Shadow

by Karin Alvtegen

  On the screen Jesper waved some hundred-kronor bills.

  ‘This is five hundred kronor. I’m going to give it to this guy. Here you are!’

  Jesper gestured to someone who was off to the side behind the camera. The next moment a head appeared, face hidden by a black ski mask. A pair of blue eyes looked out from the holes, but Kristoffer didn’t recognise them.

  ‘Wave a little and show everyone you’re happy.’

  The anonymous man waved.

  ‘I bought him for five hundred kronor so that he would put this video up on the Internet. Everybody can be bought. Some are a bit more expensive, others cheaper. Have you thought about your own price? All right, you can go and sit down again.’

  The man vanished, and judging by the direction Kristoffer guessed he’d gone to sit on Jesper’s bed.

  ‘Now to the topic at hand. I’ve written a novel entitled Nostalgia – A Strange Feeling of Manageable Sorrow. Remember that title. It took me seven years to write, and now an excellent publishing company has decided to publish it. Naturally I’m overjoyed. Because there are some important things in my book. I wrote it because I want it to change the world. Because things can’t go on like this any longer. Don’t you agree?’

  Jesper looked for approval towards the masked man.

  ‘Even he agrees.’

  Kristoffer couldn’t help smiling. Jesper had finally worked out a way to promote his novel.

  ‘Like all authors I believe my book is particularly important, and like all authors I hope you’ll choose to read what I’ve written. But here, a major problem arises. How can I get you to choose my book over all the others? You can see for yourself, I’m pretty ugly. I’m not going to be livening up any glitzy magazine spreads or TV talk shows. I don’t know any celebrities. I’m a damn good writer but terrible at talking, so that’s why I have a cue card here that I’m reading from.’

  He looked down at something below the frame of the video.

  ‘So, the book will be released on the fourth of March. Don’t forget that, the fourth of March. Nostalgia – A Strange Feeling of Manageable Sorrow. Write it down. Okay? Now, back to the major problem.’

  The cue card was now visible at the bottom of the frame.

  ‘About 4,500 books are published in Sweden each year. So how am I going to get you to notice mine? There’s only one way. By getting the media to write about it as much as possible. And how will I manage to do that?’

  Jesper paused, as if somebody might answer his question. Then he continued.

  ‘Some people think that newspapers write about what’s important, because they have a duty to keep you informed, but that’s not true. Most newspapers write about what they know you want to read. That’s the only sure way to get you to buy their paper. So you’re the one who decides what you want to hear about, what sort of news should take priority. You’re the one who has the power. Each time you open your wallet and buy something, you’re saying “hello” and “okay” to what you’re buying and to the person who will be getting rich from your purchase. So I checked a few tabloid headlines to see what you like to read about. That’s when the next problem came up.’

  Once again he glanced at the cue card.

  ‘I’m not a hit man or a paedophile, I’ve never raped an old woman, never tortured any children, I’ve never fucked on TV or been on a reality show. I don’t have silicon breasts, have never participated in a gangbang, have never run through the streets naked. I don’t even take dope. I’m a completely normal guy. Well, okay, I know I’m pretty ugly, but still. How the hell could I manage to become interesting enough in your eyes for the media to want to write about my book? I thought about it for a while, and then I came up with this. I already know that this web site is going to break records for the number of hits, and my novel will be mentioned on every news-stand all over Sweden, because you love stuff like this. All of you watching this right now are the reason why this is the best way for me to get my book out there. All of you who heard the rumour and who know what’s going to happen, and still you choose to visit this site and look at this shit.’

  His eyes narrowed and he pointed into the camera.

  ‘It’s precisely for people like you that I wrote my book. And if you don’t read it after you’ve seen this video, go fuck yourself!’

  Jesper paused and leaned back.

  ‘Don’t forget I’m doing you a favour. I’m doing this to remind you of what it is you’ve forgotten.’

  He raised his hands to his throat.

  ‘The only thing that could go wrong now is if Paris Hilton buys another Chihuahua and my book gets knocked off the front page, but I have to hope for the best.’

  He fiddled with something inside his collar, and when he took his hands away he had a thin plastic band around his neck. One of those used to seal packages. One end went into a little opening at the other end, and little ratchets along the plastic prevented the band from being loosened once it was pulled tight.

  ‘Remember now, Nostalgia – A Strange Feeling of Manageable Sorrow. On sale fourth of March. My name is Jesper Falk and thanks for watching.’

  Jesper pulled on the band as he stared into the camera.

  Kristoffer jumped up so quickly his chair tipped over backwards.

  The camera zoomed in. The plastic band cut into Jesper’s neck. His eyes burned like lasers into the camera lens and into the viewer. Frantically Kristoffer’s hands raced over the keyboard in search of the button that would stop what was happening. He grabbed his mobile, rang the familiar number, but got the flat tone again. On the screen Jesper’s face had become distorted, the determined look gave way, and after he blinked repeatedly the camera lens released him and turned in the direction in which the masked man had gone.

