The Friend

by Joakim Zander

  ‘Massage?’ he says in shaky English. ‘I make you feel good. Only fifty dollars.’

  He winks in an almost comical way, and Jacob feels suddenly very uncomfortable in this situation. It’s obvious the boy is offering more than just a massage.

  He’s been in a state of constant agitation since that night in the garden with Yassim. But this feels wrong, the boy is far too young.

  ‘No thanks,’ he says. ‘I’m good.’

  The boy shrugs in disappointment and disappears through the door, leaving Jacob alone in the room.

  *

  Jacob settles in inside a steam room that he has to himself. Slowly he closes his eyes and leans back on the hot mosaic tiles while the steam hisses around him. A slight and pleasant intoxication makes him feel lighter and freer than usual.

  He hears the glass door opening and when he peers through the steam swirling in the draught, he can just make out the outlines of a fit young man. Jacob pretends to shut his eyes so the young man won’t see Jacob checking him out as he walks by. But he takes a peek at those shoulders, the sculpted chest and arms. How old is he? A bit younger than himself? Twenty? Now he sits down next to him, and Jacob glances furtively at his straight, large nose, at his full lips and then down at his skin, down to his waist where his towel sits.

  Suddenly the man looks up and glances at him. Or not really a glance: he looks straight at him, and Jacob tries to turn away, but doesn’t quite manage, so their eyes meet for a moment.

  There’s something absolutely shameless about the look the young man gives him. Something that requires no interpretation or explanation. Jacob closes his eyes again and can feel his body start to tingle with excitement and anxiety.

  Cautiously, he takes another peek and has to suppress a gasp when he sees that the man has opened his towel and is sitting naked next to him. His penis is completely smooth and hard and is standing straight up. He slowly turns towards Jacob.

  ‘It’s hot in here,’ he says in English.

  Jacob nods weakly. ‘Definitely,’ he says.

  Now the young man scoots a little closer. ‘Do you want to cool off with me?’ he says. ‘There’s a room where we can relax a little.’

  Jacob can’t help staring at him, at his naked body, at his hard cock, and he can feel the attraction awakening inside him. All the frustration that’s been brewing inside him since that night in the garden. This is so far from all his plans and goals and tightly controlled life. But this was what Vargander meant, he supposes. This is what he was offering him, and somehow that gives him permission to give in.

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Show me your little room then.’

  The young man has wrapped the towel around himself again, and he walks past Jacob towards a small pool, a few deep and low sinks, and showers where a few men are busy washing themselves. No one pays them much heed.

  ‘Here,’ the young man finally says, opening a door next to a dry sauna.

  Jacob takes a deep breath, but he knows he’s already made his decision, and he can feel the excitement pulsing through his veins. He steps into a room with a leather-covered massage table at its centre and a small sofa on the short-sided wall. The man locks the door behind them and walks slowly towards Jacob while letting his towel fall.

  ‘I want you to fuck me,’ he says. ‘I want you to be brutal. Do you dare?’

  Jacob’s heart is pounding in his chest. Simon was tender and careful, excessively aware that Jacob was inexperienced. It felt safe in the beginning, then boring. Now something awakens inside him, and for once he lets it.

  ‘Get down on your knees,’ he says, trying to sound brusque, but he can hear how insecure and inexperienced his voice sounds. The man smiles provocatively.

  ‘You’ll have to be harder on me than that,’ he says, taking a step towards him.

  The young man bends forward and bites him lightly on his earlobe.

  ‘I wanna be your little whore, do you understand?’ he whispers.

  It feels crude and a little dangerous, and it scares him, but that’s not the only thing Jacob feels. He stops, hesitates, and for a moment considers turning around, going back to the locker room, getting dressed and leaving. But there’s something in all this that he finds alluring. It’s not sexual excitement, or not only that. It’s the adventure.

  He takes a step closer to the man and looks straight into his eyes.

  ‘Get down on your knees, whore,’ he says.

