Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  He went over to the wardrobe. ‘Is it OK if I have a shower before I go?’

  ‘No, and in any case it would be a waste of time. You’re going to get all sticky with jam and chocolate if we’re to have breakfast in bed.’

  ‘Chocolate? I thought you said you wanted plain.’

  ‘Get both.’

  Tell pulled on yesterday’s clothes. In the back of his mind he knew perfectly well that he should have been at work hours ago. He glanced at Seja, lying on her back with her arms above her head, her eyes closed and a gentle smile playing on her lips. His decision was made.

  ‘Hey,’ she said with laughter in her voice just as he was about to leave. ‘I was only joking, you know that, don’t you? Go if you have to. I’ll see you at Åke and Kristina’s tonight, if not before.’

  ‘I do have to go, but I’ll nip over to the café first and buy breakfast. You deserve it.’

  13

  Istanbul, September 2007

  Ann-Marie Karpov tipped back her head. The greenery formed a vault over the walkway, the interwoven branches forming walls and a ceiling, overrun by skinny feral cats. One of the cats got its claws caught and let out a loud shriek. The men sitting on stools around a table by the kitchen door laughed quietly as cat pee trickled down through the branches and splashed the paving below. Marie Hjalmarsson quickly backed away. The cat tore itself free and scampered over to the next roof.

  Marie, Henrik, Axel, Annelie and Helena, all students at the Department of Archaeology and Ancient Civilisations, were on a study trip with their tutor and guide Ann-Marie Karpov and had almost finished their kebabs, koftas and stews. The owner of the bar pulled up a chair and told them that he had visited Sweden as a young man. Somewhere near Stockholm, with his football team; two nights in Sweden and two in Norway. He remembered a tunnel, a long, long . . .?

  He told them he’d spent eleven years working in Germany, long time ago.

  ‘Building cars. Nine men in a small apartment, no furniture. I sent all my money home.’

  No, he didn’t remember what the tunnel was called. It was more than twenty years ago!

  When he came back from Germany he had opened his restaurant.

  Henrik Samuelsson thought the whole thing was fantastic. He wanted to go back to the restaurant the following day. Said he’d never eaten such a perfect lamb stew, and tucked the man’s card away in his wallet.

  They moved on, heading down towards the harbour. The smell of fried fish hung over the square in Eminönu. In the twilight the ground was covered with blankets displaying the goods on offer – belts, toys, clothes, sandals. Bargaining was done under cover of darkness; the party was left dizzied by the combination of heat and poor street lighting in some areas, which lay in soft, warm darkness as night fell.

  Marie wanted to buy a top for her daughter and they stopped at the end of the bridge. She had just paid the hawker when a signal passed through the sea of people.

  Plain-clothes police. Blankets were gathered up, turning the displays of goods into big, unwieldy bundles. The men were gone in seconds, dispersing at lightning speed. The group had seen this happen in daylight too, in the large square in front of the University of Istanbul which they had attended as part of their visit. The pigeons instinctively rose up en masse.

  Marie stuffed her purchase into her handbag. ‘Can’t we sit down and rest somewhere around here?’

  ‘I think we should go over to the new part of the city,’ said Ann-Marie. ‘If we’re going to see something of the nightlife.’

  Helena Svanström looked dubiously at her watch. ‘It’s rather late and we’ve got to get up early. It’ll be a long walk back to the hotel so I don’t want to stay out too much longer. Is there anybody who’ll walk back with me in a while?’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Marie. ‘Besides, we’ve all got to get up early. None of us is likely to stay out all night.’

  ‘We’re all adults,’ Henrik brought the discussion to a close. ‘Everybody can do as they please.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Ann-Marie. Henrik and Ann-Marie: they always seemed to agree. Ann-Marie smiled.

  As they strolled along the wide pavements of Galata Bridge, men of all ages jostled as they fished over the side. The loud cries from the restaurants beneath echoed through the night. ‘Sir! Madam! Just one second, take a look at the menu. Best fish in town!’

