The Friend

by Joakim Zander

  Now she’s sitting on a bench just outside the entrance of the detention centre and taking small sips of her coffee. A few snowflakes float down into the white light of the lamps near the gates and behind her she can hear the noise of the city’s morning traffic. It’s just a minute after eight when the gates of the jail open from inside.

  Gabriella looks the same, though her curly red hair is bigger and wilder than usual, and she has no make-up on, which is unusual for her. When she sees Klara she stops and slings open her arms, a smile spreading on her lips. Klara gets up and walks toward her. They hug each other without saying anything at first. Then Klara pushes her best friend away from her and looks into her eyes.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s only been four days,’ she whispers. ‘So much has happened.’

  Gabriella laughs and shakes her head. ‘Has it?’ she says. ‘As far as I’m concerned the world stood still.’

  Klara passes her the coffee. Gabriella takes a sip and groans with satisfaction as they slowly walk down towards Norr Mälarstrand. Klara starts to tell her everything, and Gabriella just stares at her with increasingly wide eyes.

  ‘This is insane,’ she says. ‘I can barely take it in.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Klara says. ‘I still don’t understand why they arrested you. On what grounds?’

  ‘First they told me it was the conversation with Jacob, as you call him. They had information that was super top secret that pointed to him being a terrorist or collaborating with terrorists. Like you said.’

  ‘Myriam and her gang,’ Klara says. ‘Yes, that much I understood. But it was enough?’

  ‘They confiscated my computer and phone, of course, claimed there was a bunch of communication between me and Jacob via email. That we had decided I would help him smuggle this into Sweden along with two other people.’

  ‘What?’ Klara says. ‘But…’

  ‘Yes, completely fabricated of course. That was clear from the start. Not even the Swedish in the messages was correct; I realized when I finally saw them. Some Russian wrote fake messages between my address and a fake Gmail account. The whole thing was surreal. Seeing things sent from your own account that you absolutely did not write or know were there. And the judge yesterday just heard the word “terrorism” and that was enough for him – he granted the detention and didn’t listen at all to what we said about hacking or whatever. But then the prosecutor cancelled the detention last night, just a few hours afterwards, after you revealed what was up.’

  Klara shivers. ‘So disgusting,’ she says. ‘They hacked your secret Gmail account as well, the one we used before. But I figured out it wasn’t you. Do you want to know how?’

  Gabriella nods.

  ‘What is Camp Nou?’

  ‘The soccer field in Bergort?’ Gabriella replies without a moment’s hesitation.

  Klara nods. ‘Exactly.’

  Gabriella throws her empty coffee cup into a trashcan and walks to the quay, right down to the water. She turns to Klara. ‘Thank you,’ she says steadily. ‘For not giving up on me.’

  They continue towards the city while the sun rises slowly, and the world goes from black to a gentle grey; the sky is the same colour as the water next to them, the same colour as the dock and the cars. Klara clears her throat.

  ‘But it doesn’t end there,’ she says carefully. ‘There’s one more thing.’

  She tells her about George. About how something has taken root in her, something she didn’t even think she could feel any more. Something arrived so suddenly that she didn’t realize it and now it won’t leave her for a second.

  Klara feels her cheeks turning hot.

  ‘You’re blushing!’ Gabriella laughs. ‘Well, I’m not surprised. You were already babbling about him on our way to Stockholm. But who would have thought it would blow up in the middle of all this too?’

  They stop and look out at the island of Söder towering up on the other side of the water, where Gabi’s apartment is located.

  ‘I like your neighbour,’ Klara says. ‘She’s quite a woman.’

  Gabi laughs. ‘Maria? Yes, she’s fabulous. I can’t believe she gave you Rohypnol.’ Then Gabi turns to her. ‘You don’t know how happy I am about this thing with George,’ she says. ‘It’s time for you to move forward. Finally.’

  Klara faces the water, watching as the sky turns pink in those first rays of the sun.

  ‘Yes,’ she says steadily. ‘At some point you have to start living again.’

