Stockholm Noir

by Nathan Larson

  I was stupid enough to be shouting. A young Asian couple with backpacks and an open map looked at me in terror and speed-walked away from Tyska Brunnsplan, down into the alleys.

  —Don’t play dumb. I know you like it.

  —Do I know you?

  —I know you, that’s sufficient.

  —How do you know me?

  —Through Kim.

  —Do I know Kim?

  —You know who Kim is.

  —Have I met Kim?

  During the whole conversation I continued to scan the façades around the square, trying to catch a glimpse of someone in a window, or some sign of activity that could lead me in the right direction. I understood that they could see me, but I still didn’t know who Kim was, had no clue.

  —What are you prepared to do?

  —What must I do?

  —Care enough to want to inflict harm.

  —I don’t want to hurt anyone!

  —Talk with Kim yourself.

  For a while there was no sound on the other end of the phone. Then Kim’s voice was audible once again.

  —Are you there?

  —Yes.

  —Will you be able to handle it?

  —What do you mean? I’ll help you. You’ll be free, I promise.

  —Then come!

  This was the most frustrating thing I’d ever experienced. The call was terminated, and I couldn’t decide if this was the result of poor reception or if Kim or her tormentor had broken off the conversation. I sat down on the bench, heavily. Not despairing, only resigned, sensing that, yes, the whole thing was merely a game, that they were toying with me. Maybe they were filming me from one of the windows, maybe there was a hidden camera, or maybe this was a trap, an attempt to snare me and then blackmail me by putting me in a liaison with this Kim, or whatever it was they were doing now.

  It rang again.

  —Why did you hang up?

  —We were cut off.

  —Okay.

  It was quiet for a long time again, and I caught sight of a row of windows in one of the most attractive houses on the square. They were covered with black draperies. As if the apartment inside them was darkened. My stomach was in a knot.

  —Are you there? I think I know where you are.

  —Then come. Though I don’t think you can manage it.

  —Manage what?

  —You won’t manage me. You’re too timid.

  —Don’t be afraid. I’ll free you.

  There was a new element to Kim’s whisper . . . something scornful, challenging . . . which I didn’t exactly understand, and since I didn’t understand I didn’t readily perceive it. Until afterward.

  I made my way swiftly, purposefully, to the gate of the house with the covered windows, and tried to open the gate. Simultaneously there was a long, protracted, painful moan over the phone, then we were cut off again. I rang doorbells at random, hoping that someone would buzz me in. But no one answered. In vain I pulled the handle a bit harder, as if I hoped I could force the locked gate open. How would I get in? The veiled windows were on the third floor.

  There was a buzzing in one of the speakers, but no one said anything. Neither did I. Then the lock on the gate clicked. I pushed it open and walked in, my whole body cold and concentrated—driven by a determination beyond my experience. Taking two steps at a time, I climbed the old uneven stone stairs until I stood in front of the door to the apartment with the veiled windows. It was unlocked. I held my breath as I slowly entered the apartment. It was empty. Newly renovated, it smelled preposterously fresh in relation to the old building. In two adjacent rooms facing the square, the windows were covered with black cloth. In the middle of one was a massage table covered with a bloody sheet. There were plastic straps fastened to metal rods, which had presumably been used to hold something or someone in place. But the apartment was lifeless.

  Blood rushed to my gut. For the hundredth time I cursed myself: certainly I should have called the police at the beginning instead of play-acting detective myself. What was it that had tempted me to try and solve this riddle, decode this nightmare, whatever it should be called? I gingerly touched the table with my hand. It was still damp with sweat, blood, saliva, and several substances I didn’t want to think about. My heart raced. They must be somewhere nearby. I wanted to leave, I wanted to stay, I wanted to search for tracks but didn’t know where to begin. I wished the phone would ring.

  And it did.

  —Well done. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

  He was mocking me.

  —Where’s Kim? What have you done with . . .

  —It?

  —Him.

  —The slave is waiting. In the cellar. Can you find your way down?

