Stockholm Noir

by Nathan Larson

  My wrath did not subside and neither did my longing. I decided to go on an outing to Hässelby strand. I was going to make myself as beautiful as possible. In an apartment, I found a lace dress; perhaps it was for a child, a flower girl at a wedding. I’m so thin and tiny it fit. I wore perfume, and combed my hair, fastening flowers into it.

  Then I headed to his house—David’s house. I was so afraid I thought I might faint. I saw light in the window, I knew which room was his.

  I was in luck: he was the only one in the house. It was about ten at night, but he hadn’t shut the curtain. He was sitting on his bed playing guitar. He had just taken a shower and was wearing a black robe.

  I couldn’t stay outside. This was what I had been afraid of—that my longing would overpower me. I had not intended to go through the wall, but my longing forced me to, and there I was in his room.

  At first things looked promising. He didn’t seem afraid, only surprised. I don’t know what I looked like in his eyes; perhaps I was nothing more than a breeze or a shadow, now that he’d decided to live. I wasn’t a monster, at any rate. Perhaps a vague ghost, a feeling rather than an experience? He started paying attention, the way a cat focuses on something without us knowing why. I could actually read his thoughts: There’s something in the room. There’s a ghost haunting this room.

  No, I wanted to scream, it’s me, Alma. The one who saved you; now you can save me! See me, embrace me!

  Then I noticed the photo on his nightstand. A stupid, cute, laughing, living human girl. A girl of the daylight, spoiled, sorrow-free. She’d used a gold marker to draw a heart around her childish face and the words To David.

  What can I tell you? Jealousy, loneliness, unending pain—everything I mourned shot through me like a silent black explosion. I fell to pieces. Whatever had held back my hunger now dissipated and my true nature took over. In one jump I was on top of him. I’d turned into a demon, focused on his throat.

  His blood—a dreamed-of nourishment, a drink more pleasant than anything I could imagine; I became whole, complete, at home in myself. He tried to defend himself, but it was all in vain.

  But see, I didn’t kill him. Don’t look so frightened. He’s still alive. Because I came to my senses when I heard Mr. Fishy’s laugh echoing in my memory. I could stop myself because I realized I was doing just what, in his cynical and triumphant way, he’d predicted I’d do. So I stopped myself, I drew back, I pulled myself out through the wall. I disappeared down the street, out of the neighborhood, away to this wintery hill where I’m staying now. I’m ashamed, but I’m still proud I didn’t kill him. I’m alone, in an eternal land of limbo, where my old dreams have no place. I can’t dream of him. I can’t dream of being human again. And obeying my own nature . . . no! Turning into that hideous phantom, stinking of cold blood, cynical and greedy, with no shame and no conscience.

  So I’m staying here, and not just because it’s closed for the winter, but also because I want to run into my mama who’s still living in the apartment building across the way. I can read thoughts a bit, and I want to read hers to see if she misses me. If she ever loved me, even a little. David’s blood has given me a shot of greater potential, so I can also read your thoughts. I know how much sympathy you have for me. Perhaps you have too much sympathy. You’re writing down my winter tale even though you’re freezing, with just this little space heater to warm you. This is the second long winter night you’ve spent secretly here with me, and soon dawn will break. Soon.

  Still, before then, you’re going to fill that little egg cup with blood for me. Yes, just enough of your heart’s blood to fill that fine porcelain egg cup, and I promise not to want more later, not to demand more—don’t come too close to me—I’ll be content with just a little bit, it’s not going to control me. Just a little cut on your hand—not your throat!—and then it will run down into that little cup and I’ll drink it while it’s still warm. As if it were hot chocolate. Put down your pen. I’ll tell you more later. You need tales, just as I need blood. We’re almost related. We’re twins, you and me. You were sixteen once, weren’t you? And you died from being sixteen and abandoned. Part of you died and from what remained you recreated yourself. You understand me. PUT THAT PEN DOWN NOW AND GIVE ME WHAT I WANT—THIS IS NOT A FAIRY TALE!

