KAJSA INGEMARSSON
YESTERDAY’S NEWS
Stockholm Text
www.stockholmtext.com
[email protected]
© 2012 Kajsa Ingemarsson
Translation: Neil Betteridge
Editing: Deborah Halverson
Cover: Dorian Mabb
ISBN e-book: 978-91-87173-09-7
ISBN print book: 978-91-87173-19-6
Stockholm, April 2012
WELCOME TO SWEDEN!
Sweden. A country where people kill each other for nothing. A country where the inhabitants at best are depressed suicide candidates, but more likely are cold-blooded psychopaths. A country where we drink too much, we do not socialize with each other, and we never look anyone in the eye. The men here are vengeful woman haters, ready to grab a carving knife as soon as their wives or girlfriends say anything they don’t appreciate. And the women, they are indeed beautiful—tall, blonde, and blue-eyed—but they are victimized by this violence. That is, when they aren’t taking matters into their own hands. With close-cropped hair, big tattoos, and the S.C.U.M. Manifesto in hand, they are ready to castrate any human with a Y-chromosome. The rest of the inhabitants of this godforsaken country are but callous egoists, engaged in nothing but their own material welfare. And let’s not forget the weather here, which is constantly gray, and the streets that are covered with watery slush. A summer two-days long—two days washed away by the rain if you are unlucky. And then, of course, we have the world's highest taxes.
Being Swedish has few advantages.
At least, that’s the image you might have thanks to the wave of “Swedish crime” fiction that has flooded the world in recent years. Perhaps it is true to some extent, perhaps we have our psychopaths and victims, but would you believe me if I say I have never met any?
In actual fact, the country I live in bears very little resemblance to this gloomy picture. I live in a decent country. People here are helpful and supportive. Our society may not be perfect, but it is characterized by a culture where the strong help the weak, a culture with a sense of justice. Our men and women may not always act as equals, but there are few other places in the world where you’ll see as many fathers pushing strollers.
Yes, we are a little anxious and we want to be modern. Sushi is the flavor of the month? We’ll eat it! Lebanese meze is popular? A Lebanese restaurant will open in your neighborhood next week! We strive to listen to and be like others, it’s true, but perhaps that’s because we live in a remote part of the world.
This book, Yesterday’s News, was a huge success in Sweden. I think one reason the public embraced it is that it reflects a Sweden we can identify with, rather than the cold and anxious version we read about in detective stories over and over again. Perhaps the desire was so strong for us to read about everything else: the good, the friendly, and the hopeful.
With this book, I hope to offer you a glimpse at another Sweden, another kind of Swedes. A picture more reflective of the truth. We may be a nation of anxious and slightly smug people, but evil. . . no. Not more than any other people, at least.
I wish you pleasant reading, and maybe we'll even meet in Stockholm some day. It’s a beautiful city. I'd be happy to show you around!
Kajsa Ingemarsson
CHAPTER 1
IT WASN’T THE FIRST TIME someone had grabbed her breast. Nor was it the first time a man had panted in her ear and pressed his hard crotch against her. But it was the first time someone was doing it against her will.
Agnes stood pressed up against the wine cellar’s cold, damp brick wall which had already, she could feel, scraped the skin off her right shoulder. She heard the thick voice hissing in her ear. Salope! Gérard took one hand from her breasts and started to grope between her thighs instead. Agnes stood stock still, as if the tubby little Frenchman who had just cursed over her knee-length skirt had paralyzed her with his clammy hands and his smutty French patois. Naturally, at first she’d protested. Said “no” and “excuse me” and tried to apply the normal tactics. Dodge, parry. Make sure there were people nearby. But down here in the wine cellar she had not been able to escape. Gérard Cabrol was her boss and clearly considered himself entitled to take certain liberties with his staff. Pats on the bottom she had long since become accustomed to, and sexist comments on her appearance elicited nothing more from her than a raised eyebrow. She’d have to put up with it, she’d reasoned, it was all just part of the job. But the situation in which she now found herself was different, very different, and Agnes realized it, too.
