“Stop your complaining, child,” Esaias had said, and that was that.
Ambra fainted at school that morning, collapsed and woke to find the other children standing around her and staring. The school nurse was kind and smelled nice, and Ambra had wanted to stay with her forever.
“You have an ear infection. You need to see a doctor,” the nurse said. She called the Sventins. No one had time to pick her up, of course.
“Can you manage to walk?” the nurse had asked with a worried look.
Ambra nodded, ashamed that no one cared about her. She made her way home on shaking legs. She told the Sventins what the nurse had said, but the family believed in beatings and prayers.
They did not believe in doctors, hospitals, or antibiotics.
“This is God’s way of showing that you aren’t pure, that the devil lives inside you. You must pray to be healthy,” Esaias warned.
God clearly had other plans, because Ambra only got worse and worse. One day, her eardrum burst. Puss started oozing out.
“Maybe we should take her to the hospital,” Rakel had said hesitantly.
“It’s in God’s hands,” Esaias said, and with that the discussion was over.
Ambra survived, but even today her hearing was worse in her right ear.
And now she was back in Kiruna. God clearly had a sense of humor, at least.
“Have you tried coffee cheese before?” Elsa asked when she returned with a tray and started setting out napkins and cups. She opened a round foil package. Ambra doubted that many Stock-holmers knew what coffee cheese was, but she did.
“Yes. I like it a lot. I’d love a piece.”
“Is everything all right?” Elsa studied her closely.
“Yeah.”
Elsa placed a flat, white piece of coffee cheese on a napkin. People sometimes added small chunks of it to their coffee, hence the name, but Elsa added a lick of cloudberry jelly and handed the napkin to Ambra. The cheese was delicious, firm and squeaky against her teeth. The cold cloudberries were sweetly sour.
“Is it okay if I start?” Ambra put down her spoon.
Elsa nodded.
“I wonder if you could start from the beginning. Maybe tell me about how you met the prime minister? Is it correct that you had a child with him?”
Elsa took her coffee the Norrland way, drinking it from the saucer with a lump of sugar between her teeth. She put the saucer back on the table. “How much of what we talk about will end up in the paper?”
Ah. The inevitable question. “That really depends, if I’m completely honest. Ultimately, my editor will be the one to decide. If you could start from the beginning . . . ?”
“I understand. Yes, we met up here—he came to Kiruna to take a course.”
Ambra made notes while Elsa talked. The story wasn’t enough—she recognized that immediately. An old prime minister that half of their readers would never have even heard of. An illegitimate child, born in undramatic circumstances, who went on to live a perfectly ordinary life.
“What does your son do today?”
“He’s a social worker.”
Just two or three years earlier, it probably would have been enough for an article in the paper, but that was no longer the case. People demanded more sensational content now. Ambra scratched her forehead. Would it even be enough for a short paragraph?
“Could you tell me any more about the prime minister?” She didn’t want to let Grace down. Maybe she could find a personal angle, something no one else knew. But the man was known for his affairs, and several lovers and illegitimate children had emerged over the years.
“He was like most other men. It didn’t last too long. I wanted to keep the child, and that’s what happened.”
Ambra decided to wrap things up. It could be something brief on a slow news day, and Tareq had managed to take a few good pictures. Definitely not worth the journey up here. Oh well, these things happened, and she had at least eaten a little coffee cheese. She glanced at the ornate grandfather clock behind Elsa. Could she make an earlier flight? Not that she had anything to rush back for. The Christmas break stretched out in front of her, three empty, work-free days.
“Why did you decide to talk about this now?” she asked absentmindedly.
“I’ve been asked to give an interview before. It happens on a regular basis. A neighbor calls a paper and wants to sell the story. I always said no in the past, didn’t think it had anything to do with anyone else.”
She was right there. “But you said yes this time. Why?” Ambra asked.
Elsa studied her for a long moment. “Because of you,” she eventually said.
“Me?”
“When they said they were calling from Aftonbladet, I said yes. On condition that you did the interview.”
There it was. She’d thought Grace was exaggerating.
“Well, thank you for your confidence,” she said politely.
“We’ve met before, you and I,” said Elsa.
Ambra shook her head apologetically. She had no memory of that, but then again she had also met a great many people. “Where?”
“Here in Kiruna. I was here while you lived with the Sventins. I know how bad things were for you with them.”
The hairs on Ambra’s arms stood on end. She didn’t know what to say, but she thought this was one of the worst aspects of faring badly as a child. Realizing that people had known what was going on but no one had come to her rescue.... Some wounds took longer to heal than others.
Elsa’s face crumpled. “We tried to help you. But Esaias had a strong influence over the people in charge. I wrote letters. I called. But I couldn’t do it. I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago,” Ambra said, still shaken. Growing up as she had, always wondering why adults broke their promises, never took her side, never believed her. It was no coincidence she was now a reporter who fought for those without a voice. It was more than a job. It was a calling.
