Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Marianne
Albin
The Baltic Charisma
Dan
Filip
Albin
Dan
The Baltic Charisma
Albin
Madde
Marianne
Calle
Madde
Albin
Calle
Tomas
Calle
Tomas
Madde
Dan
Tomas
Albin
Madde
Filip
Calle
Tomas
Dan
Marianne
Filip
Calle
Tomas
Albin
Madde
Tomas
Calle
Madde
Marianne
The Baltic Charisma
Marianne
Madde
The Baltic Charisma
Calle
Albin
Madde
Marianne
Albin
Dan
Albin
The Baltic Charisma
Dan
Pia
Marianne
Dan
Mårten
Dan
The Baltic Charisma
Albin
Dan
Calle
Pia
Göran
Dan
The Baltic Charisma
Marianne
Dan
The Baltic Charisma
Pia
Albin
The Baltic Charisma
Pia
Dan
Pia
The Baltic Charisma
Pia
The Baltic Charisma
Filip
Cilla
Filip
Calle
Marianne
The Baltic Charisma
Calle
The Baltic Charisma
Albin
Filip
Albin
Madde
Marianne
Madde
Marianne
Albin
Madde
Calle
Filip
The Baltic Charisma
Calle
Dan
Albin
Dan
Filip
Albin
Marianne
Dan
Albin
Calle
Madde
Calle
Dan
Albin
Filip
The Baltic Charisma
Madde
Calle
Madde
Marianne
The Baltic Charisma
Albin
Madde
Marianne
The Baltic Charisma
Marianne
Filip
Calle
Madde
Calle
Madde
Albin
Filip
Dan
Calle
The Baltic Charisma
Pia
Calle
Mårten
Albin
The Baltic Charisma
Madde
The Baltic Charisma
Acknowledgements
This ebook edition first published in 2018 by
Jo Fletcher Books
an imprint of
Quercus Editions Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © 2018 Mats Strandberg published by Agreement with the Grand Agency.
English Translation © 2018 Agnes Broome
First published in Sweden by Norstedts in 2015
The moral right of Mats Strandberg to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
EBOOK ISBN 978-1-78648-778-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design © Pär Åhlander
Cover image © Kim Petersé
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
www.jofletcherbooks.com
This book is dedicated to my mother, who taught me how to read and always encouraged me to write. I love you and I miss you.
Marianne
Almost an hour to go before the ship departs. She can still change her mind. She can still grab her bag and leave, pull it through the terminal building and back up the pier, head down into the underground, go to Stockholm Central Station, travel all the way back home to Enköping. She can try to forget this utterly foolish idea. Maybe at some point she will even be able to have a good chuckle about last night, when she was sitting in her kitchen, where the voices from the radio were unable to fully drown out the ticking of the clock on the wall. After knocking back one too many glasses of Rioja, she decided enough was enough. She downed one more glass and decided to do something about it. Seize the day. Seize adventure.
Sure, at some point she might be able to laugh about it. But Marianne doubts it. It is very hard to laugh at yourself when there is no one to laugh along with you.
What was this whim in aid of anyway? She had seen the advertisement on TV earlier that evening – people in evening wear who looked just like regular people, only a bit happier – but that is hardly sufficient explanation. This isn’t like her.
She quickly booked the ticket before she could change her mind. She was so excited she could barely fall asleep, even after all that wine. And the feeling had lingered all morning while she dyed her hair, all afternoon while she packed, all the way here. As though an adventure was already unfolding. As though she could actually escape herself by escaping her everyday life. But now her reflection is staring back at her and her head is pounding and regret has caught up with her, like a hangover on top of her hangover.
Marianne leans forward and rubs at some wayward mascara. In the blueish fluorescent light of the terminal building’s ladies’ room, the bags under her eyes look grotesque. She backs up. Runs her fingers through her sensible bob haircut. She can still detect a faint whiff of hair dye. She digs a lipstick out of her purse and tops up her makeup with the smooth movements of habit, smacking her lips at her reflection. Pushes down the dark cloud that wants to swell up inside her, swallow her whole.
A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind her and the door unlocks. Marianne straightens up, smoothing her blouse down. Get a grip, she has to get a grip. A dark-haired young woman in a sleeveless hot-pink blouse emerges from the stall and walks to the sink next to Marianne’s. Marianne furtively studies the smooth skin of her arms, the muscles that can be sensed underneath as she washes her hands and reaches for a towel. She is too skinny. Her features are so angular they look virtually mannish. Still, Marianne assumes a lot of people would call her beautiful. Sexy, at least. A tiny diamond twinkles on one of her front teeth. Pink rhinestones on the back pockets of her jeans. Marianne catches herself staring and quickly turns away. But the girl disappears out
into the terminal without giving her so much as a glance.