  Narrow, winding streets lined with dilapidated grey houses and scruffy courtyards climbed the hill on the other side of the bridge. They were out of breath by the time they reached the top, and the square in Beyoglu. They sat down in the first suitable spot, resting their aching feet while flapping their sweaty clothes and trying to calm their breathing after the rapid climb in the heat.

  ‘That was hard work. But what a contrast,’ said Ann-Marie, nodding to a group of long-legged models at the bottom of the Galata Tower, posing in silky evening dresses in front of a white screen.

  The waiter came out with six glasses of foaming beer.

  Henrik murmured his approval. He was tapping his foot in time to a blues track blaring from a music shop.

  They carried on talking about contrasts. Henrik ventured that their own city, Gothenburg, had been held up as the most segregated in Europe. They chatted about the cities they had visited. Henrik and Ann-Marie were the most well travelled and compared their experiences. Annelie Swerin talked about the time she had spent in Goa; Henrik maintained that Goa wasn’t really India, but a hotchpotch of Western influences. Annelie thought he was being self-important, and protested as much.

  They made plans for the following day.

  A couple of hours later, Marie and Helena had said goodnight and gone back to the hotel. Ann-Marie, Henrik, Axel and Annelie had moved on to a street in Istiklal Caddesi, and were drinking raki. Axel went off to the toilet.

  Ann-Marie was chain-smoking. She stretched her strong, slender arms above her head and her face broke into a smile. ‘I’m going to stay out all night!’ Henrik, who had been watching her, smiled too. The world around them faded away. ‘In that case, I’m staying with you.’

  ‘OK. You stay with me.’

  Henrik threw caution to the wind – the little of it that remained – and reached out for Ann-Marie’s hand under the table. She responded, hesitantly at first, but oh, the joy of it, when she let her fingertips brush against his.

  A tidal wave surged through Henrik’s body, his brain was electrified, his heart almost stopped. All he could do was laugh, an exhilarated, hysterical laugh, and Ann-Marie joined in, it was a laugh that said: Yes, of course! Why not? Life is too short to let things slip by! Too short to let differences get in the way, to think about consequences all the time. They had wordlessly agreed on a mission, and they were prepared to fulfil their part by following an impulse governed by lust.

  With the tips of Ann-Marie’s fingers touching his, with her happy, surprised, slightly rebellious gaze fixed on his, on the moment, he allowed himself everything. He allowed himself to hope and believe that this was the beginning of something he only now realised he had wanted for a long time. He was daring, reckless as he caressed his tutor’s knee and she let him. He felt all the blood in his body flow into his groin.

  His thoughts were disrupted when Axel flopped down on the chair beside him. Henrik was also vaguely aware of Annelie’s searching expression, but he couldn’t care less whether she realised what was going on under the table.

  Annelie tried to turn away, struggling with the chair, which had got its legs entangled with another; suddenly she hid her face in her hands and began to cry.

  Reluctantly Henrik floated back up to the surface.

  Ann-Marie also turned to Annelie, who helplessly waved away their concern.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. It’s not you. It’s got nothing to do with you, it’s OK . . . I’m just a bit of a mess right now.’

  Henrik nodded. She had talked about her problems before, and he had been surprised by her openness. She’d told them she’d been having
an affair with a married man for quite a while. It was the time-honoured story. She loved him. She was waiting for him to leave his wife. He said he would, but that he felt guilty about his son.

  Henrik explained this discreetly as Annelie went off to rinse her face.

  ‘Tricky,’ was Ann-Marie’s only response.

  Axel nodded and seemed distant. But when Annelie came back, he leant across the table and caught her eye.

  ‘How about you and I go back to the hotel?’ he said. ‘We can talk on the way. I think you could do with some rest.’