“I always wondered what happened to you. Then one day I saw your name in Aftonbladet. I’ve followed your career ever since, and I wanted so much to meet you, but I do understand if you think I’m crazy.”
Ambra leaned back in her chair, trying to process the information.
“Sorry if I gave you a shock. I’ll make some more coffee, give you a chance to gather your thoughts a little.”
When Elsa went out into the kitchen, Ambra got up. What a turn of events. She didn’t know how to react to this. She went over to the bookshelf and studied the spines. Something Elsa had said was bothering her, something she needed to follow up on before she left. There was a stack of what looked like photo albums on a sideboard, and Ambra got the same feeling again. There was something Elsa had said that she ought to be asking about.
Elsa returned with the coffee. She put the tray down on the table.
“I thought of something,” Ambra said, suddenly remembering.
“Yes?”
“You said the prime minister was here on a course, that you met there. What was the course?”
Elsa’s fingers moved across the photo albums. They looked old, big and with intricate gold detailing.
“A lot of people came up here,” she said slowly. “Mostly foreigners, actually. For a while, we were completely overbooked.”
“You ran the course the prime minister came up here to take?”
“I ran the first one myself. Then my wife and I did it together.”
It took a second or two before Ambra managed to process her words.
“You were married to a woman?” There was no mention of that anywhere.
Elsa’s fingers moved across the photo album again, this time with a melancholy expression on her face. “We were registered partners; we couldn’t get married before 2009. Even then, the priest tried to stop us. There are strong conservative forces up here. We had to go to another church. But yes, we were married. Ingrid died last summer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s fine
now. She was older than I, and we had many wonderful years together. She wouldn’t have wanted me to be sad. I scattered her ashes in the square here one night.” Elsa giggled, and Ambra could suddenly imagine her as a young woman with light hair and a mischievous glimmer in her eye. “I’d rather you didn’t write about this, if you don’t mind.”
Ambra nodded. She absentmindedly took a few sips of the coffee Elsa had poured. “I promise,” she said, wondering whether she should start getting ready to leave. She liked Elsa. It felt good to know that someone had cared, even if it hadn’t made any difference.
“What was the course?” she reminded her. Maybe the prime minister had been interested in reindeer herding and signed up for a course on the history of reindeer keeping. Or maybe he liked carving things from birch bark? On top of creating children out of wedlock, that was. She checked that her computer was properly packed away.
“This was the sixties. It was a little more common back then,” said Elsa.
The zipper on her bag stuck, and Ambra replied without looking up: “What was more common?”
“Sexual experimentation.”
Ambra stopped pulling at her bag. She must have misheard. “The course can’t have been about sex?”
Elsa cocked her head. “Yes, I suppose so. Different types of relationships, a focus on closeness. People came here and lived out the ideas we taught.”
“Now it sounds like you ran some kind of sex camp. Are you telling me the prime minister came up here for something like that?”
Elsa waved her hand impatiently, as though Ambra had misunderstood the entire thing. “Not just him. We had lots of participants. We were very famous, in our own discreet way, if I may say so. Let me show you. Could you pass me that?” She pointed to the photo album on top of the pile.
Ambra handed it to her while her brain tried to process this new information. Sex camps? In Kiruna?
“I promised Ingrid I wouldn’t talk about it, not before she was dead. She was much more private than me. And I wasn’t planning to say anything at all. But it’s completely different now that it’s you. Ingrid wouldn’t have had anything against it. We really were so worried about you.”
Elsa sat down on the couch and opened the album on her knee. Ambra sat down next to her. She could see pictures and clippings between the rustling sheets of tissue paper. Elsa stroked the pages with one hand. “In our courses, I must say that Ingrid was very free. I loved that about her. We both took part. The sixties, you know,” she said, as though that explained everything.
Ambra leaned forward and studied the images. “But that’s . . . ?” she said, amazed.
Elsa smiled and nodded. She turned the page.
“And that’s . . . her. Is it really? And him?” Ambra studied the pictures of world-famous faces. The majority were black-and-white photographs: square, old-fashioned images. A young Elsa appeared in several of them. In a light fur hat and elegant skiwear.
“No one has seen these pictures in a long time. The course belonged to our past. I suppose we became more prudish with the years.”
Ambra’s fingers brushed against the edge of one photograph. “They came here?” These were some of the world’s most famous people from the late fifties and early sixties. Presidents. Artists. Movie stars.
“Oh yes,” Elsa said, pointing to an American president, well known for his film star looks. An iconic blond actress was by his side. “These two were here several times.”
“At sex camps?” Could it be true? Ambra studied the pictures carefully. She was skeptical by nature, but they looked genuine. She recognized a number of the landmarks from the area.
“Why has no one ever written about this?”
“We were very discreet. And up here, people don’t gossip. Many people earned a lot of money from this type of visitor.”
It wasn’t completely unthinkable. Ingrid Bergman had been hidden away by her home village when she returned to Sweden. The care shown to Prince Daniel Westling and the Crown Princess in his hometown was legendary, and there hadn’t been a single leak to the press.