Gérard had worked his hand in under her skirt and was groaning with pleasure. He knew that he was close now, and, certain of victory, cooled the tempo slightly. Called her ma chérie and mademoiselle Edin and took his time roughly kneading her inner thigh before finally attempting to crown his “courtship” by whipping out his erection and taking Agnes there against the brick wall. At the time she didn’t know where her strength came from, but suddenly she flew into a rage. Everything she’d had to take over the months of pawing – months of offensive comments about her physical assets and defects – roiled to the surface.
She raised her hands and delivered a powerful blow to Gérard’s chest. He swore and momentarily lost balance, taking a side step before quickly regaining his footing. He launched himself at her again, hissing and spitting. What did she think she was doing, the ungrateful slut!? This time Agnes was prepared. She recoiled into a combat position, her muscles tensed, and then leapt nimbly to one side as Gérard slammed into the wall. If the situation hadn’t been so terrible, she would have laughed at the way his nose struck the bare brick.
It was game over, even for Gérard. He was furious. His short, fat body was vibrating, and his face had turned a violent purple, except for his nose with its bright red scrape. He might have been shorter than Agnes, but he was definitely stronger, and Agnes continued to back away from his flailing arms. The wine cellar wasn’t large, and it didn’t take too many steps before she found herself up against a shelf containing a row of neatly stacked bottles. Before she could spy an escape route, Gérard was upon her. He threw himself over her and started to tear at her white blouse. Buttons flew with a light tinkling sound over the stone floor. Her bra was exposed, but Gérard took no time to enjoy the view. He was a man with a mission now, and this time he managed to lift up her skirt more quickly. He grappled with his fly again and swore in French at Agnes, who was trying to wriggle free.
He had her wedged in between two shelves, but she saw her chance when he had to use both hands to undo his trousers. She reached out and grabbed the only loose object that presented itself – a bottle of wine. Agnes raised it above her head and was just about to bring it down when Gérard caught sight of it. He froze.
“Arrête! Stop!” His voice almost cracked. He grabbed at the bottle, but could reach no higher than Agnes’s wrist. He flapped his arms in vain so that the Rolex watch on his right wrist jangled against his cufflinks.
“If you break that I’ll kill you!”
“Let me go!” she screamed. She hadn’t made a sound earlier during the uneven struggle against the brick wall and her voice sounded strangely hoarse. Gérard took a hasty step away from her. Agnes could see, without lowering the arm holding the bottle, that he’d managed to unzip his pants. She was surprised at the effect her weapon had had, as if she had pulled an uzi from her bra and threatened to make mincemeat of him.
He took another step back and lowered his voice to a menacing guttural rumble.
“Put that back. Now. You hear me? This is my restaurant, and you do as I tell you! Sale putain, merde!”
Agnes adjusted her skirt with her free hand and tried to close her blouse. She was not feeling very much like the head wa
itress she’d been ten minutes ago when she’d gone into the cellar to fetch a bottle of Chablis and two Châteauneuf-du-Papes.
All of a sudden they heard feet on the stairs, probably those of Philippe on his way down to find out what had happened to the wine. The guests had no doubt been complaining. They looked the type. Young men in suits intent on impressing their much older guests. Agnes was grateful for the sound. Gérard appeared startled and then quickly straightened his jacket, stuffed back his shirt – which had become a little untucked on one side – and instinctively went to do up his pants. This last action made little difference, as his belly blocked the view anyway. When Philippe entered the little room that served as the wine cellar, he drew to a halt and looked at them.
First at Agnes, clutching the bottle in her hand, and then at Gérard, whose face was still purple, albeit of a milder hue.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s taking so long? The guests have been grumbling.” And then he caught sight of the bottle Agnes was hugging as if it were a live hand grenade. He whistled. “Château Pétrus 1990. Jesus, has someone ordered that?”
Gérard cleared his throat.