  The man obeys immediately, gets on his knees in front of Jacob, whose towel falls to the floor. Now he’s standing in front of a nameless man, completely naked. And the man stares up at him with pleading eyes.

  ‘Hit me, hit me in the face,’ he whispers.

  Jacob reacts, this is another step towards the unknown. ‘Are you…’ he says. ‘Are you sure?’

  The man gives him an almost scornful look. ‘Don’t be a little pussy, hit me now!’ he hisses.

  And Jacob gives in and slaps him across the face, which makes him look up with an almost contemptuous expression.

  ‘That was nothing,’ he says. ‘You should be embarrassed. Hit me for real.’

  Jacob looks at him and hesitates again. But then he raises his hand and strikes him with full force across the cheek.

  The young man turns his head up again and smiles weakly. Redness spreads across his cheek. ‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Pull my hair now. Force me.’

  *

  Afterwards, he sits in the back of the Volvo, unable to speak to the driver beyond monosyllables, completely unable to think. The lights and traffic, the people outside the windows of the car seem blurred.

  ‘Just drive me home,’ he says, opening the fridge, pouring himself a glass of wine, bringing it to his lips.

  What exactly happened at the bathhouse? Who did he become in there?

  He shakes his head and closes his eyes. Everything he did, everything the man wanted him to do. It was exciting, but now he feels only anxiety. Not about the young man; he wanted what happened, and they had a brief, almost friendly talk afterwards. But he feels uneasy about the role he played. Dominant, brutal. Would he rather have had the other role? He knows that’s true. He would rather be on his knees in front of Yassim.

  For a short while in the massage room he thought that might be enough, enough to let go of that night in the garden and move on. But sitting in the back seat of the embassy car on his way home through eastern Beirut, he realizes Yassim planted something inside of him that Jacob can’t let go of.

  He takes another gulp of the wine, and his phone vibrates in his bag. He almost spills his wine in his eagerness to read the message. Four words from a blocked number, no sender, as if it dropped straight into his phone from space. Still it’s enough for the world to regain its sharpness, enough for his brain to come back to life:

  Next Saturday. I’ll call.

  Yassim.

  21 November

  Sankt Anna

  She holds her breath to listen again. The sound of a car’s motor is getting louder. Is Gertrud on her way back? Did she forget something?

  Klara looks up along the road. A pair of headlights bounces over gravel on their way to the hostel. Suddenly the lights disappear, but the sound of the engine is still there – as if the headlights were turned off in order not to be seen.

  What the hell is going on? she manages to think just before the sound stops completely.

  She stands at the window, her senses fully alert, staring into the darkness and the melting snow on the window. All she hears is wind.

  She slowly backs away from the window, turns around, and heads out into the narrow hall. It’s so cold that the skin on her arms turns to gooseflesh, despite the fact that she’s wearing a thick wool sweater that Grandma brought her from Aspöja.

  Klara hesitates a moment before knocking on Gabriella’s door. Maybe it’s unnecessary to disturb her? Maybe she’s just being oversensitive? Maybe she’s overanalyzing everything?

  But Gabi is her friend, and just
as she’s about to knock, she hears Gabriella’s muted voice inside her room.

  ‘I don’t think we should talk more about this on the phone, better to continue this conversation when we meet Tuesday. As I’ve said several times now, I can’t do it any sooner. I’m so sorry, but—’

  It sounds like she’s being interrupted.

  ‘Because if what you’re saying is true, we can’t risk that you’re being listened to.’

  She falls silent again.

  ‘I’m hanging up now,’ she says emphatically. ‘We’ll meet in Brussels like we planned. Don’t call again unless you have to change the time. This is serious.’

  And with that, her conversation seems to be over. Is this the reason, is this the demanding client who made Gabi seem so distant all day?

  Klara knocks on her door, and it takes no more than a second before she hears Gabi’s voice from inside. ‘Klara?’ she says, opening the door. ‘I thought you were going to sleep.’

  Klara shakes her head, shrugs while looking at her friend. ‘I thought I heard something,’ she says.