“Plus, back then, there was no Internet or anything,” Elsa said.
Ambra hesitated. There was a story here, that much was clear. But it would also mean more time in Kiruna, and she wanted to get away. She could just pretend the interview had come to nothing and head home. No one would be any the wiser.
But this was too good. It ticked all of the boxes. Unusual sex, secret networks, and genuine celebrities—check, check, and check. Her brain was already thinking of headlines and introductions. Pictures and angles.
“Elsa, is it okay if I call my boss and tell her about this?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t bind you to anything, but I’d like to know more.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Elsa nodded hesitantly, but that was all the encouragement Ambra needed.
“Could I go into the kitchen to make the call?”
“You do that. I’ll dust the other albums down a little. We kept going right into the seventies—there are more pictures if you’d like to see them.”
Ambra pulled out her cell phone and dialed Grace’s number as she left the room. She waited impatiently. The minute Grace answered, she said, “You know Elsa in Kiruna?”
“What? Ah, yes,” Grace replied vaguely. Ambra could tell that her mind was on a thousand other things.
“It’s nothing like what we were expecting. You need to hear this.”
She quickly recapped. “It’s like Norrland porn on Ecstasy,” she finished up.
“Pictures? Do you have pictures?” Ambra smiled at the excitement in her boss’s voice; she knew Grace would like this.
“Loads.”
“We need exclusivity, make sure of that. Buy them. Has she talked to anyone else? Local paper?”
“No one.”
“You need to make sure it stays that way. Talk to her. Damn, it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow. Can she meet you? Do you need to get home?”
“I’ll talk to her. I’ll stay as long as I can.”
“What’s the angle?” Grace asked.
“Aftonbladet exclusive—Kiruna’s secret sex nest.”
Grace was silent for a moment. “Or: The pictures reveal—secret orgies. Try to convince her. And we need video. Can you film? Tareq should have a video camera. Otherwise we’ll send one up.”
There was silence at both ends of the line.
“Good work,” Grace then said, and Ambra could hear she was pleased. She wished making Grace happy didn’t mean quite so much to her. She ended the call, sent a quick message to Tareq, and then went back in to Elsa.
Chapter 9
Tom put his second beer down on the counter. The hotel bar at the Scandic Ferrum was practically deserted, which wasn’t strange. It was Christmas Eve after all, it was snowing heavily, and all normal people were at home with their families, eating Christmas dinners, exchanging gifts. He’d thought this was just what he needed. Getting out and grabbing a beer in a bar, as though it was any old day. Since the majority of his adult Christmases had been spent working, he wasn’t expecting to have any strong feelings about it. Just like any other night. But now he wondered if there was any more pathetic feeling than sitting alone at the bar in a nearly empty hotel at three in the afternoon on Christmas Eve.
The bartender gave him a questioning glance every now and then, but otherwise stared expressionlessly at the TV in one corner.
Tom’s eyes swept across the room and the tables. The wallpaper featured a pattern of different forest animals, there were stuffed ptarmigans in a line by the bar, and chandeliers made from reindeer horns hung above the tables.
And then there was her. She was still sitting there. That woman. Endlessly tapping away at her computer. She occasionally glanced down at her notes on a pad next to it. She had a cup of coffee that the bartender had refilled a few times.
Tom sipped his beer. After a while, he allowed his gaze to wander back to her. She seemed lost
in her work, and so he studied her a little longer. Her scarf was wrapped around her neck, her hat pulled down over her hair, and she was wearing a knitted sweater. She scratched her forehead every now and then, shifted in her seat, wrinkled her nose. Her entire being was intense. Quick movements and a constantly changing expression. Occasionally, she mumbled something and shook her head, as though she was part of some heated dialogue even though she was alone at the table. Then she would throw herself at the keyboard again. It was forty-five minutes since he’d first started watching her, and she hadn’t looked up once.
“Did she eat already?” Tom asked the bartender.
“What?”
Tom nodded toward the woman. “When did she last eat?”
“No idea,” the bartender replied, and turned away.
At four-thirty the woman stopped writing and started fiddling with her phone instead. Tom ordered another beer, deliberated with himself.
“How’s it going?” he eventually called out.
The woman looked up at him and then peered around the room in surprise, as though she had only just realized where she was. “Are you talking to me?” she asked.
“You and I are the only ones here. You working?”
She glanced at her computer and then at him. “Why do you want to know?”
Good question. Tom raised his glass to her. “Merry Christmas.”
She grabbed her coffee cup, raised it halfway, and in an ironic tone said, “Merry Christmas.” She put the cup down without drinking and gave him an apologetic look. “Out of coffee,” she explained.
Tom opened his mouth, but trying to talk across such a distance felt stupid. He got up from the bar and walked over to her. She followed his movements with narrowed eyes. Pulled at the sleeve of her sweater and bit her lip, guardedly rather than invitingly.
“Am I bothering you?” Tom asked with a gesture to the computer and everything else she had spread out around her.
High Risk Page 6