  26–28 November

  Stockholm/Eskilstuna

  Jacob wakes up to someone gently shaking his shoulder, and he opens his eyes. Grey hair in grey light. A face he recognizes from yesterday – or earlier today? He no longer knows what day it is. Or where he is.

  ‘I don’t know if I introduced myself,’ the man says. ‘Anton Bronzelius is the name. I’m with Säpo.’

  Jacob nods and struggles onto an elbow, blinks in the bleak yellow lights of the room. Bronzelius. That was Klara’s contact at Säpo, he understood that much in yesterday’s chaos.

  ‘Where am I?’ he says. His voice is hoarse and creaky, and he clears his throat. Bronzelius is already on his feet.

  ‘Söder Hospital,’ he says. ‘They’re holding you for observation. It seems like you’ve been through a lot lately.’

  Jacob looks around – it’s definitely a hospital room; shiny floors, big beds, tubes and a TV hanging from the ceiling. A vague memory of police cars and an ambulance taking him here.

  ‘Am I a prisoner?’ he says. It feels like the wrong word, but his brain is neither quick nor clear enough. Bronzelius just shakes his head.

  ‘We have a lot of questions,’ he says. ‘But you’re not suspected of any crime. Even if your role in all this is still far from clear. But we have time to talk about that later.’ He gestures to the door. ‘We’re in a bit of a hurry,’ he says. ‘I think there’s somebody you’d like to see before it’s too late.’

  Jacob’s body aches as he follows Bronzelius through the desolate corridor of the hospital. His shoulder, knees, head. It feels as if he’s just been pulled out of the rubble, as if he survived an earthquake. Maybe that’s what he’s done.

  The silence and tranquillity of the hospital is confusing; he can hardly believe that after everything, he’s safe now, or something like it. He’s not going to die. Whatever happens, he’s going to live.

  Bronzelius stops in front of a door that a police officer is guarding. They exchange a few words, but Jacob is so exhausted and drowsy he doesn’t really process what they’re saying. The door opens and Bronzelius pushes him gently through it.

  ‘You have five minutes,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s all I can give you.’

  In the bed in this small room, Yassim is lying on his back on white sheets. His head rests against the pillow, his eyes are closed, and an overwhelming tenderness sneaks over Jacob. He hurries to the bed, leans over it. An IV in Yassim’s arm, a white, freshly dressed bandage on his chest. Yassim turns his head and opens his eyes.

  ‘You’re here,’ he whispers faintly.

  Jacob nods and takes Yassim’s face between his hands, gently kisses those dry lips. Something rattles at the edge of the bed, and Jacob turns and sees that Yassim is handcuffed to the bedframe.

  ‘I think they’ll be keeping me a while,’ he says.

  ‘What are they going to do to you?’ Jacob says. ‘What’s going on?’

  He turns around and sees Bronzelius’s face in the dim light at the door. ‘I’m afraid your friend will have to stay with us,’ he says. ‘He’s been connected to ISIS. Acted as courier.’

  ‘He was exposing them!’ Jacob bursts out.

  He stands up, turns completely towards Bronzelius with his hands at his sides. The insight hits him ever more fully and leaves him with a paralyzing sense of powerlessness. Someone is going to have to pay, someone will be made responsible. And they’ve decided that’s Yassim.

  ‘You have three minutes left,’ Bronzelius says
drily. ‘It’s up to you what you do with them.’

  Jacob can feel he’s shaking now, but he turns back to Yassim, leans over him again, sinks down beside him, places his head so they’re side by side.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I…’

  ‘Shhh, shh,’ Yassim whispers. ‘I’m not sorry. We did the right thing, darling.’

  Jacob feels tears welling up behind his eyes, feels his throat burning and the lump there growing. Yassim’s skin against his lips.

  ‘You can’t disappear,’ he whispers. ‘We just met.’

  *

  When the train stops at Eskilstuna, Jacob takes a deep breath and squeezes the armrest. He closes his eyes. It’s been two days since he left Yassim at the hospital. A day since Bronzelius let him leave the police station.