  ‘Was I disturbing you?’ Gabi says, then falls silent, irritation springing into her eyes. ‘Were you eavesdropping?’

  Klara shakes her head. Now she’s annoyed, too. What the hell’s the matter with Gabi?

  ‘No,’ she says, giving her a chilly look. ‘I wasn’t standing here eavesdropping on your fucking conversation. Believe it or not, I have bigger things than your job to worry about today.’

  They stand there staring at each other for a moment, both unused to any discord. Finally, Gabi takes a step towards her and hugs her. ‘Damn it,’ she says. ‘Forgive me, I’m so sorry, Klara.’

  Klara awkwardly returns her hug.

  ‘I’m just so fucking stressed,’ Gabi continues. ‘There’s something very sensitive going on, or so it seems. And I can’t risk dragging anyone else into it, least of all you.’

  ‘But you know you can tell me everything, Gabi,’ she says. ‘Whenever you want.’

  ‘Not now,’ Gabi sighs and pulls away from Klara’s arms. ‘Not today. I don’t even know if it is something…’ She falls silent again, hesitates. ‘But,’ she says after a short pause. ‘If something were to go wrong in the future I’ve…’

  Klara waits, tensely, while Gabi searches for words.

  ‘Aww,’ she says at last. ‘Fuck it. I’m so dramatic. I’ll tell you when I know more.’ She looks up at Klara: ‘What was it you wanted?’

  Klara looks at her. She should nag Gabi to tell her what’s going on, but she knows it’s futile. When Gabi makes up her mind there’s nothing anyone can do to change it, especially if it has to do with her job. But it’s still a relief that this is job-related, Klara thinks, that Gabi’s irritation isn’t because she’s tired of Klara.

  ‘No, I just thought I heard something,’ Klara says. ‘A car outside.’ She points over her shoulder to her own room. ‘It was headed here with its headlights turned off.’

  ‘Out on the road?’ Gabi says.

  ‘Headed down towards us, towards the hostel,’ Klara says.

  Without a word, Gabi goes past her into the hall and into Klara’s room. The lights inside are turned off, and Gabi goes over to the window, stares intensely out into the darkness. The only sound is the radiator knocking, the wind whining around the house. No engine. No lights.

  Gabi turns around and puts a hand on her cheek.

  ‘It’s been a long day for both of us,’ she says. ‘It’s time for us to go to bed.’

  ‘But there was something,’ Klara says. ‘I saw a car earlier that seemed a little off… after the funeral… it drove down to the campsite… there’s nothing there at this time of year…’

  She looks at Gabi, but at the same time she hesitates. What was off about it anyway? Maybe it was just someone taking a driving lesson. But in this weather? Of course, it could have been anything – maybe someone got lost – and right now she’s not even sure if she really heard that engine, saw the lights.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Gabi says, holding up her hands. ‘If it makes you feel better, we’ll look.’

  Klara sees it. Gabi is trying to calm her by making it seem like it’s ridiculous that some mysterious cars would be out here. Which of course it is. But at the same time there’s something in Gabriella’s eyes that’s not totally convincing.

  *

  It takes a few minutes to find a couple of flashlights, and then they spend a half hour in the snow and wind searching the parking lot in front of the hostel, but they don’t find anything. Not even any tyre tracks.

  Now they’re back in the living room of the hostel, wet and frozen.

  ‘You’ve been through a lot,’ Gabi says. ‘You’ve been through the wringer, friend.’

  Klara nods and stands up from the sofa she was sitting on. She doesn’t know if she should feel relieved not to have found a mysterious car, or worried that she’s imagining things. But it’s true, she’s been through so much in the last few years.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘But hopefully I can get some sleep now.’

  She smiles at Gabi who also stands up.

  ‘One can always hope,’ she says.

  *

  The bed is so warm and soft and sleep so incredibly near that for the first time in a long time Klara almost feels content. Despite the funeral. Despite everything. Going to sleep with Gabi in the room next door has a calming effect, and she can feel herself falling, falling into the deep, soothing hole of sleep.

