The Red Address Book

by Sofia Lundberg

  “Goodness, what’s going on here?” laughs the nurse who comes running. Doris is sitting upright, with her legs raised high, posed like a half-open pocketknife. But she doesn’t laugh; she’s blinking away tears of pain.

  “The computer over there, I need it.” She points as her legs are slowly lowered and the pain in her back gradually decreases.

  “Why didn’t you press the alarm? We come running if you do that. You know that, Doris.”

  “I wanted to practice walking. I want to get out of here. Just doing physical therapy isn’t enough, it’s too slow.”

  “Patience, Doris. You need to accept your limits. You’re ninety-six, you’re not a spring chicken anymore.” The nurse is talking slowly and a touch too loudly.

  “Patience and stubbornness,” she mutters. “If you knew how stubborn I am.”

  “So I’ve heard. Should we try it, then?” Doris nods and the nurse slowly swings Doris’s legs over the edge of the bed and lifts her upper body into a sitting position. Doris screws her eyes tight.

  “Was that too fast? Do you feel dizzy?” The nurse gives her a sympathetic look and gently strokes her hair. Doris shakes her head.

  “Patience and stubbornness,” she says, pressing her hands against the soft mattress.

  “One, two, three, and up,” the nurse says, pulling Doris into a standing position, with her hands firmly beneath Doris’s armpits. Doris feels a jolt of pain in her hip, which then shoots down one leg. “One step at a time, OK?” Doris doesn’t say anything, just moves the foot of her bad leg forward a few millimeters. Then the other, a few millimeters. The computer is just over there, almost within reach. Her eyes are fixed on it. It’s only two meters away, but at that very moment, it might as well be on the opposite side of an abyss.

  “Do you need to rest? Sit down a minute?” The nurse hooks her foot around a stool and drags it toward them, but Doris shakes her head and laboriously inches toward the table. When she finally makes it, she rests both hands on the computer and breathes out, her head hanging over her chest.

  “My word, you really are stubborn.” The nurse is smiling as she places an arm around Doris’s shoulders. Doris is breathing heavily. She can no longer feel her legs, and she wriggles her toes to wake them up. She looks up and meets the nurse’s eye. Then she collapses.

  The Red Address Book

  A. ANDERSSON, CARL

  Carl led us through the station and out onto the street, chatting nonstop. He said that he had heard us talking on the bus, that he understood a few words of Swedish. There was a line of yellow Checker taxis outside the station, but he walked straight past them, ignoring the drivers who called to us as we passed. He walked quickly, with long strides, and was always a few steps ahead of us.

  “What if he’s conning us? What if he’s dangerous?” Agnes whispered, tugging at the suitcase we were carrying between us to make me stop. I pulled back, fixed my eyes on her, and nodded for her to keep going. She grunted before she reluctantly started moving again. We continued, following the blond head, which was at least ten centimeters higher than any other on the street. He did look Swedish, and maybe that was what made me decide to trust him.

  We walked and walked. Every now and then, Carl would turn around to check that we were still there. I had blisters on my hand by the time he came to a halt outside a narrow brick building. There were two iron pots of daffodils outside the red front door. He smiled at us.

  “Here we are. She isn’t too well,” he explained before he opened the door.

  The house had three stories, with just one room on each floor. We walked straight into the kitchen. Inside, an old woman was sitting in a rocking chair. Her hands lay in her lap and she was staring straight ahead.

  “Mom, look who I have with me. Two girls from Sweden.” He nodded toward us. She didn’t look up, didn’t seem to notice that anyone had come in.

  “Mom, they can speak Swedish with you.” He stroked her cheek. Her blue eyes seemed glassy, her pupils small. Her hair hung limp over her shoulders, and a few strands had come loose, covering one of her eyes. A thick knitted shawl was draped over her shoulders. It didn’t look clean.