  Kristoffer began to sob. What he was seeing was unbearable. Jesper had asked for his help, had wanted to talk about his panic about promoting the book. Kristoffer had brushed him off; in his jealousy he had deleted his message. He hadn’t even let Jesper in when he was standing outside his door. He covered his face with his hands and closed his eyes, but they opened of their own accord, and he was forced to see the terror of death in Jesper’s eyes as his fingers vainly tore at his neck, trying to get the plastic band off.

  The wail from Kristoffer’s throat could not be stopped. He was exploding inside, and all his pent-up despair ripped loose. To the sound of his moans, Jesper’s head slumped forward and hung there. The picture went black and all was for ever too late.

  A car horn beeped in the street. A neighbour flushed a toilet.

  The last thing that had remained intact had now cracked.

  Nothing he thought, nothing he felt, was important any more.

  Four steps to the bookshelf. With fingers that had never forgotten, he yanked the cork out of the cognac bottle. No matter what the cost, he appealed for mercy.

  30

  Jan-Erik heard the front door open and hurried to the refrigerator to take out the bottle of champagne. The glasses were already set in place on the kitchen table next to the candlesticks. He struck a match to light the candles. He had been waiting for several hours. When he had gone out to buy the champagne, Louise had apparently been at home, judging by the tube of caviar that was left out on the worktop, but when he returned the flat was empty. She hadn’t answered her mobile.

  For a while he had debated the appropriateness of celebrating now that Alice was so seriously ill, but there was too much to lose if he held back. For once he intended to put the focus on him and not on her. She was not going to be allowed to take this moment away from him.

  He was going to surprise Louise with champagne and Ellen with Appletiser and tell them about his prestigious prize. Maybe suggest that they take a holiday together. Put a stop to the disintegration that he’d been worrying about ever since Louise had collapsed in tears and voiced her doubts. The power of his reaction had surprised him. Realising how important it all was, and how much he had taken for granted. Their marriage must remain i
ntact at any price; it was the base from which he proceeded and to which he must always return, the skeleton supporting his life and the foundation for everything he did. He would do everything he could to keep the three of them together. But he had not thought through everything that entailed. He had cleverly avoided the thought of certain marital components. The consequence of this line of thinking would make his efforts impossible. Having sex with Louise was unthinkable. That’s why Ellen had to be there at the celebration. He had consulted her school schedule on the refrigerator door, and she would be home in half an hour. What still felt unthinkable must not be allowed to happen, however Louise might interpret his initiative.

  He noticed his hand was shaking when he lit the last candle. He had refrained from easing his nerves with a few drinks while preparing the surprise. Even though he conducted most of his drinking outside the walls of the house, he sometimes grew afraid that Louise still knew how much he drank. But right now they were going to toast with champagne, a natural and legitimate way of celebrating.

  When he looked up she was standing in the doorway.

  He blew out the match.

  ‘Hi.’

  Her gaze went right past him, over all his celebratory efforts, and wandered on out through the window.

  ‘Come and sit down, we have something to celebrate.’

  He grabbed the bottle of champagne and tore off the foil, thinking she could at least say hello. He undid the wire, popped the cork and filled the glasses as quickly as the foam permitted.

  She remained motionless in the doorway and clearly needed persuading.

  He raised his glass to lure her to him.

  ‘Come on.’

  Something about her was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Three days had passed since he’d last seen her awake. That was when he’d left her crying at the kitchen table which he had now decorated with champagne and candles.

  He went over and handed her the glass.

  ‘Now listen to this – I’ve won the Nordic Council Literary Prize. It’s the first time they’ve ever given it to someone who isn’t an author.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  She couldn’t even be happy about that. He saw it clearly in her face. But he knew what would persuade her, something she was good at squandering.

  ‘The prize is 350,000 kronor. Danish. So it’s worth even more.’

  Without touching the champagne she went over and placed her glass on the worktop. There she stood with her back to him, and during the ensuing silence he grew angry. Never to receive any appreciation from her. Never to get recognition when he did something good. He worked like a dog and just once he ought to get a kind word or a little encouragement. He had even made a special effort, champagne and everything. He was trying to make her happy, trying to make an overture after their bitter conversation three days ago. But, as usual, it wasn’t enough. Sulky and unforgiving, she was now going to force him to make even more fuss over her.

  ‘I thought you’d be happy. I was going to suggest we take a trip together somewhere. But that’s probably not good enough, as usual.’

  He emptied his glass and filled it again. The champagne foamed over and ran down his hand, and he shook off the worst of it. Seeing her back turned was driving him crazy. He blew out the candles and didn’t give a damn if tiny drops of wax landed on the table, which would annoy Louise. Then he grabbed the bottle, went out to the living room and sat down on the sofa. But he got up again and went instead to his office, kicked the door shut, and sat down behind his desk. He put down the champagne bottle among the piles of unopened fan mail for Axel Ragnerfeldt.

  It was impossible to please her, he might as well admit it. She was a black hole into which all positive energy was sucked and obliterated.

