Finally, Kalle found he’d had enough of “the life of liberty” and returned to Sweden. He’d been living hard and fast in Greece, and on his return he was sporting a full beard and his hair reached quite a ways down his back. He’d shaved off the beard fairly quickly, but his hair he must have had cut only recently. He’d still had it tied in a ponytail when Agnes left Picnic.
The Reuterswärd family had finally, if not given their blessing to his decision, at least reluctantly accepted that he would never bear the title of Bank Director. Agnes had met Sture Reuterswärd once. He’d been at Picnic’s with some colleagues for dinner. She supposed it was some sort of gesture of compromise for the famous bank director to forsake Le Bateau Bleu and the Grand Hotel’s French veranda to eat grilled haloumi in the trendy part of town where his son made his living.
On Saturday she called Kalle. She didn’t start work until six and was wondering if she could pop by the new premises beforehand. Kalle sounded happy, she was more than welcome.
Agnes could spot the soon-to-be restaurant from a distance. A bin stood on the pavement outside full of cardboard boxes. As she stepped in over the threshold, she almost tripped on an extension cord. A builder’s light hung from the ceiling and shed an intense light over planks, tools, and machines. Kalle came up and embraced her.
“Welcome to my restaurant!” he said proudly. Agnes looked around. There wasn’t much to see, just a lot of building material, and dust. Dust, dust, dust. It seemed completely unfeasible that the restaurant would be ready in only a few weeks. She thanked her good sense that she hadn’t thrown away the job at Pasta King. Kalle noticed her skeptical look. “Yes, well, it’s a bit of a mess right now, but there is a plan. It’ll be ready in time, believe me!”
“Of course.” Agnes nodded.
“It’s not a big restaurant, as you can see. It’ll be just enough to seat fifty.” He pulled out a drawing from his back pocket. They walked down the little flight of stone steps – the restaurant stood slightly below street level – and across to a table. Kalle cleared it with a sweep of his arm and rolled out the blueprints. “This is what I’m aiming for,” he said. “Two small tables on each side of the entrance, and two long tables along each side. I’ll have to have wall-mounted seating and then four tables in the middle. I’m stuck on this part, though,” he said, pointing to the area closest to the kitchen, which was set a little apart from the rest of the dining room. “You might be able to squeeze in a few more tables, but anyone eating here will probably feel a little cut off.” Agnes compared the plans with reality. The area Kalle was talking about was actually quite big, but she saw what he meant – it wasn’t an ideal place for a dining area.
“Have you thought about having a bar section?” she asked.
Kalle looked at her. “No.…” he said tentatively. “In the corner, you mean?”
“Yes. I don’t know, it was just an idea. You could have the bar just by the entrance to the kitchen, a few barstools and a couple of armchairs and a low table there by the wall.”
“Yes… I never thought of that.”
“You’d lose a few tables, but on the other hand, a bar’s more lucrative. And guests could sit down and have a drink while waiting for their seats.”
“Hmm.… That’s not a bad idea.… I’ll have a chat with the architect and see what he says. Thanks for the suggestion!”
“You’re welcome.”
“Hi!” Agnes and Kalle both turned toward the voice in the doorway. A young woman was standing there dressed in a red coat and woolly hat.
“Sofia!” Kalle all but jumped forward and took her by the hand. She took the two steps down onto the dusty floor. Kalle bent forward and kissed her on the lips. He was the taller of the two by far. “Agnes, this is Sofia.” He spun around to face Agnes with Sofia’s hand still in his. “Sofia, this is Agnes, the one I was telling you about.” Sofia took another step and held out her hand.
“Hi! You and Kalle worked together, didn’t you?”
“Yes. At Picnic’s.”
Kalle broke in. “She’s really good! I’m trying to get her to start here with me, but she doesn’t seem to think anything will come of the restaurant.” Sofia smiled and removed her hat. She was pretty. Dark, a wee bit round, and unmade-up. Her hair hung in two braids down the sides.
“I know, though I do wonder at times. . . .”