She is invisible. And she wonders if it can really be true that she was ever that young.
It was so long ago. A different time, a different city. She was married then, to a man who loved her as best he could. The children were little and still believed she was some sort of demi-god. She had a job that gave her validation every day. And her neighbours had always been happy to have her over for a cup of coffee when she could spare the time.
Imagine: there had been days when Marianne had dreamed of being alone. A couple of hours in her own company, so she could hear her own thoughts properly, seemed like the height of luxury.
If that was the case, she is swimming in luxury these days. In fact, luxury is all she has left.
Marianne checks her teeth for lipstick. Looks down at the trolley bag next to her, a gift from the book club she is a member of.
She folds her down coat over her arm, resolutely grabs her bag and leaves the bathroom.
There is an excited din in the terminal building. A few people are already queuing by the barriers, waiting to be let on. She glances around, realising that her pink blouse and knee-length skirt are much too formal. Most of the other women in their sixties are either dressed like teenagers, in jeans and hoodies, or have gone the opposite way, hiding under shapeless tunics and tent-like dresses. Marianne doesn’t fit in with either group. She looks like an uptight, retired medical secretary. Which is exactly what she is, of course. She tries to force herself to acknowledge that many of them are older than her, uglier than her. She has a right to be here too.
Marianne sets her course for the bar at the other end of the terminal. The wheels of her trolley bag make it sound like she is pulling a steamroller across the stone floor.
Once she reaches the counter she scans the gleaming bottles and beer taps. Prices are listed in chalk on blackboards. Marianne orders a coffee with Baileys and hopes drinks are cheaper on board. Are the bars tax-free too? She should have checked. Why didn’t she check? Her drink is served in a highball Duralex glass by a girl with gleaming scraps of metal in her lips and eyebrows. She doesn’t look at Marianne, which eases her conscience about not leaving a tip.
There is a free table at the far end of the glassed-in seating area. Marianne carefully picks her way between the tables with her noisy bag and the coat that seems as big as a duvet. The glass is burning her fingers. Her purse strap slides off her shoulder, landing in the crook of her arm. But at long last she reaches the table. Puts the glass down. Pulls the strap back up and miraculously squeezes through the narrow gap between the tables, coat and all, without knocking down a single thing. When she collapses onto the chair she feels completely drained. She gingerly takes a sip; the beverage is not nearly as warm as the glass so she drinks more greedily. Feels alcohol, sugar and caffeine slowly spread through her body.
Marianne looks up at the mirrored ceiling. Straightens up a little. From the bird’s-eye perspective, you can’t see the wrinkles on her neck, and the tightness of the skin around her jaw makes it look chiselled. Perhaps it is because the glass is tinted, but her eyes are alert in a face that could almost pass for tanned. She runs her fingers along her jawline until she realises she’s preening in public. She deflates in her chair, takes another sip. Wonders how far she is from becoming a bona fide eccentric. One time she made it all the way to the bus stop before noticing she was still wearing pyjama bottoms.
The black cloud threatens to well up again. Marianne closes her eyes, hearing laughter and talking all around her. There is a loud slurping noise. When she turns that way she sees a small Asian boy examining a glass with nothing but ice cubes left in it. His red-faced father has his phone glued to his ear; he appears to hate the whole world.
Marianne wishes she still smoked, that she could step out onto the pier and have a cigarette, just to have something to do. But at least she is here now. Surrounded by sound. And she makes her mind up. No, this isn’t her. But she is so sick of being herself.
She can’t go back home. She spent the whole summer cooped up in her flat, listening to laughter and voices and music from the other flats in the building, from the balconies, from the street outside her kitchen. The sounds of life happening everywhere. Back home, that damn kitchen clock is ticking away right now, and the calendar with pictures of grandchildren she has barely met is counting down the days until Christmas. If she were to go home now, she would be trapped in solitude for ever. She would never attempt anything like this again.
Marianne suddenly notices one of the men at the next table smiling warmly at her, trying to catch her eye. She pretends to look for something in her purse. The man’s eyes are large in his gaunt, drawn face. His hair is much too long for her taste. She should have brought a book. For lack of a better option, she pulls out her boarding pass and possibly makes too big a show of carefully scrutinising it. The shipping company’s logo in the top right corner: a nondescript white bird with a pipe and a captain’s hat.
‘Hey, love. You here all alone?’
Sheer reflex makes Marianne glance up. The man’s eyes meet hers. She forces herself not to look away.
Yes, he’s a bit worse for wear. And his light-blue denim waistcoat is filthy. But he must have been gorgeous at some point. She can see it, underneath the face he wears now. Just like she hopes someone will see the same underneath hers.