  He refilled his glass and ran his hand over the damp ring that had seeped onto the oak desk. Without knocking she opened the door, walking in determinedly, and sat down in his reading chair. He looked the other way. He didn’t intend to be nice to her; now it was her turn to try. He sipped a little champagne; this time he was without guilt and had every right to be angry.

  ‘I’ve asked Ellen to sleep over at a friend’s house tonight, because you and I have to talk.’

  For a few seconds his anger remained entrenched until the gravity in her voice made him pay attention. Treacherously it came slithering with its foul breath. When he looked at her he realised that something really had changed. Her face was open and her gaze unwavering, and the minefield that usually surrounded her had dissolved.

  ‘I’m sorry this is such bad timing, because you’re so excited about the prize and surely worried about Alice, but I might as well come straight out with it.’

  His senses held their breath.

  ‘I want a divorce.’

  The air in his lungs emptied out as if he’d been punched in the stomach. She sat calm and composed in the easy chair as if what she’d said was entirely normal.

  ‘Both of us know it’s the right thing to do.’

  What scared him most was her decisiveness. As if everything had been fully discussed before they even spoke. He gritted his teeth and tried to hide his panic, grasping for the one fact he had relied on in the muddle of thoughts that had passed through his brain in recent days. She was dependent on him, destitute without access to his wallet. Only until the day his father died, of course, but Axel could live a long time yet if all went well. That circumstance was his best defence. The fact that she knew nothing about the provisions of Axel’s will.

  He gave a little smile, rested his elbows on the desk and leaned his chin in his hands.

  ‘And how do you intend to make ends meet, Louise? You don’t have any money.’

  ‘It’ll all work out somehow. I’m going to go back to university and finish my degree, so I’ll take out a student loan. Then I’m going to go back to work as a civil engineer.’

  He swallowed. It was all planned out.

  ‘Where will you live?’

  ‘I talked to Filippa. I can sublet her flat for the time being, then I’ll have to see.’

  Plans forged and executed behind his back.

  ‘Ellen will be staying here, just so you know.’

  ‘Maybe. She’s twelve years old, and at that age children usually get to decide where they want to live after a divorce.’

  He took a deep breath and could hear that it gave him away; he raised his glass but set it down again when his hand shook. Their roles were now reversed. So many times he had been the target, cleverly dodging her missiles, refusing to fall no matter what she threw at him. Her composure frightened him, the self-confidence she radiated. He fumbled for something that would break her supremacy, neutralise her advantage and give him control. Her sheer will-power was evident. No threats from him would alter her decision. She had slipped beyond his control and landed out of reach. Suddenly he felt terrified. She really intended to leave him, leave him all alone.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be this way. Every marriage has its problems, but we can solve this together, Louise. I promise I’ll change, I can go to that therapist if you like. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

  ‘Jan-Erik, please.’ She cocked her head to one side, pleading as if with a child. ‘Don’t you see that we’re destroying each other?’

  ‘No, I don’t. We can’t just throw away everything we have together because things are a bit difficult right now. Damn it, we have to fight back a little.’

  ‘Haven’t we been doing that long enough?’

  He tried to find something to say, but the words weren’t part of his vocabulary. Her impossible questions. Having to plead. Having to put into words what he felt. What she was demanding was unreasonable. All he wanted was for this whole thing to be over. Go back to the way it was. When he could still choose.

  ‘But what about Ellen?’

  ‘Ellen will always be our daughter even if we’re divorced. Seriously, Jan-Erik, we may live at the same address, but that’s all we have in com
mon.’

  She shifted in the chair, clearing her throat a little, as if only now did she feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Lena rang for you. She wants you to call.’

  There was no anger in her voice. She was merely stating a fact.

  ‘Lena who?’

  ‘Lena in Göteborg.’

  At first he didn’t know what she was talking about. As far as he knew he didn’t know any Lena in Göteborg. But then he remembered, and to his dismay he felt himself blushing.

  ‘I don’t know any Lena in Göteborg.’

  But his gaze had slid along the wall however much he tried to keep it steady.

  On the rare occasions when he gave his phone number to women he met, he always used his mobile number. As a final precaution he would change one digit to give them a hint of how little he wanted to hear from them.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Jan-Erik. It’s odd, but I even feel happy for you.’

  Her comment amazed him.

  ‘What do you mean? You think I’ve been having an affair with some woman named Lena in Göteborg?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  He snorted.

  ‘But I haven’t. I have no idea who Lena in Göteborg is. Probably someone who heard one of my lectures. Is that why you want a divorce, because you think I’m unfaithful?’

  ‘No, that’s not why.’

  He couldn’t understand how she was managing to stay so calm. How could she sit there unafraid, facing the dreadful change she was setting in motion? She must be getting her strength from somewhere. And all at once he knew. There was someone else. There was a man who had taken his place and was driving her to do all this. Her path was already staked out. When she broke up their marriage, all she would have to do was to follow the straight line. All the fruitless searching had already been done, any threatening loneliness had been precluded; all that was left was for him to be pushed aside and replaced with a better model.

  ‘Ah, now I understand. You’re trying to blame all this on me and on some bloody Lena in Göteborg, when it’s really you who’ve met someone else!’