by Lars Kepler
“Is that what you do now?”
Eva nodded and puffed out her cheeks like a sulky child.
“What can you see?”
“Nothing,” she said, quickly and firmly.
“Nothing?”
“Just one little thing … I am writing on the road outside the post office with a piece of chalk.”
“What are you writing?”
“Nothing important.”
“And you can’t see anything through the window?”
“No … just a boy. I’m looking at a boy,” she slurred. “He’s lovely, really sweet. He’s lying on a narrow bed, a sofa bed. A man in a white terry-cloth robe lies down on top of him. It looks nice … I like looking at them. I like boys. I want to kiss them.”
Afterwards, Eva sat there, her mouth twitching and her eyes darting back and forth over everyone in the group. “I wasn’t hypnotised,” she said.
“You were relaxed; that works just as well,” I replied.
“No, it didn’t work at all, because I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying. I made it all up. I just said whatever came into my head. It was all just in my imagination.”
“So the canoe club doesn’t actually exist?”
“Nope,” she replied tersely.
“The soft track?”
“I made everything up,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.
Eva Blau was a person who exerted an effort never to give away anything about herself. It was obvious she was troubled by the fact that she had been hypnotised and had described events she was really involved in.
Marek spat silently into the palm of his hand when he noticed that Pierre was watching him. Pierre blushed and quickly looked away.
“I have never done anything to boys,” Eva went on, raising her voice. “I’m nice. I’m a nice person. Children like me. All children like me. I’d be happy to babysit, Lydia. I went to your house yesterday, but I didn’t have the nerve to ring the bell.”
“Please don’t do that again,” said Lydia quietly.
“Do what?”
“Don’t come to my house again,” Lydia said.
“You can trust me,” Eva went on. “Charlotte and I are already best friends. She cooks for me, and I pick flowers for her to put on the table.” Eva’s lips twitched as she turned to Lydia once again. “I bought a present for Kasper. It’s a fan that looks like a helicopter. It’s fun. You fan yourself with the rotors.”
“Eva,” said Lydia darkly.
“The rotors are plastic, soft plastic. It’s not dangerous at all, he can’t hurt himself with it, I promise.”
“Don’t come to my house,” said Lydia. “Do you hear me?”
“Oh, not today, I can’t come today. Today I’m going to Marek’s. I think he could use some company.”
“Eva, you heard me,” Lydia persisted.
Eva responded with a smile. “I haven’t got time tonight.”
Lydia’s face grew white and tense. She stood up quickly and left the room. Eva remained in her seat, gazing after her.
Simone hadn’t arrived when I was shown to our table at the K.B. restaurant. I sat down and wondered whether to order a drink while I was waiting. It was ten past seven. I had booked the table myself. It was my birthday and I was feeling happy. We rarely managed to go out in those days; she was busy with her gallery project, I with my research. When we did have a free evening together, we usually chose to spend it on the sofa with Benjamin, watching a film or playing a video game.
At twenty past seven, the waiter brought me a martini glass containing Absolut vodka, a few dashes of Noilly Prat, and a long twist of lime peel. I decided to wait a little while before calling Simone, but when the drink was half gone, I was starting to feel anxious and annoyed. Reluctantly I took out my phone, dialled Simone’s number, and waited.
“Simone Bark.” She sound distracted, her voice echoing in an empty space.
“Sixan, it’s me. Where are you?”
“Erik? I’m at the gallery, what’s …” Her voice died away; then I heard a loud groan. “Oh, no. No! I’m so sorry, Erik, I completely forgot. There’s been so much going on today; we’ve had the plumber here and the electrician and—”
“You’re at the gallery?” I couldn’t hide the disappointment in my voice.
“Yes, and I’m covered in paint and plaster.”
“We were supposed to be having dinner together,” I said wearily, lowering my voice. I glanced around at the other diners, embarrassed at having been stood up.
“I know, Erik. I’m so sorry. I forgot.”
“At least we have a good table,” I added sarcastically.
She sighed. “There’s no point in waiting for me.” I could hear how upset she was and took some cold comfort in shaming her. “Erik,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”
“It’s OK,” I said. I pressed the button to end the call.
Well, there wasn’t much point in going anywhere else, and I was hungry and I was in a restaurant. I quickly waved the waiter over and ordered herring with beer for an appetizer, crispy fried duck breast with diced bacon and orange sauce for my main course, along with a glass of Bordeaux, and, to finish, a Gruyère Alpage with honey.
“You can take away the other place,” I said to the waiter, adding, in a mournful tone, “I’ll be dining alone, it seems.” He gave me a sympathetic look as he poured my Czech beer and set out the herring and crispbread.
I wished I had at least brought my notepad so I could have done something useful while I was eating.
My mobile phone suddenly rang in my inside pocket. Ah, I thought. Simone was kidding; she’s on her way.
“Hi, it’s Maja Swartling.”
“Maja, hi.”
“I was going to ask—wow, there’s a lot of noise around you. Is this a bad time?”
“I’m sitting in K.B.,” I said. “It’s my birthday,” I added morosely.
“Oh, congratulations, it sounds like a big party.”