  I ran out of the apartment, stumbled down the stairs, down, down, with every step I took there only seemed to be more flights, and I was overcome with a nauseating impression that the stairwell was growing impossibly long, down, down, and very suddenly I came to a heavy iron door, which with great difficulty I managed to push slightly open, so that I was able to squeeze through, coming upon a new landing, which led to additional uneven stairs, and in turn more stairs, down another flight, down, down, farther down in the building, several floors beneath the building itself, all the way down into the cold underworld. Every blind footfall felt like a headlong dive over a precipice. In the end I knew in my soul I was down as deep as it was possible to go.

  The ceiling was low. I sucked at the thin musty air, damp from being closed in, with a tinge of mold and an extra tang, likely an ancient sewer pipe leaking inside the walls. I pushed farther into darkness. It enveloped me completely. I was forced to squat so as not to bang my head, the medieval brick vault was so low. I attempted to light my way with my phone, but still scarcely saw anything, nothing more than rusty brown and my own fingers that held the phone before me, as if it were a weapon.

  With aching slowness I groped forward, running a hand along the rough walls, until suddenly I detected breathing that was not my own, weak, panting, flickering like a flame in a draft, without strength, nearly extinguished. I reached out, straight into the black. Warm, living skin brushed my fingertips, and I recoiled.

  —Is it you? I managed.

  —Who are you?

  —Is it Kim?

  —Who is Kim?

  —What’s your name?

  —I have no name.

  —Stop it. Answer.

  —It’s Kim.

  The voice of the man on the phone came from somewhere behind me.

  —But you’ll be helping me.

  I spun around and tried to catch a glimpse of him in the light of my phone, but he ducked away from me and receded. From somewhere in the distance I heard the iron door to the cellar close and lock.

  Adrenaline was now the only thing that kept me standing.

  —What have you done?

  —What have you done?

  —Let me see you!

  —Let me see you!

  At that moment a naked ceiling lamp was lit, and the young androgyne sat before me, as naked and white as the lightbulb.

  —Do you know what you want? s/he asked me with a small, faint smile.

  —I want to get out of here. Now.

  —Don’t you want to rescue me anymore? Don’t you want to own me?

  —I don’t want to be part of this game.

  The man in the dark suit, whose face was concealed by a piece of black cloth, now appeared behind the androgye. He placed his hands around its neck.

  —If you want to have me, you must take me. Show that you’re a worthy owner.

  The man pressed harder, and I could hear Kim’s breathing stop. Her face turned blue.

  —Stop! Stop! I’ll do it.

  —What? the man asked without releasing any pressure.

  —Show you I’m worthy!

  He quickly let go and Kim sputtered for oxygen. Now I saw that s/he was sitting, lashed to the old office chair with cable ties.

  —I knew you w
anted it, Kim said weakly.

  —I don’t want anything, but I’ll do what I have to, I answered.

  —Then do it, said the man, and took a step to the side.

  For a moment I played with the idea of overpowering him, freeing Kim . . . but he was too big, too menacing. Instinctively, I stepped toward Kim and tried to look dangerous, wanting her to cringe and shrink from me. S/he tittered, and I slapped her, which made her laugh out loud.

  —What was that?

  —Shut up!

  —Can’t you do it?

  The man stood in the background with his arms crossed over his chest and remained silent. I looked at him, but he just nodded at me.

  —Again! s/he challenged me.

  I struck another blow, harder now, with an open hand.

  —Make a fist, you fucking faggot! Kim hissed at me, as if s/he were the one who was making a threat.

  I clenched my hand into a fist, gave him a good solid shot in the face, which knocked her head backward. S/he quickly recovered, stuck her tongue out at me through a bloody nose.

  The man standing by looked more and more exhilarated. Perverted scumbag, I thought, and punched the androgyne in the stomach so that s/he gave a fast hard expulsion of air.

  —Is that enough?

  —You’ll learn to tame me. You’ll own me.

  —I’ll set you free!