“No. I was just showing Agnes this bottle of wine and explaining how valuable it is. Wasn’t I, Agnes?”
He glared at her. Agnes swallowed, and didn’t know what to say. She had no idea what bottle it was she’d grabbed. To her, it was a weapon she was holding, not something that complemented braised calf’s liver. She cautiously looked down at the dusty bottle in her arms and read the label: Château Pétrus it said in ornate red letters. The year was printed in black above. It looked antique, as if it were more from 1890. She’d seen it once before, on her tour of the restaurant on her first day at Le Bateau Bleu. She forgot how much it cost, but the sum was a five-figure one, the same order of magnitude as a home cinema or a quality secondhand car. Gérard had bought it at an auction in London a couple of years ago and now it was just waiting for a sufficiently rich wine-lover to part with some of his wealth for a taste of this supposed vinicultural paradise.
Agnes began to tremble. Not only because she’d just realized what it was she’d been about to bash Gérard’s skull in with, but because her anger and fear were gradually subsiding. Her knees started to shake. Strange. She thought that things like that only happened in the cartoons. Her palms grew sweaty and she stammered incoherently when she answered Philippe.
“I was just about to… you know, put back… er, I mean, fetch the wine.…”
She gently released the bottle from her grip, and slowly reached over to return it to its place on the shelf where the space left by the missing bottle gaped emptily. Gérard and Philippe followed her with their eyes. No one spoke. Just then, Agnes noticed the opening in her blouse. The more she stretched out her arm, the more she exposed of her bra. What would Philippe think? That she’d solicited herself to Gérard? She quickly brought up her hand to pull the ripped blouse together. It was that movement that did it, that made the bottle slip out of her sweaty hand and land with a crash on the stone floor. Into a thousand pieces. She heard Philippe gasp, and saw how Gérard’s face changed in an instant from purple to paper white. Only his nose stayed as red as it had been. How long the silence lasted down there in the little wine cellar she couldn’t say, but when Agnes finally spoke it felt like a small eternity.
“Whoops,” she said slowly, looking blankly at Gerard. “I think you’ve forgotten to do up your fly.”
CHAPTER 2
AGNES THREW HERSELF onto the bed. She hadn’t even bothered to take off her coat, but had just kicked off her boots and made a beeline for her bedroom. Now she was lying on her back in her gray duffle coat with her hands clasped over her stomach, staring up at the ceiling. The lamp was dirty, she noted. She could see small black spots against the matt green glass, probably flies that had wandered into the shade and never made their way out again. It was quite tragic, actually. And disgusting.
It was only half past nine. She wasn’t normally home at this hour; that was the eternal dilemma of the restaurant staff. The working hours. Never a quiet evening at home, always at work when other people were relaxing. It was ages ago that she followed a TV series. Well, there’d be time for that now, she thought, sighing heavily.
It had been no fond dismissal from Le Bateau Bleu. When Gérard had finally recovered the power of speech, he’d simply hissed at her between clenched teeth to leave the restaurant immediately, tout de suite! He never wanted to see her there again – truth be told, he never wanted to see her again, period. With or without clothes. The last thing he’d said was something that Agnes, thanks to three years of high school French and a little imagination, managed to interpret as “You frigid cow.” In itself, that comment caused her no offence to speak of – she’d had to put up with worse invectives during her six months at Le Bateau Bleu. That wasn’t why she was now lying here studying dead flies, wondering if she’d ever have the strength to get up again. It was her career she was mourning.
She’d been so happy to get the job. Her first as head waitress. And at that restaurant, no less! She’d had a chance to move on, to say goodbye to all those underpaid waitress jobs and take a step forward. At Stockholm’s – no, probably Scandinavia’s – classiest French restaurant. She’d been overjoyed just to be given an interview. She’d replied with a photo just like the ad in Dagens Nyheter had requested. Listed her jobs, from Gullan’s Grill, where she’d started she was sixteen, via pizzerias, bistros, office canteens, and, in recent years, a number of fairly decent restaurants. The kind that served North Sea cod with glazed root vegetables, and capon with sage pesto and sun-dried tomatoes. If you counted Gullan’s Grill, Agnes had worked as a waitress for almost half her life. On and off, at least. She reckoned that she’d actually deserved a chance to be head waitress, even if it surpassed her wildest dreams to work at Le Bateau Bleu.