  “Her name is Kristina. She hasn’t really spoken since my father disappeared. Sometimes she says a few words in Swedish, and I just thought that . . .” He turned his back to hide his sorrow, cleared his throat, and continued.

  “I just thought you might be able to get her to talk. Maybe you could help out with the housework too.”

  “Let me try.” Agnes cautiously approached the rocking chair. She sat down on the floor, with her back turned to the woman.

  “I’m just going to sit here a while,” she said in Swedish. “I can sit here all night if I have to. If you want to say anything, I’m listening.”

  The woman didn’t reply. But after a while, her chair began to rock gently. I sat down too. The house was silent except for the gentle creaking of the rocking chair and the distant street noise. We agreed that we would stay a few days, and Carl made up a bed for us in the living room, on the second floor. He even pulled out a mattress for Kristina and gently lowered her onto it. She was too heavy to carry up the two flights of stairs to the bedroom.

  Carl often came up to the living room to talk to us. Never about Kristina. He told us stories about what he had done that day, about the bank where he worked. And about Europe and the war. The situation had worsened during the months we had spent with Elaine, and Carl kept us up-to-date, but he didn’t know whether Sweden was involved. In America, people talked about Europe as if it was one big country.

  At first we didn’t want to ask Carl where his father had gone, but the more we got to know him, the more personal our conversations became. After a few weeks, we finally worked up the courage. The reply wasn’t surprising.

  It had all been very sudden. One day, when he and his mother got home, his father was waiting, with his bag packed. He said a few words and then just left Carl and Kristina without any money, but in a house they could keep.

  “He left my mom for someone else. Something inside her died when he disappeared. She had always felt so lost in New York, and he was her refuge. He looked after everything; he even spoke for her.”

  We listened in silence.

  “It’s been three years since he left. I don’t miss him. I don’t miss his moods or his overbearing nature. We’re actually much better off without him. I just wish Mom could see that too. But she gradually got more and more depressed. She stopped seeing anyone, stopped caring about our home and her appearance. Eventually, she sat down in the rocking chair and she hasn’t gotten up since. She’s barely uttered a word.”

  We took turns sitting next to Kristina, talking to her. She didn’t like to move from her chair, and I sometimes worried that she would turn to stone, sitting there. How long could a person remain still like that, saying nothing? As more weeks passed, Carl insisted that we stay; he said we were good for Kristina. And he was right. Eventually, early one morning, as we were heating water for tea, it finally happened.

  “Tell me about Sweden,” she said faintly. It was wonderful to hear those Swedish words.

  Agnes and I hurried over, sat on either side of her, and started to talk. About the snowdrifts we used to play in. About the potatoes and the herring. About the smell of the soft spring rain. About the first coltsfoot. About the lambs skipping about on the lush green island of Djurgården in central Stockholm. About the bicycles swaying along Strandvägen on a bright summer’s night. With every image we described, a glimmer came to her eyes. She didn’t say anything else, but she started to look at us more and more often. If we fell silent, she would raise an eyebrow and nod for us to continue.

  The days passed, and we continued our struggle to make Kristina happy. One day, when Carl came home, he found the rocking chair empty.

  “It’s empty.” He stared at us. “It’s empty! Where is she? Where’s my mother?”

  We laughed and pointed to the sink. There she stood, washing the
plates from lunch. She was pale and thin, but she was standing on her own two feet, and her hands still worked. When Carl walked over to her, she smiled gently. He hugged her tight and glanced at us over her shoulder, his eyes full of tears.

  We tried to find information about what was happening in Sweden, but no one could give us answers. The news reports discussed Hitler and how his armies were advancing, how the French men and women cried as German soldiers marched into Paris and occupied the city. We stared at the black-and-white newspaper images; it was hard to make sense of events in the city I loved and missed. It was nothing like when we left it; everything had changed. I wrote a few lines to Gösta but, as so often before, heard nothing in reply.