  Northbound

  BY LINA WOLFF

  Saltsjöbaden

  Translated by Caroline Åberg

  Awhile back I decided to join a dating site and created a profile starting with the following description: I’m thirty-six years old and I’m looking for a gentle, but not too gentle, man.

  Under “Interests” I wrote none, under “Favorite Writer” I also wrote none. As well as under “Favorite Food” and “Favorite Places.” Under “Life Motto” I came up with: Meeting the man mentioned above. Then I thought about the word motto, that it’s probably something else, a sentence or something you could use as your words of wisdom in certain situations. But I’ve never had a motto like that, so I didn’t change it—even though that could say something about me, could reveal a nonverbal side that might repel some people. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking for a verbal person.

  After I’d written what I’d written, I posted a photo of myself. It’s a picture a friend of mine took, where I’m lying on my stomach on his bed. My signs of aging don’t show in the photo, because the only light comes from a few candles, and, like my friend says, most people look fairly decent in that kind of lighting.

  A week passed before I logged onto the site again, and by then I’d gotten a flood of replies. Surprised, I went through them all, one by one. An older gentleman promised me an economically carefree existence in exchange for his sexual satisfaction three times a week. A twenty-year-old wondered if I could teach him everything I knew. I sat there with my cup of coffee and laughed, but at the same time I felt oddly moved; not so much by all this appreciation (the photo was really a fraud), but because it was clear to me that they all truly and strongly believed in love, and believed that I could give them what they were looking for.

  Several more weeks passed before I went back onto the site. But once I did, I noticed that many of the men who had first contacted me had kept writing. Some had written almost every day for weeks. The twenty-year-old who thought I could teach him something almost seemed obsessed, and in one message he wrote: I’ve always had girls who just talk and talk, they never seem to do anything but talk, but you feel so genuine, so free from words. Genuine, so free from words. I liked the sound of that.

  I wrote to him: I guess you somehow send out the message that you like to talk. Try to send another message. Kind regards, M.

  Others had sent pictures of themselves, their cars and their sailboats. One had sent a photo of his organ, fully erect. They all said something nice about my photo, and at first I was flattered, and thought I might not be all that bad. Then I realized there was nothing to be flattered about. No, this was something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that had nothing to do with me.

  I replied to one of them: Thank you for your words, but don’t have any illusions about me. I am thirty-six years old, the photo is taken in a candlelit room . . . Here is a real picture.

  I attached a photo of me that I took then and there in regular daylight, the way I was: wearing panties and a bra (although I edited out my head). Without mentioning details I can only say that this picture was not as flattering as the last one, but still I managed to laugh a little at the cooling effect it would have on the man in question. But just a minute or so after I’d sent the photo came his response: Besides the fact that your age implies that we could have many interesting conversations, and you most likely can cook a good meal (for which I would choose the wine), I’m convinced your body, which I guess has already been enjoyed by many, holds an abundance of possibilities. And your womb is surely a repository of dirty deeds that I wouldn’t mind taking part in either.

  You fucker! I wrote back immediately.

  But I rem
ained by my computer. Frankly, I was curious about the man who had expressed himself like this. Curious about him, but also about masculinity itself, which I, the more I learn about, understand less and less, but despite this am still fascinated by it—conceptually, but also on a very concrete level. I seriously considered continuing my correspondence with this man. Maybe setting up a date. An adventure like this would have a strong antidepressive effect on me during the dark season we were about to enter.

  So I wrote: When can we meet?

  In three weeks, he replied.

  What’s your name and where do you live?

  My name is Calisto and I live in Stockholm.

  Calisto? I wrote.

  My mom was Catholic, he replied, but I didn’t see how that explained anything.

  Your name reminds me of something, I wrote, but he didn’t respond. Okay, so I’ll book a train ticket and a hotel, I added.

  You’re welcome to stay at my place, he wrote, but I declined.