At first, Gérard had been pleasant and courteous, if a little flirtatious. As an elder gentleman can be. Sure, she found his French accent charming, but the idea that he could be any more than that had never crossed her mind. He was almost old enough to be her father.
She’d enjoyed the job, despite the fact that some of the other waitresses whispered behind her back. Envious, of course, that she’d been given the chance. That kind of thing got people’s goat, Agnes knew that. And that had made it even more important for her to do a good job, to not give them cause to question her abilities. Gérard used to give her encouraging praise, and Philippe, the waiter who’d been there the longest, helped her with practical matters. She’d really tried hard, and after a few unsteady weeks Agnes felt that she was starting to know the ropes. She welcomed the guests with a breezy ease, escorted them to their tables and suggested a drink before their food. Carried out dry martinis and took bookings on the phone. She knew which guests would always reserve a table, even if it was five minutes before they were due to arrive. It was her job to forever have cards up her sleeve, and after an introductory interlude with a famous industrial bigwig who demanded a table for twelve on a Friday evening with half an hour’s notice, she’d learned the trick of juggling the lists and maximizing the number of guests.
She loved the large, airy room with its ceiling paintings, the magnificent cut-glass chandeliers and the dark wood paneling that lent it a distinguished appearance. Yet, despite all its grandeur, it was still a pleasant place to be. Threadbare Oriental carpets on the floor softened and dampened the noise, and the white lace curtains, which were always drawn and filtered the light into muted beams, reminded Agnes of the beautiful old Czech restaurants she’d seen in Prague. And hanging from the ceiling was the galleon, the blue boat, that had given the restaurant its name. Legend had it that the boat had once belonged to a widow who’d had it modeled after the boat in which her husband had lost his life during a storm. Agnes didn’t know if that was true – Philippe had once said that Gérard had bought the boat from a closed-down pizzeria in Paris. The stories were not necessarily mutually excl
usive.
Everyone had dined at Le Bateau Bleu, from Olof Palme to Robbie Williams. It was, without exaggeration, the most celebrated restaurant in town and was constantly fully booked. Agnes understood why. She’d been a guest herself of the restaurant once, just after she and Tobias had first met. He’d wanted to celebrate something, she forgot what exactly, a job perhaps, and had taken her out for dinner. She could still remember what she ate. Steak frites. She’d thought that Tobias was pulling her leg when he insisted that that was what she should order. Steak and fries.… Sorry, but she’d had that before and there was a limit to how tasty it could get. But Tobias wouldn’t give in, and she was glad for that. It was without doubt one of the most delicious meals that she’d ever eaten. On top of that, the service was impeccable, and, for a few hours, she’d been made to feel like a princess. A princess in love.
Imagine – to get a job at that very restaurant. And then to get the sack.
CHAPTER 3
SHE MUST HAVE nodded off, because when the phone woke her up it was almost half past midnight. She was sweaty and disorientated as she fumbled for the phone beside her bed. She took hold of it just before the answering machine switched on. Her “Hello?” sounded pitiable.
“Are you back already, Agnes? I hoped… I mean, thought that I’d get the answering machine.” It was terribly noisy in the background, and she could just make out Tobias’s voice through the din. “Why aren’t you at work?”
Agnes tried to gather her wits. “I’ve tried to call you a million times.”
“Oh, right. I had my cell phone off. Well, we were at a gig, weren’t we.” At a gig. He still spoke as if he was on stage with his garage band, despite having been touring with Chris Hammond’s rock show for almost a year. “Was it something special you wanted, or what?”
Yesterday's News Page 1