  Annelie thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. There’s no need. I’m fine. The feelings come and go. I keep thinking about what I ought to do. And then something reminds me . . . No. It’s fine. But thanks anyway, Axel. It was sweet of you to offer.’

  From where they were sitting, they had a perfect view of a huge vintage store. It was on the opposite side of the narrow street, and it boasted a powerful stereo system. From the basement Jefferson Airplane was turned up to full volume and people all around them raised their voices to be heard above the noise.

  Ann-Marie moved closer to Henrik so that she could hear what he was saying. Their faces were close, close enough to kiss. And Axel leaned closer to Annelie, so close that she could make out the pores on his nose. She withdrew.

  ‘So what is it you’re thinking about?’ Axel asked.

  ‘Thinking about?’

  ‘You said you keep thinking about what you ought to do?’

  She had talked so much about David. David who was married, David whom she loved so shamelessly. She talked about him till she was blue in the face. She didn’t know if she had the strength to go through it all again with Axel. But at the same time, every time she opened her mouth to speak, there was the faint hope that in the repetition she might find a solution she hadn’t thought of so far.

  So she talked to Axel, while Ann-Marie and Henrik sank deeper into one another. She told Axel how she had been forced to give up her part-time job – although that was the least of her worries – because she’d got together with her boss. Plus she had to walk past his shop every single time she left the house.

  If she finished the relationship, she would be reminded, day after day, of everything that had existed between them, all the promises and betrayals, all the hopes that had come to nothing. And yet she had never been with a man who had given her so much. She said she could talk to David about anything.

  Annelie was so close that Axel’s eyes looked slightly green; she had thought they were blue-grey. His eyelids drooped a little, narrowing his gaze. He listened, nodding as his irises moved back and forth.

  14

  Stenared

  Christian, Seja and her neighbours, Kristina and Åke Melkersson, had just finished their filet mignon; throughout the meal Kristina had reproached herself for putting too much salt in the potato gratin. Christian, Seja and Kristina then moved into the living room, Åke refusing their offer of help with clearing away and disappearing into the kitchen.

  Seja was sitting in the armchair to which she had been shown, a whisky and soda in her hand. She was full to bursting. Both she and Christian had had seconds, although that didn’t stop Kristina complaining that they ate like birds.

  Åke and Kristina were positively gushing, as she had known they would be. After all, this was the first time they’d had the opportunity to talk to Christian properly and, God knows, they’d been curious about him. Kristina complimented him on his suit, which was the one he wore for work; she’d always thought a man looked wonderful in a suit. Then she began interrogating him about his job, dropping in the names of the crime series she watched on television.

  Seja listened distractedly, wondering why they had been invited. She very rarely set foot inside the inner sanctum of the Melkersson residence. If she did have cause to call round, the conversation was usually conducted on the patio, or at the dining table in the room next door. Otherwise, Seja and Åke met virtually every morning on the way to pick up their post. This had become something of a routine, an accepted part of everyday life. They would exchange a few words, and Åke would mention anything with which he might need Seja’s help. This happened more rarely these days, but before Åke retired he had been grateful for the fact that Seja was willing to help Kristina, whose aches and pains meant that she rarely left the house.

  Seja, in turn, was happy to know that she could rely on Åke to look after her animals if she wanted to be away from home. This had been invaluable since she met Christian and sometimes stayed over at his apartment. It meant the animals were less of a burden, although she was careful not to exploit the elderly couple. She was glad they were there, and she liked the feeling of being part of a small community. A grove of trees lay between Seja’s cottage and her neighbours; she could see nothing but those trees from her window. But her fear of the dark was allayed by the knowledge that she could ring the Melkerssons if she needed to.

  Seja swirled the amber liquid in her glass, still slightly preoccupied by the as yet unspoken reason behind the invitation.