  * * *

  The weekend Calisto and I had set for my visit was in the middle of December. Two days before I was planning to leave I heard there was a snowstorm on its way. It would be coming from the south, sweeping in over the country like a broom, covering everything in its way; trees would be falling over electric cables like pick-up sticks. People would be stuck in their cottages without electricity for days, maybe weeks. I compared my train’s timetable with the weather report, and came to the conclusion that if I headed north directly after lunch, which was when my train was leaving, I should probably make it before the storm. And once it poured in over Stockholm, I would be sitting at some bar, with the wind howling outside, slightly tipsy, with Calisto. Yes, that’s how I imagined it.

  I took the train as planned. We left Malmö and kept going up through Skåne. Soon there were no more deciduous forests; instead we passed endless clusters of pine and fir trees, occasionally opening up to reveal dark lakes flanking the tracks. Everything was oddly still for hours, and I sat in my seat thinking about what things would be like once I reached my destination. What Calisto looked like, what he did for a living, if we were going to have sex. I fell asleep and woke up when we entered the tunnels south of Stockholm. My ears popped and right outside my window the rock face swept by at a tremendous speed.

  Suddenly we were on the other side of the mountain, heading toward the city. The coach was silent and when I glanced around I saw that everyone was looking out the window. It was getting dark and the sky was tinged in orange and blue. We crossed bridges: water, rock faces, and beautiful houses with copper roofs surrounded us. The bodies of water were partly covered by ice and meandered this way and that; in the distance I caught a glimpse of the open sea. Everyone must be happy here, I thought. Healthy people, generations of ice-skating and swimming off the cliffs. They’re probably sitting there behind their big windows with fine cups of coffee, looking out over mountains, water, and city with a view unimaginable to the rest of the world.

  Once I stepped off the train I thought the people looked resolute and flawless, as if they were all clones from a movie. I instantly felt implacably imperfect. I longed for home, for Copenhagen where the spokes of the Tivoli Ferris wheel are always spinning just where the train comes in, and the smells of urine, smoke, and waffles hover over it all.

  I had booked a hotel in the center of town. I checked in, and it turned out my room was in the basement, without any windows. Instead, there was a sauna in the hallway. I sat in it for a long time and then took a hot-and-cold shower before I returned to my room, crawled into bed, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was nine o’clock at night and the windowless room was pitch black. I got up and put my makeup on in the bathroom where the floor was still wet. Then I texted Calisto that I had arrived and was now rested and showered and ready to meet him.

  We’ll meet at Pharmarium, he texted back. Sit at the bar and look like you’re for sale and I’ll find you.

  I asked at the reception desk what Pharmarium was and once I’d received directions I wrapped my scarf around my head and made my way out.

  While I had been sleeping the storm had started brewing. The wind outside seemed to crawl along the ground before suddenly spiraling up into the air with gusts of powdery snow. I crossed a bridge and reached another island. The high brick buildings had beautiful copper roofs. Everything was grandiose and picturesque at the same time, and despite the cold and snow, there were a lot of people outside. I reached a square with a church. I circled it and spotted four bars; one of them was Pharmarium. It was located on a corner of the square and the entrance gave off a modest impression, but once I stuck my head inside I realized this was a place I could have chosen myself. The ceiling was low and it was warm. People were crowded together in small groups around low tables and colored fabric was hanging from the walls. As for the rest, it looked like an old pharmacy with wooden drawers that gave an alchemist’s air to the place. Sit at the bar and look like you’re for sale and I’ll find you. That was what Calisto had written. I took my coat and scarf off and sat down at the bar. I ordered a drink, told the bartender I wanted his “best,” and ended up with a smoky, sour piece of work that I drank fast. Ten minutes later a man approached me and introduced himself.

  —Are you Miriam? he asked.

  —Yes, I said.

  —I’m Calisto.

  —Hi, I said.

  Calisto was overweight, had greasy hair, and was clearly intoxicated.