  —Don’t you understand anything? He’s the one you’ll set free.

  I prepared myself. Struck again. Gave in to some sort of primitive, violent desire I didn’t know I had. The androgyne’s challenges spurred me on. I’m ashamed to describe in detail all the things I did, but a torturer serving in Pinochet’s military police force would have been proud of my effort. This continued for a protracted period of time that I was incapable of measuring, for I was sucked out of time itself, out of myself, into some sort of vehemently malicious personality that welled up out of my depths, beyond language, beyond emotion, beyond civilization and judgment, and finally beyond me, although it came from my truest self, from my deepest interior, like magma within a volcano, with the same indifference to life and death.

  In the end s/he went silent, and I gently removed the plastic straps, stroked around the wounds, held Kim close to me, while tears, wholly foreign to my experience, trickled from the corners of my burning eyes. This, and a strange, deep satisfaction, made me forever a stranger to myself. The androgyne comforted me all the while, petting the nape of my neck.

  —Can I go? asked the man who’d been quietly watching the whole time.

  —Yes. He’ll pass.

  Then I lost consciousness.

  * * *

  I woke up on Skeppsbron to the creeping light of a summer dawn. I was born anew. A void, empty.

  The phone was cold and dead . . . I threw it into the sea, as if to liberate myself from the fever dream of the past twenty-four hours. Though I didn’t for a moment imagine I’d be spared more conversations in the future. I understood that I’d taken the man’s place. And worst of all, what I tried hardest to defend myself against, with the pathetic gesture of hurling the phone away . . . was the knowledge that I’d enjoyed it. Already, I anticipated Kim’s next call with the most sublime pleasure.

  Black Ice

  BY INGER FRIMANSSON

  Södertälje

  Translated by Laura A. Wideburg

  Just a feeling, the impression that she was not alone in the house. The grandfather clock chimed twenty past eleven. She intended to go to bed.

  Just as she was entering the bathroom, a short, loud bang came from the basement. Maj Lindberg knew her home, she’d lived in it her entire adult life. She was intimately familiar with all the creaks, groans, and sighs of her old house built of wood and brick.

  But this was entirely different.

  She switched on the hallway light and walked to the stairs leading to the bottom floor.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone down there?”

  Of course there was no reply. Her fingers gripped the railing tightly as she started to make her way down. Step by step. Once she reached the bottom, she turned on the light. The laundry room, the guest room, the hallway—all appeared normal. She lifted her head and sniffed the air like an animal, flaring her nostrils. Was someone there? A scent? Something or someone that didn’t belong?

  The front door downstairs was locked. There was another door at the other end of the hall leading to the garage. It was ajar. Strange. She was sure she’d closed it. Every morning she checked the boiler. She knew she’d done so that morning. She switched on the garage light. Empty. The boiler banged away as usual in its corner. The Volvo, the apple of Hasse’s eye, was parked in its normal place. She looked inside the windows. The key was in the ignition. Last week she’d driven to the superstore to shop for groceries.

  Nobody was inside the car. Nobody hiding in the backseat.

  She hadn’t expected anyone there, really. But what was that noise? Did she imagine it? Anneli had been saying lately: “You’re starting to get forgetful, little Mama. Soon you’ll be forgetting your own name.”

  Maj shook herself, closed the door leading to the garage securely, and walked back upstairs to her bedroom. She hadn’t felt frightened while she went on her reconnaissance mission, more bewildered. Now fear swept through her like a wave. She was gripped by a longing to clutch her cats. She wanted them to follow her into the bedroom and jump on the bed, to curl up next to her and warm her.

  The cats never joined her on the bed.

  She knew they were inside, as she’d enticed them indoors with sardines. They’d slid onto the porch like two thin shadows and crouched in the darkness. She wanted them to stay inside all the time these days. People said cats were being stolen for dog-fighting bait. Just the thought made her dizzy. One evening, she’d tried sealing the cat door shut with masking tape, but they’d gone crazy. The tape hung in bloody strips the next morning and the cats were outside.