  When she moved into the cottage in the Glade with Martin, her partner at the time, she had been a typical city girl. She barely knew the other people who lived in her apartment block; she was quite clear in her head about the fact that you chose your friends carefully, based on age, shared interests and outlook. She never thought life would turn out this way; that she would end up spending most of her time with her retired neighbours – and Christian, of course.

  Perhaps her need for the Melkerssons’ company had something to do with the fact she spent a great deal of time alone now, or with her animals. Occasionally she wondered whether she was turning into an eccentric as she wandered around her garden talking to her horse and cat.

  She was happy with her life. But sometimes she worried about the future.

  She had almost completed her training as a journalist, and already had a small number of freelance jobs. She was good at her job when she really got involved in a story, but the competitiveness of the industry scared her. She loved the slow passage of time in the Glade, although she sometimes worried it gave her too much opportunity for navel-gazing.

  And yet, things had mostly turned out well, after hanging in the balance for a while. They had only just moved in when Martin left her, and everything was turned upside down. Back then, she still missed the lights and noise of the city; the desolation of the forest was palpable when she realised she was alone there. Alone in a cottage that needed renovating, alone at the end of the world, which was how it felt, and at night it really was dark, darker than it ever was in the city.

  But every morning Åke Melkersson set off on the short walk towards the letterboxes to collect his paper, Göteborgsposten, and post, as did Seja. That was how they met for the first time. He walked slowly, his hands behind his back and a contented expression on his face. He carefully avoided the hollows and potholes, and liked to complain about frost damage to the road surface, and overhanging weeds. He would talk about the weather: Going to be a lovely day today. Seems as if they’ve got the forecast right.

  At first, Seja hadn’t encouraged him, thinking he was just a garrulous old man. Then the time came when she had neither the desire nor the energy to talk. It was easy to avoid human contact after Martin had disappeared; not many people lived up at the top of the hill, and Seja’s cottage was some distance from the road. Only Åke seemed incapable of taking the hint that Seja wanted to be left alone with her broken heart. Only Åke carried on making small talk, even though she answered evasively or simply shook her head. Afterwards, she began to suspect that he hadn’t been quite so clueless all the times he had gone on about the weather or asked random questions: So when did Gren have the roof redone, had she asked him? Was the outhouse properly insulated for the winter?

  He hadn’t known what to say, so he had simply kept on talking.

  Åke and Kristina had bewailed the fact that such a young girl should be living all alone in Gren�
�s old, dilapidated cottage. Nowadays, their relationship was more like the one she could have had with her parents and she had gradually realised that the small errands she carried out for Åke and Kristina marked the beginning of a change for the better. She often found Åke and Kristina irritating, but it felt good to know that they cared about her. That they had her best interests at heart.

  But it felt odd to sit in their living room with a whisky and soda after eating filet mignon. And there was something afoot, she was sure of it. Åke had phoned and invited her to dinner several days ago. And Christian was welcome too, of course. He had sounded slightly too formal, somehow ill at ease.

  ‘It’s your birthday, isn’t it?’ he’d said.

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘But you’ll come anyway? Kristina will be so pleased to see you.’

  Christian’s mobile rang. Kristina immediately fell silent, looking on with excitement as he picked up the phone and went out onto the patio to talk. When he came back a few minutes later, his expression was noticeably more strained. He apologised briefly, explaining that he had to make a number of calls that couldn’t wait. His mind was clearly already elsewhere as he shook Kristina’s hand. ‘Thank you so much, it was a lovely evening. No, don’t get up – I’ll see myself out. You stay a while, Seja. I presume your place is open?’

  She nodded mutely.

  He went into the kitchen to thank Åke, then the door banged shut.

  Kristina cleared her throat.

  Seja felt embarrassed by Christian’s abrupt departure. She smoothed down her skirt, which had crept up above her knees, trying discreetly to cover a swollen cut. Since she had never been invited to the Melkerssons formally, she hadn’t had a clue what to wear. Kristina gasped: a circle of purple bruises on Seja’s leg didn’t make the cut look any better.