“I’m alone,” I said tersely.
“Oh.” She was silent for a moment. I didn’t expect what she said next. “Erik, I’m sorry I tried to seduce you. I’m so ashamed.” She cleared her throat and tried to adopt a neutral tone as she went on. “I was going to ask if you’d mind reading the transcripts of my first interviews with you. I’ve finished them, and I’m about to hand them in to my advisor, but if you’d like to read them first—”
“Just leave them in my cubbyhole.”
We said goodbye. I poured the last of the beer into my glass, knocked it back, and the waiter cleared the table. He returned almost immediately with the duck breast and red wine.
I ate with a sense of gloomy emptiness, unnaturally aware of the mechanisms of chewing and swallowing, the muted scrape of my knife and fork against the plate. I drank my third glass of wine and watched the pictures on the wall metamorphose into members of my hypnosis group. The voluptuous woman gathering her dark hair sensually at the back of her neck, causing her swelling breasts to lift, was Sibel. The skinny, anxious man in the suit was Pierre. Jussi was hidden behind a strange grey shape, and Charlotte, elegantly dressed and straight-backed, was sitting at a round table with Marek, who was wearing a childish suit.
I don’t know how long I had been staring at the pictures when I suddenly heard a breathless voice behind me. “Oh, you’re still here! I’m so glad I caught you.” It was Maja Swartling. She was beaming and gave me a big hug, to which I responded awkwardly.
“Happy birthday, Erik.”
Her thick black hair smelled wonderfully clean, and a faint scent of jasmine was hiding somewhere at the nape of her neck. She pointed at the chair opposite me. “May I join you?”
I ought to have sent her away. I had promised myself I wouldn’t see her again, and she should have known better than to come. But I hesitated, because in spite of everything I was glad of the company.
She was standing by the chair, waiting for my answer.
“I find it difficult to say no to you,
” I said, hearing the ambiguity in my words.
She sat down, summoned the waiter, and ordered a glass of wine. Then she gave me a mischievous look and placed a box beside my plate. “It’s only something small,” she explained, blushing furiously once again.
“A present?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Purely symbolic. I only found out it was your birthday twenty minutes ago.”
I opened the box and discovered to my surprise something that looked like miniature binoculars. My bewilderment must have shown on my face.
“They were called ‘anatomical binoculars,’” Maja explained. “My great-grandfather invented them. Actually, I think he won the Nobel Prize—though not for the binoculars. It was in the days when only Swedes and Norwegians used to win,” she added apologetically.
“Anatomical binoculars,” I repeated wonderingly.
“Anyway, they’re really quaint—sweet, even—and very old. I know it’s a silly present—”
“It certainly isn’t, it’s wonderful.” I looked into her eyes and saw how beautiful she was. “It’s very, very kind of you, Maja. Thank you so much.”
I placed the binoculars carefully back in their box and put them in my pocket.
“My glass is empty already,” she said in surprise. “Shall we order a bottle?”
It was late by the time we decided to go on to Riche, which was not far from the national theatre. We almost fell over when we were handing our coats in at the cloakroom; Maja was leaning on me and I misjudged the distance to the wall. When we regained our balance and saw the morose, deadly serious expression on the attendant’s face, Maja burst out laughing and, glancing at him apologetically, I led her away to the bar.
We each ordered a gin and tonic. It was hot and crowded, and we had to stand close together, leaning in to speak directly into each other’s ears in order to talk. Suddenly, we found ourselves kissing passionately. The back of her head thudded against the wall as I pressed myself against her. The music throbbed. She was speaking close to my ear, telling me we should go back to her place.
We rushed outside and into a taxi.
“We’re only going to Roslagsgatan,” she slurred. “Roslagsgatan seventeen.”
The driver nodded and pulled out into traffic. It was something like two o’clock in the morning, and the sky was beginning to lighten. The buildings flashing by were pale grey shadows. Maja leaned against me. I thought she was going to go to sleep when I felt her hand caressing my crotch. I was hard at once, and she laughed quietly, her lips against my neck.
I’m not sure how we got up to her studio. I remember standing in the lift licking her face, aware of the taste of salt and lipstick and powder, catching sight of my own drunken face in the blotchy mirror.
Inside her place, Maja stood in the hallway, let her jacket fall to the floor, and kicked off her shoes. She drew me over to the bed, helped me undress, and pulled off her white panties.
“Come here,” she whispered. “I want to feel you inside me.”
I lay down heavily between her thighs; she was very wet, and I simply sank into the warmth as she wrapped herself around me, squeezing me tightly. She groaned in my ear, clung to my back, moved her hips gently.
We had sex carelessly, drunkenly. I began to feel more and more detached from myself, more and more isolated and mute. I was getting close to my orgasm; I intended to pull out, but instead simply gave in to a convulsive, rapid ejaculation. She was breathing fast. I lay there panting as my penis grew limp and slid out of her. My heart was still pounding. I saw Maja’s lips part in a strange smile, which made me feel uncomfortable.
I felt ill. I no longer understood what had happened. What was I doing here? Stupid. This was so stupid.
I sat up in bed beside her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, stroking my back.