  But just before she’s drifting away she hears it again. A sound, barely audible through the wind.

  A motor.

  She immediately sits up in bed, puts her feet on the floor, and walks to the window. The sound is constant. She cups her hands and peers out into the night. A small light flashes for a moment and disappears halfway between the hostel and the road. Just for a moment. As if someone were lighting a cigarette. Then it’s quiet again.

  Quiet and dark. As if nothing happened.

  17–22 August

  Beirut

  Everyone says it’s a stressful time, but for Jacob, the week crawls with unbearable slowness. At the embassy it’s mostly just him, Agneta and Frida, who greets him hastily every morning, but doesn’t stop by his desk until mid-week.

  ‘So sorry, Johan,’ she says, ‘I promise we’ll figure out something more for you to do, but do you think you could sort these receipts for now? I can’t really ask Agneta, she’s so busy.’

  She puts down a small cardboard box filled to the brim with wrinkled slips of paper onto his desk and looks at him apologetically, her forehead imprinted with a deep furrow. He feels his own motivation sinking even lower; they don’t seem to care at all. And Vargander who let him borrow the embassy’s car and arranged that strange excursion? Didn’t that mean anything at all?

  ‘Jacob,’ he says, with emphasis. ‘You mean Jacob.’

  She looks at him uncomprehendingly at first. Then she makes the connection. ‘Did I say something else? Please forgive me if that was the case. I didn’t mean to. I’ve just got so much on my plate right now.’

  He nods.

  ‘You know, the political situation?’ she begins. ‘You’ve read about the demonstrations, right? So far they have been centred downtown and mainly taken place on the weekends, but it feels like it is building up. If the government doesn’t sort out the mess with the trash collection, there could be a late iteration of Arab Spring here too. We have to be prepared for that.’

  His interest and excitement are piqued by this. He can see it himself on the streets. Both the trash and discontent are spreading. More and more groups are joining in and airing their grievances at the corruption of the state. Soon it will be only the army defending it. And maybe not even that. He sees the graffiti and hears the slogans echoing when he heads home from the office in the evening. At the same time, a couple of streets over from where the demonstrations take place, life continues as normal. Maybe that is how revolutions start, he thinks. Maybe you
hardly even notice them at first. Or maybe the Lebanese are just so used to turmoil that for them this is nothing.

  ‘I’d love to help you,’ he straightens up. ‘If you need someone to go to the demonstrations or meetings and report back. I can…’

  Frida holds up a hand to interrupt him. ‘Stay away from the government district,’ she says. ‘I’m being serious, we cannot afford to have our intern get caught up in something.’ She sighs. ‘That’s the last thing I need now. Please, just focus on the receipts.’

  The air rushes out of him again, and he nods in defeat. Frida returns the nod and disappears into her office, already a phone pressed to her ear.

  *

  At least the box of receipts offers him something to do. He deciphers the smudged print on the thin slips of paper and sorts them chronologically before attaching them to letter-sized paper. There’s no use thinking about how this task is something for an assistant and miles away from what he thought he’d be doing here. Better to see it as one assignment among others, and do it to the best of his ability. One day they’ll notice him and let him prove what he can do.

  And on Saturday… On Saturday, Yassim is coming back.

  *

  His evenings have started to fall into a pattern. He leaves the embassy around six and heads on foot back to Mar Mikhael. He can kill an hour that way. On his way home he buys two small shawarmas or a falafel, which he eats while walking. Sometimes he stops at a cafe or bar, orders a beer and tries to read a few pages of The Tragedy of Lebanon, but usually he heads straight home to his apartment and sits on the balcony watching something on Netflix until it’s time to go to bed. He’s counting the days until the weekend.

  Three days left. Two. One.

  *

  On Friday, all of Beirut is full of rumours of an uprising. They say the demonstrations will be even bigger this weekend. Everyone will be there, the discontent is shared by every group now: Christians, Shia, Sunni, Palestinians, Armenians and Syrian refugees. It’s not just the middle class any more: everyone is tired of it.