  We were still living with Carl and Kristina. We didn’t have to pay rent; it was Carl’s way of thanking us. But we helped with the cooking and cleaning. We would talk to Kristina while Carl was at the office. She couldn’t explain why she had been silent for so long; she said it felt like she had been sleeping for months. But as the days passed and she got better and better, I started to think about the future once again. Agnes and I needed to find work and a home of our own. We needed to venture out into the world, after almost a year in exile.

  Agnes wasn’t interested in my plans, and I often felt frustrated with her. She stopped telling me things, and whenever I brought up the future, she seemed absent-minded, wistful. She started replying in English, even when I spoke to her in Swedish. Over time, I noticed that she would seek out Carl rather than me. They would linger on the sofa in the kitchen in the evenings, whispering together at night. Just like Allan and I once had.

  It was late one evening. Kristina was in her rocking chair, hand-stitching a tablecloth. I was reading the daily paper, searching, as always, for the latest news about the war. I imagined that every dead soldier listed was Allan. I was so absorbed that I didn’t even notice the two of them standing in front of me, hand in hand. Agnes had to repeat what she had just said.

  “Carl and I. We’re getting married.”

  I stared at her. Stared at him. Didn’t understand. She was so young, far too young to be getting married.

  “Aren’t you happy?” Agnes exclaimed, holding out her hand to show me her smooth gold ring. “You’re happy for us, aren’t you? It’s so romantic! We want to have a spring wedding at the Swedish church. And you’re going to be my bridesmaid.”

  So it was. The cherry blossoms had just bloomed, and Agnes’s bouquet was the same color: a playful, straggling bunch of pink roses, ivy, and white mimosa. I took it from her and clutched it tight with both hands as Carl pushed a second golden ring onto her left hand. It got caught on her knuckle, but he twisted it gently until it slipped over the joint. She was wearing my white Chanel dress, the one I had often worn in Paris. It looked like it had been made for her, and she was more beautiful than ever. Her shoulder-length golden hair was curled into thick, flowing waves, half of them pinned up with a clip covered in white pearls.

  I should have been happy for her, but all I could feel was how much I missed Allan. I’m sure you must think that I go on and on about him, Jenny. But it’s difficult. There are certain memories you just can’t forget. They linger and fester, occasionally bursting like a boil and causing pain, such terrible pain.

  The Red Address Book

  A. ANDERSSON, CARL

  As the months went by, it became increasingly clear which sister ruled the house. Agnes, the new wife, took charge, expecting me to agree with her ideas and to do as she said. She was like a child playing grownup. It infuriated me.

  One morning, I paced up and down the hallway. The thick wooden planks creaked in two places, and I stepped over them to avoid making noise. It was almost eight, and Carl would soon be leaving for work. When he appeared, I paused and nodded a goodbye. The sounds of the street outside came thundering in as he opened the door and disappeared, but the house soon fell silent again, and I picked up where I had left off. I had bitten the nails on my right hand so low that they stung, but I couldn’t stop myself. I stormed into the kitchen.

  “I’m not going to stay here any longer. I don’t want to be your maid for the rest of my life.”

  Agnes stared at me as my angry French words flowed. Only the two of us understood this language, so I used it often. I repeated myself until she nodded and tried to hush me. I had already packed my bag, one of the suitcases we had brought from Paris, and changed out of my shirtdress into something more sober. My hair was pinned up and my lips were red. I was ready to face the outside world, to reestablish my place in the hierarchy. As a mannequin, someone who was celebrated. Someone who had been out of the limelight far too long.

  “But where are you going to go? Where will you live? Wouldn’t it be better if we organized something for you first?”

  I snorted at her questions.

  “Put down the suitcase. Don’t be silly.” Agnes was talking quietly. She ran her hand over her dress, a recent gift from Carl. He bought her clothes, made her his own.

  “Give it a few more days. Please, stay. Carl knows people, he can help you.”

