and adult cinemas rubbed shoulders with Asian restaurants, cellar bars and specialist music shops. And yet he was usually glad to leave the party at the end of the evening. The group would disperse, as they had dispersed a few years ago because of career choices or the decision to start a family. Some would get in a taxi and head off to Munkebäck or Fiskebäck. One would take the night bus into the centre to wait for the first train to Lerum. Henrik would cycle home through the park as dawn broke.

  But now he was pushing his bike along the short path that led from the street to the main door; slender trees trimmed into topiary spheres and chunky, low wrought-iron fences lined the path. Suddenly he felt like a man in his prime again, on his way to a passionate encounter with a fiercely intelligent, sexy woman, having an affair that was a secret for the moment, but would soon be clear for all the world to see, instead of a cowardly, lying little shit who was not only sponging off his girlfriend but also two-timing her; that thought had passed through his head without really registering. But now the winds of change were blowing.

  He walked into the courtyard which never ceased to leave him dumbstruck. It was the result of ambition on a large scale in days gone by, but the secret was time. Only time could give a city garden such authority and dignity: enormous shrubs and roses scrambling around arches and up the hundred-year-old stone walls.

  Karpov enforced a strict smoking ban in her six-room apartment, so Henrik rolled a cigarette before he went upstairs. His hands fumbled, and he realised he was nervous. It had been a while since they had seen each other one on one, after their last disastrous encounter. A series of tiresome conversations about their future together had inevitably culminated in conflict. A shabby, grudge-filled quarrel, as if they were a married couple. And that wasn’t right. Their relationship wasn’t meant to be like that. They should be above that kind of destructive sniping. Otherwise, what was the point?

  Tonight he had decided that if Ann-Marie wanted to talk and sort things out, he would hold up his hands and take his share of the blame. He would accept that he had been pretty bad-tempered lately. He would explain why: everything at home. Constantly being told that he was irresponsible, incapable of acting his age. But it had still been wrong of him to flare up. Wrong of him to hurl an ornament onto the floor, that was a pathetic thing to do. Raising his voice, that was wrong too. Perhaps it was because he was stressed. There was a great deal at stake, and more than anything he wanted her with him.

  And she would be his, as soon as she’d calmed down.

  It was only natural really that tensions should arise between them. The situation was difficult. There was Rebecca, their different stations in life. The secrecy. The gossip that sometimes reached them by a circuitous route. But no relationship was static, after all; that was a well-known fact.

  He could see a light in the fourth-floor window. Ann-Marie was waiting for him. She had probably cooked a meal which they would eat at the big dining table before withdrawing to the bedroom.

  Henrik would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a frisson when he stepped into this unfamiliar world of chandeliers and red carpets. Compared with a wordly, middle-aged woman, he was like a chimney sweep’s lad. He smiled and decided to share the thought with Ann-Marie; it would probably amuse her. Or, with a bit of luck, it might inspire them to try some entertaining role-play later on.

  The image made him laugh out loud as he ran a hand over his slicked-back hair, stubbed out his cigarette and pulled open the door.

  ‘Henrik?’ Ann-Marie Karpov’s voice echoed between the stone walls. ‘Is that you?’

  He set off up the stairs.

  ‘Yes,’ he called back. ‘I’m just wondering whether to step into your minuscule, rattling cage of a lift, which stopped the last time, or risk a heart attack walking up eight flights of stairs. I think I’ll go for the heart attack. Call the ambulance!’

  The syllables bounced off one another; a discordant muddle of echoes which fell silent only when he reached her door.

  4

  It had been the perfect bag: large and practical, with compartments that could hold everything from files to spare clothes and make-up. And it looked good. Rebecca had a soft spot for simple but assured design. She had used the bag day after day for several years; now the fabric was beginning to fray and the seams were ragged. Since she didn’t feel she could go to work looking scruffy – it was the kind of workplace that demanded a certain standard of dress – Henrik had taken over the dark-green bag to carry his books.

  Rebecca’s resolve had weakened after that first glass of wine. The TV programme came to an end and she crept down to the hallway and started rifling through Henrik’s pockets. It had been a while; the therapy must have done some good. But now endorphins were coursing through her blood as if she were about to start a race as she examined his receipts and flicked through college notebooks, searching for unfamiliar phone numbers, women’s names, coded messages concealed in dry lecture notes. Searching for anything that might reveal something. Anything at all.

  She found the bag right at the back of the hallway cupboard, underneath a jacket which had fallen or been yanked from the hanger above. It was heavy. Inside she found Method and Theory in Classical Archaeology, a couple of reference books and two notepads. Before the realisation hit home, she weighed her find in her hands as if she sensed that it would have an important role to play in how her life panned out.

  He hadn’t taken his books. She turned towards the door and dropped what she was holding; it landed at her feet with a thud. And he hadn’t come back to pick them up. He should have realised long ago that he’d left them behind. Which meant he hadn’t forgotten them, he’d left them on purpose. Which in turn meant that he’d lied. People don’t lie without a reason, so the question was: wh
y had he lied? The answer was obvious: Henrik had not been going to Axel’s flat to revise.

  She took a few tentative steps; she needed to sit down and think. The leather seat creaked as she sank down numbly; the sound of the television upstairs faded away. Selective deafness, she thought. It affects people in shock. Then she pulled herself together and tried to look at the situation rationally.

  Henrik hadn’t even gone to the trouble of fully concealing his lies. Packing the bag right in front of her, that was good. But he hadn’t been able to follow his plan to its pathetic conclusion. Presumably the bag had been too heavy. Too heavy to drag around unnecessarily, so he’d hidden it in the cupboard, where he thought she would never look. All a bit slapdash, which was just typical; he couldn’t do anything properly. He wasn’t all that clever, really. Particularly given that he knew she went through his pockets, knew that she was sometimes unable to resist the urge, even if she gave in less frequently these days. They had discussed the matter countless times, they’d even gone for relationship counselling. Nowadays her snooping wasn’t generally the result of anger. It was more of an eccentric hobby, something that she did to calm herself down, and she always felt significantly better once the endorphin rush had subsided, and she had established that there was nothing suspicious among Henrik’s things.

  Her condition had improved so much that she no longer seriously expected to find anything. It was just nice to cover herself. To keep the possibility in mind, and so be ready for the worst.

  And now the worst had happened.

  She tried to think logically. She had to admit that on every previous occasion when jealousy had overcome her, the signs had seemed obvious, the signals impossible to misinterpret. There always seemed to be evidence that the man in question was letting her down, was betraying her. And a number of men really had.