  —Perhaps you didn’t expect me to be this fat, he said a moment later.

  —No, I said.

  —Are you disappointed?

  —Obesity has never been something that’s bothered me, I replied.

  —Good, Calisto said, and ordered a beer from the bartender.

  We sat in silence while he drank the beer.

  —Will you come home with me now, was the next thing he said.

  We walked silently through the narrow streets and eventually emerged on a wide street where Calisto hailed a cab. Then we rode for a long while—through the city, out onto a road that ran along the coast, eventually arriving in an area with large houses perched on cliffs overlooking the water.

  —Wow, I said. Is this where you live? What’s it called?

  —Saltsjöbaden, Calisto replied curtly.

  —Are you rich? I asked.

  —Rich? he said, as if he didn’t understand what the word meant.

  —I mean it looks really swanky.

  —Swanky? Calisto said, looking out the window. I don’t think anyone uses that word anymore.

  His voice was different, it sounded like his throat had tightened somehow. I peered out the window again: at the houses we passed, standing there grand and sort of obstinate, with their giant windows magnificently staring out over the water. Then the taxi turned onto a smaller road that continued into the woods. The taxi had slowed down, and we sat beside each other in the backseat in silence. I thought about what he had written before and that there had been confidence in his words, something I couldn’t sense now. Had he just been acting? I glanced at the meter but Calisto didn’t seem to care. When the cab stopped Calisto paid with his credit card. We exited the vehicle and he took a key out of his pocket and unlocked a large gate. Behind the gate was a wooden house. It was pitch black everywhere except for a dim light that shone from somewhere in the garden. A high, dark spruce forest surrounded the yard, and the sea suddenly felt far away even though it was probably just around the corner.

  —Have you changed your mind? Calisto asked.

  —No.

  —And what if I’m a cold-blooded murderer? he said and laughed.

  —The bartender saw us together.

  —They see lots of people, he replied. If it really matters they don’t remember a thing.

  I grinned at him, because Calisto was the type of person who at first glance you’d assume wouldn’t even hurt a fly. We got in, took our shoes off, and he showed me around. It was obviously difficult for him to move around with all thos
e extra kilos. The house was sparsely furnished, the walls white. Every time we left a room he turned the light off after us. I wondered if he had a wife or if he had had one. Not that it mattered, and it shouldn’t have been a hard question to ask, and still it was a question that seemed off limits with Calisto, as if he and his home exuded a loneliness that demanded respect and distance; as if this was his outlying land, and he was the only one who could find his way here. When we got to the living room he said it felt a bit cold, so he started a fire in the open fireplace. He pulled out a sheepskin rug and held out his hand, gesturing toward the rug.

  —You can take your clothes off and wait for me there, he said.

  —Excuse me?

  —Take your clothes off and lay down on the rug. I’ll be right back, Calisto said.

  I laughed.

  —You think I’m a whore?

  —No, I don’t. But we both know what’s going to happen. And I’m not interested in lengthy foreplay, to say the least.

  A gust of wind hit the window and we both turned to look at the same time. But the darkness was thick, and we only saw our own reflections. I couldn’t keep from laughing.

  —We look so small, I said.

  —Yes. Will you take your clothes off now?

  I took my clothes off and lay down on the rug. Calisto stood there watching me with his arms folded over his chest. I thought he would lie down beside me but instead he turned and walked out into the hallway. I heard him lock the bathroom door and for a long while listened to water rushing through the pipes. For a minute or so it was completely quiet. I laid there, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly I realized what was funny about his name. Calisto is the name of a Swedish popsicle. I laid there thinking about the popsicle, and about Calisto. I wondered how old he’d been when the popsicle had appeared on the market, and if people with a better memory for names would smile when he introduced himself. The heat from the fire made me drowsy and I must have fallen asleep for a second because when I opened my eyes again Calisto was standing naked in front of me. Like a huge mountain he stood there before me with all of his bodily mass, arms hanging at his sides.