  “Carl, Carl, Carl. That’s all you ever think about. Do you really think he’s the solution to everything? I managed perfectly well in Paris without either you or him. I’ll manage in New York too!”

  “Carl, Carl, Carl. Did I hear my name? What are you talking about? Is something the matter?” Carl had come back to grab his umbrella, and he wrapped an arm around Agnes and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” she mumbled.

  He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Pas de problème,” I said, turning to leave. Agnes ran after me.

  “Please, don’t abandon me,” she begged. “We’re sisters. We belong together. You have a home here with us. We need you. At least wait until you’ve found a job and somewhere to live. Carl can help you, we both can.”

  She carried the suitcase back to my bed, and I didn’t have the energy to protest. Later that evening, I studied my face in the cracked, speckled bathroom mirror. Both the journey and our time in America had left their marks. The once smooth skin around my eyes was now swollen, soft, and dull. I gently raised my eyebrows, pulled them up and up toward my hairline. My eyes shone when I did that, and I looked like I once had. Younger, prettier. The way I should still look. I smiled at my reflection, but the smile I had once been so proud of had lost its former sparkle. I shook my head, and my mouth returned to the usual straight line.

  The makeup I had brought with me from Paris was virtually untouched. I unscrewed the lid of the powder jar and dabbed my face with a brush. The red blemishes disappeared, and my freckles were erased. Next, I painted my cheeks; small hints of pink on my cheekbones, becoming larger and larger circles of deep cerise. I couldn’t stop myself. I painted thick black lines around my eyes, all the way out to my temples. Drew in my brows as wide as lumps of coal. Covered half my lids beneath them with dark-gray eye shadow. Painted my lips red, outlining them to look double their size. I stared at my grotesque reflection. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I eventually drew a large black cross on the mirror, over my image.

  The Red Address Book

  P. POWERS, JOHN ROBERT

  I stuck it out for a few more months, but that little house started to feel more and more claustrophobic, and once again I wanted to leave. This time, I planned my escape slightly better. When I packed up my things, Carl was already at work and Kristina was asleep. I thought it would be best that way, so my sister and I could have a proper farewell. Agnes cried and gave me all the money she had.

  “We’ll see each other again soon, I promise,” I whispered as we hugged.

  I pushed her away and left without turning back; it was too painful to see her tears. I spent the next few nights at a small hotel on Seventh Street. There was barely room to stand; the bed and the small side table took up what little space there was. On my first day there, I sat down to write a letter to Gösta. I wrote honestly about how I felt and what had happen
ed. This time, it only took two weeks for his reply to come, addressed poste restante to the Grand Central Post Office. I was used to going there every day without success, so when the cashier finally handed me a letter, I was so excited that I immediately tore it open. It was written in spidery ink, and I smiled when I saw the handwriting. I had hoped it would contain a ticket back to Stockholm, or at least some money, but it contained only words. He had no money, he wrote; life was hard in Stockholm. The war was affecting everyone. He was managing to survive by swapping his paintings for food and wine.

  If I could, dear Doris, I would send a boat to fetch you. A boat that would carry you across the ocean and into Stockholm’s beautiful harbor. I would sit in my window with a pair of binoculars, watching the sailors bring her in. And when I caught sight of you, I would run down to the water and stand there, waiting for you with my arms outstretched. That, my darling Doris, would be fantastic. Seeing a dear friend after so many years apart! You are welcome here whenever you like. You know that. My door is always open. The sweet young girl who served me wine at Bastugatan 5, I’ll never forget her.

  Your Gösta

  The letter was decorated with elegant red, purple, and green flowers. They curled up the entire right-hand side of the page, rounding the corner and embracing the text. I carefully ran my index finger over the pretty flowers, a sign of Gösta’s fondness for the young maid he had once known. The paint was thick, and I could feel every brushstroke on the coarse paper. Those flowers were more beautiful than any of the strange canvases I had seen him paint in the past.