‘Yes,’ she says, and clears her throat. ‘I was supposed to be going with a friend, but she was confused about the dates; I just found out. She thought it was next Thursday and I … I thought that since I had the ticket anyway, I might as well …’
She breaks off and concludes with a shrug she hopes comes off as nonchalant. Her voice sounds creaky, as though her vocal cords have dried up. She hasn’t used them in several days. And the lie, which she prepared so meticulously the night before, in case of exactly this kind of situation, suddenly sounds laughably transparent. But the man just smiles at her.
‘Then squeeze in with us – you need someone to toast with!’ he says.
He already seems a bit tipsy. And one quick glance around his table is enough to confirm that his friends are in even worse shape. There was a time when Marianne would never have considered an offer from the likes of this man.
If I say yes, I’ll turn into one of them, she thinks to herself. But I can hardly afford to be picky any more, can I? And besides, isn’t ‘pickiness’ just cowardice by any other name?
It is only twenty-four hours, she reminds herself. Then the ship will be back in Stockholm. If this turns out to be a mistake, she can bury the memory of it where she has buried so many other things, like the opposite of a treasure chest.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Yes. Thank you. That would be nice.’
Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor when she moves over to their table.
‘Name’s Göran,’ he offers.
‘Marianne.’
‘Marianne,’ he says, and smacks his lips a little. ‘Yes, that actually suits you. You’re as sweet as the Marianne mints.’
Luckily, there is no need for her to respond to that. He starts introducing her to the others. She nods at them, one after the other, forgetting their names as soon as she hears them. They are strangely similar-looking. The same guts bulging under the same chequered shirts. She wonders if they have known each other since they were young. If Göran was always the handsome one, the one who lured girls into the group.
Her coffee is cold and stale by now, but before she has time to gulp it down regardless, one of Göran’s friends returns with beer for everyone, her included. Marianne doesn’t say much, but no one seems to mind. They drink, and she stops thinking so damn much, starts feeling a tingling of anticipation again. It builds and builds, until she has to stop herself from abruptly laughing out loud like some kind of village idiot. When one of Göran’s friends tells a lame joke, she seizes the opportunity. Her laugh is riotous and too loud.
It is sad, really, how much she has
missed something as simple as sitting around a table with people. Belonging. Being invited, and not out of obligation.
Göran leans in closer.
‘That thing with your friend is unlucky for you, but pretty darn lucky for me,’ he says, and his breath his hot and moist in her ear.
Albin
Albin is sitting with his head in his hands, chewing his straw. He sucks melted ice water from the bottom of his glass with a loud slurping sound. There is only the faintest trace of Coke flavour left. Like drinking cold saliva from someone who had a Coke fifteen minutes ago. He giggles. Lo would like that joke. But Lo isn’t here yet.
He stares through the glass partition at all the strangers moving around the terminal. One guy is wearing old-lady clothes and has lipstick smeared across half his face. A cardboard sign around his neck reads KISSES FOR SALE. 5 KRONOR. His friends film him with their phones, but you can tell from the way they’re laughing they’re not really having fun. Albin slurps on his straw again.
‘Abbe,’ his mum says. ‘Please don’t.’
She gives him that look that means Dad is already annoyed enough. Don’t make it worse. Albin leans back in his chair. Tries to sit still.
He hears a laugh that sounds almost like a dog barking. Looks over that way and spots a couple of overweight girls a few tables away. The one who is laughing is wearing pigtails and something pink around her neck. She tilts her head back and crams a handful of peanuts in her mouth. A few land between her breasts, which are bigger than any he has ever seen in real life. And her skirt is so short he can’t even see it when she is sitting down.
‘Why does she even have a mobile when it’s always switched off?’ his dad exclaims and puts his own phone down on the table with a bang. ‘Classic fucking Linda.’
‘Calm down, Mårten,’ his mum soothes. ‘We don’t even know why they’re late.’
‘And that’s what I’m saying. You would have thought my sister could have called so we didn’t have to sit here wondering where the hell they’ve got to. It’s so fucking disrespectful.’ His dad turns to him. ‘Are you sure you don’t have Lo’s number?’
‘Yes, I told you already.’
It hurts having to admit it again. Lo hasn’t been in touch to give him her new number. They haven’t spoken in almost a year. They have barely written to each other since she moved to Eskilstuna. He is worried Lo might be angry with him for some reason, a reason that must be a misunderstanding, but his mum keeps telling him Lo is probably just very busy with school because studying doesn’t come as easily to her as it does to him, and now that they are in sixth grade, things just keep getting more difficult. When Mum says that, she sounds like when she tries to persuade Albin that the kids bullying him at school are just jealous.
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