  ‘We’ll have to talk to you again,’ Bronzelius told him. ‘Don’t go too far.’

  Jacob has already told them everything they wanted to know. Answered every question in the most minute detail as best he could. All in the hope that Bronzelius would answer just one of his own: ‘What is going to happen to Yassim?’

  But beside those five minutes at the hospital that Bronzelius stole for him, he refused to give an inch. No promises, no information, nothing.

  ‘Focus on yourself,’ Bronzelius said. ‘That’s my only advice.’

  But there was something about the way he said it. Something in his eyes, his expression when he looked at Jacob, which seemed to open a door rather than close it.

  ‘But he’s not going to disappear?’ Jacob asked. ‘You won’t make him disappear?’

  Bronzelius just shook his head, almost imperceptibly. ‘No,’ he muttered. ‘This is Sweden. People don’t disappear here.’

  And that was all. That was all he got, the only straw he has to cling to.

  *

  As soon as he gets off the train and steps down onto the platform, it feels like a mistake to have gone back to Eskilstuna. It feels like too much, too soon. He swore he’d never, ever return. Just keep moving forward and upward and never ever look back. That was the promise he made to himself. The promise that allowed him to survive his home and school and everything he swore never to think about or share with anyone.

  When he opens his eyes he sees a light, cold rain falling in the lights of the station.

  But he knows it won’t work any more. He knows that Myriam was right when she found him in Beirut. It was an illusion from the beginning. You can’t hide from who you are.

  It’s just a few minutes’ walk from the station to the yellow brick buildings, the white balconies, the vodka bottles, the cigarette butts. His childhood. He still had the key in a small box in his room in Uppsala. He couldn’t quite let go of it during his studies, no matter how much he wanted to, and now he’s holding it in his sweaty hand as he opens the door to the apartment building.

  But he stops there, unable to take another step. Then he feels Yassim’s hand in his, feels him gently pulling him up the echoing stairwell, hears Yassim’s voice whispering in his ear: ‘Don’t be afraid, Jacob. Don’t be afraid any more.’

  She doesn’t answer when he rings the doorbell, but he didn’t expect she would. He carefully puts the key in the lock and turns it. It’s been so long since he opened this door, still he remembers the exact movement, how the lock slides and clicks. He remembers the vacuum suck as he pulls open the heavy door of a musty apartment and the stench of smoke and alcohol and closed windows with curtains drawn.

  His mother is lying on the stained couch. On the coffee table are some leaflets and a half-eaten chocolate cake, an empty pack of cigarettes, a full ashtray, an empty bottle of gin, a couple of beer cans. He turns around to see where Yassim went – he felt so real just a moment ago, there in the stairs. But he’s disappeared again. It’s just Jacob and his mother here now, and he goes over to the window, finds the handle and opens it. A cold wind swirls into the apartment, making the dirty curtains flutter.

  He turns to his mother just as she’s opening her eyes and starts to sit up on the couch.

  ‘Matti?’ she says. ‘Matti, is that you?’

  Jacob goes over to the couch and squats down beside her. She looks at him with cloudy, tired eyes, her skin grey, her hair thin.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘It’s me.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to:

  My wonderful American and English publishers Jennifer Barth and Laura Palmer

  My excellent translator Liz Clark Wessel

  My Swedish publisher Helene Atterling

  My friend and agent Astri von Arbin Ahlander

  My careful, smart and patient Swedish editor Jacob Swedberg

  My German publisher Nina Grabe who pushed me forward

  My friend Tobias Almborg for the trip to Beirut, without which there would be no book

  My brother Daniel Zander for all the tips and contacts in Beirut

  My guide to Beirut from a distance, Professor Leif Stenberg

  My invaluable contact at American University in Beirut, Rami Khouri

  My guide into the heart of young, political Beirut, Dima Tannir

  My friend Johan Jarnvik, like always

  My parents for all the security and help

  My Moa for everything

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