I shrugged off her hand. “Don’t,” I said abruptly. My heart was thudding with fear.
“Erik? I thought—”
She sounded upset. I felt I couldn’t look at her, I was angry with her. What had happened was my fault, of course. But it would never have happened if she hadn’t been so persistent.
“We’re both tired and drunk,” she whispered.
“I have to go,” I said, in a choked voice; I picked up my clothes and staggered into the bathroom. It was very small and full of creams, brushes, towels. A fluffy bathrobe was hanging from a hook, along with a pink razor on a soft, thick cord. I did my best to avoid looking at myself in the mirror as I washed myself with a pale blue cake of soap shaped like a rose. As I dressed, my elbows bumped into the walls.
When I came out she was waiting anxiously. She stood with the sheet wound around her body, looking very young. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, and I could see her lips trembling as if she were about to cry.
“I’m angry with myself, Maja. I should never, ever—”
“But I wanted to, Erik. I’m in love with you, can’t you see that?” She tried to smile at me, but her eyes filled with tears. “You’re not allowed to treat me like shit now,” she whispered, reaching out to touch me.
I moved away and said this had been a mistake, my tone somewhat more dismissive than I had wished.
She nodded and lowered her eyes. I didn’t say goodbye, I simply left the studio and closed the door behind me.
I walked all the way to the hospital. Perhaps I could convince Simone that I had spent the night in my office.
In the morning I took a taxi home to our house in Järfälla. It was a mistake; my body heaved with nausea every time the cab hit a bump. Worse, I felt disgust at what I’d done the night before. I couldn’t possibly have been unfaithful to Simone. It couldn’t be true. Maja was beautiful and amusing, but she was not someone I could ever care about in any real way. How the hell could I have let myself be flattered into going to bed with her?
I didn’t know how I was going to tell Simone this, but I had to do it. I had made a mistake, people do, but people can forgive each other if they just explain, and I felt that our relationship was strong enough to withstand the explanation.
I knew I could never let Simone go. I would be hurt, badly, if she was unfaithful to me, but I would find a way to forgive her. I would never leave her because of something like that.
Simone was in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee when I got home. She had on her tatty, pale pink silk robe. We’d bought it in China when Benjamin was only one, and they had both gone with me to a conference.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Please.” I sat down heavily at the table.
“Erik, I’m so sorry I forgot your birthday.”
“I stayed over at the hospital,” I explained, thinking it must be obvious from the tone of my voice that I was lying.
She looked down at the floor for a moment—I held my breath, waiting for anger or an accusation—the strawberry-blonde hair obscuring her face. Then, without a word, she went into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a package. She extended it toward me with a shy smile on her face and I tore off the paper with playful eagerness.
It was a boxed set of CDs by Charlie Parker, containing concert recordings from each of his appearances during his only visit to Sweden: two shows at the concert hall in Stockholm, two in Gothenburg, one at Amiralen in Malmö and the subsequent jam session at the Academic Club, the show at Folkets Park in Helsingborg, at the arena in Jönköping, at Folkets Park in Gävle, and finally at the Nalen jazz club in Stockholm.
“Thank you,” I said.
“What does your day look like?” she asked.
“Well, I have to go back to work.”
“I was thinking,” she said, “that maybe we should have a really nice meal together at home tonight.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
“Only it can’t be too late—the painters say they are coming at seven tomorrow morning. Why the hell do they always have to come so early?”
I realised she was expecting an answer. “And you a
lways end up waiting for them anyway,” I mumbled.
“Exactly.” She smiled, sipping her coffee. “So what shall we have? Perhaps that thing with tournedos in a port wine and currant sauce, do you remember?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, struggling not to sound on the verge of tears.
“Don’t be pissed off with me.”
“I’m not, Simone.” I tried to smile at her.
Later, when I was standing in the hall with my shoes on, just about to leave, she emerged from the bathroom. She had something in her hand.
“Erik,” she said.
“Yes?”
“What’s this?”
They were Maja’s miniature anatomical binoculars.
“Oh, that. A present,” I said, hearing the elusiveness in my voice.
“It’s a beautiful object. It looks antique. Who gave it to you?”
I turned away to avoid looking her in the eye. “Just a patient,” I said, trying to sound absent-minded as I pretended to search for my keys. “God knows how he found out it was my birthday.”
She laughed in amazement. “I thought doctors weren’t allowed to accept gifts from their patients. Isn’t that unethical?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it,” I said, opening the door.
Simone’s gaze was burning into my back. I should have talked to her, but I was frightened of losing her. I didn’t dare. I didn’t know how to begin.
As I was about to go into the therapy room, Marek stopped me. He was barring the door and smiling an empty, odd smile at me.
“We’re having a bit of fun in here,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s a private party.”
I looked at him carefully. Suddenly, I heard screaming through the door.
“Let me in, Marek,” I said.
He grinned. “Doctor, that’s not possible at the moment.”
I pushed past him. The door opened, Marek lost his balance, grabbed for the doorknob, but ended up on the floor anyway.
“I was just joking,” he said. “It was only a joke, for God’s sake.”
All the patients were staring at us, frozen.
Marek stood up and dusted himself off.