  For days after that incident, the cats acted in an odd manner. They slid along the walls and refused to be touched. They jumped whenever she stood up and dashed under the sofa. Even Kitten. Kitten was now a grown cat, but she was used to calling her Kitten, so she didn’t bother calling her anything else. How old was Kitten now? Maj tried to remember. It had been after Hasse’s death. A mother cat and a kitten. Somebody had found them on a balcony in Fornhöjden. Three other kittens had died. The owner of the apartment had been away in Thailand for a number of months, abandoning them, or so Maj had been told.

  Lovisa had brought the cats in a cardboard box. There was the sound of scratching and mewing. “Here, Grandma, they’re for you! Now you won’t be so lonely!”

  Her granddaughter was a true gift from God.

  She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. It didn’t work. Her entire body was tense. Perhaps she should call Anneli. No, that would make both Anneli and Johnny even more eager to move her into a retirement home.

  “You’ll have your own apartment and you’ll get all your meals served. You won’t be so lonely.”

  I’m not lonely, she thought. I have the cats. And this is my home.

  Johnny usually sat down next to her and laid his heavy arm, pale as death, around her shoulders. “Anneli and I will help you, of course. Little Maj, you understand we’re here for you. We’ll sell the house for you. We’ll fix it up and make sure it’s presentable. We’ll make sure your move goes smoothly. You won’t have to think about anything. You can relax in your new armchair and watch your favorite TV shows, Bingolotto and Så ska det låta. Just enjoy yourself and take it easy.”

  Just wait for death, she thought.

  She tried to force herself to yawn. Sometimes she could encourage sleep that way. She’d yawn and get a lungful of air. She’d curl her tongue into a bow and let the air be drawn over it.

  Then she heard it again. Noise downstairs. Rustling, like shuffled papers and footsteps.

  She was suddenly angry. Who dared come into her house and disturb he
r in the middle of the night? Get the hell out! Now! She flung her bedcover aside and leaped out of bed. Blood rushed hotly to her temples. She grabbed her umbrella with its sharp pointy tip. She started down the stairs, but then the fear caught up with her. How would she, a lone woman, attack a burglar? What if there were more than one?

  She heard Johnny’s rant inside her head: “Fucking Turks. They hate us. They think we have it so good . . . as if we got everything for free. As if we didn’t work our asses off. They want everything for free! Soon they’ll take over the whole town!”

  It was true that Södertälje had taken in a great number of immigrants from Iraq, from Lebanon, from Syria. More than the United States and Canada combined.

  She protested: people in a free and peaceful country like Sweden should open their doors and welcome these despairing human beings fleeing poverty and war. She remembered the images she’d seen on TV: mothers with dark circles under their eyes; children filled with sorrow.

  Johnny would stare at her, eyes so filled with disgust that it quieted her.

  “Yeah, yeah, just fling our doors wide open and let them move in. You could fit a whole herd of them into this big house. So why don’t you?”

  His words made her speechless.

  There was no one inside her house. Of course not. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She’d searched every nook and cranny, even the space behind the boiler until her nightgown was covered in soot.

  She decided to sit up for a while. Perhaps doze in her new armchair. It was a wonderful chair: soft and wide. She’d gotten it as a birthday present last year. She walked past the kitchen and picked up a few pieces of candy from the bowl. Peppermints. Anneli had brought them the other day. They seemed like a bribe. She’d seen through the pretense right away. It didn’t take long before Anneli turned to the subject of the house.

  “For my sake, if not for yours!” Anneli leaned forward, grasped her hand, giving it a squeeze, and then with a small smile, she continued, “I’m worried about you, Mama! Don’t you see? Anything can happen.”

  Maj had gotten angry. “Listen to me! This is my home. Try to understand that I feel just fine right here. I want to stay.”

  “But Mama, it’s so big. It’s hard to manage. You can’t count on me and Johnny coming by to help you cut the lawn and fix things up!”