Kalle smiled at Sofia and squeezed her hand. “This is my girlfriend. Of the past two weeks. . . ,” he added. He looked both embarrassed and proud. Agnes suddenly felt redundant. She knew what it was like to be in love for those first few weeks. She’d never actually stopped being in love with Tobias, despite the years. Their relationship had never taken on that monotony and tedium that relationships could after a while. True, they lived together, but to claim that they shared lives still didn’t seem totally truthful.
At the thought of Tobias a knot appeared in her stomach. She’d been caught off guard. She usually tried to keep it at arm’s length, to steel herself. At least during the day. Her tears she rationed out for the evenings and mornings. Now, she felt defenseless against the sensation of loss that swept down on her. She tried to smile at the couple in front of her.
“Congratulations!” she said. That was all she could manage. She looked at Kalle and Sofia, who continued to gaze lovingly at each other. “I’m afraid I have to be off now, Kalle,” she said hurriedly.
“Already?” he protested. “There’s loads I want to talk to you about. Since Steffy flaked out I’ve had no one to bat ideas around with. Well, apart from poor Sofia, of course, but she’s already had it up to here with restaurant talk. Haven’t you?” He kissed her forehead and she made a lame attempt to contradict him. Then he turned back to Agnes. “What do you reckon? Can I make something of this?” He gestured with his arm around the clutter.
“Sure.” She attempted a smile. “I’ll call you.” She didn’t want Kalle to think that she was uninterested. It was just that she’d been so unprepared for encountering such evident love. She had to get out and get some fresh air. She made another attempt to smile, but it felt like she just grimaced. “It’s time for a pleasant Saturday evening at Pasta King. I’ll give you a call during the week.”
She stepped out onto the pavement. There was a chill in the air, but the snow had thawed away. For the time being, at least. March was a capricious month.
CHAPTER 11
AGNES SANK DOWN onto the sofa. She’d had a free day, and had grabbed coffee with Lussan in the afternoon, declining the suggestion to continue the evening in some bar or other. She didn’t want to go out. Pasta King was enough restaurant life for her, and sitting perched on a barstool scanning for prey held no appeal. The incident with Paolo was proof that she wasn’t ready for it. Lussan had tried to squeeze what had happened out of her, but Agnes had refused to talk. As it was, Lussan probably knew anyway, so why go into detail? It was just as well to keep quiet and repress the whole debacle. Which actually hadn’t been much of a debacle, truth be told. Up until the pale cast of thought had descended upon her, she had in fact been quite enjoying herself. Paolo seemed like a nice guy. Under different circumstances she might even have been interested. She wondered a little what had gone through his mind when he woke up. Gratitude, probably. Not that she had much experience with things like that, but she could imagine quite vividly how the morning would have turned out otherwise. No, she’d done the right thing. She was convinced of it.
She picked up the remote from the coffee table and clicked the TV on. A review of the week’s news didn’t do it for her, nor did a documentary on arctic fauna presented in some thick regional accent. She switched the channel, but regretted it straight away. Yet still she sat there in front of the program, incapable of moving her fingers. It was a live recording of the hit tour “Millennium of Rock – The Greatest Rock Show Ever.” The camera was on Chris Hammond at the piano. Beside him was none other than Carola singing “O, Almighty God” to a boogie-woogie accompaniment. The audience ch
eered when the song ended. Chris Hammond showered his guest with kisses and flowers, and the smiling, waving Carola disappeared backstage. Hammond went back to hammering on the piano, “Eine kleine nachtmusik” this time, and after a few close-ups of his ring-encrusted fingers, the camera panned over to the band.
And there he was, Tobias, behind a music stand with his guitar. He hated classical music, if you could call this abused work of Mozart “classical” in this particular rendition, and yet he was looking extremely contented. He was making little delighted faces, and received an extra burst of applause after delivering his flawless solo. Pan. Shots of the crowd. And then back to the stage. The backdrop was decorated with dozens of enormous notes that sparkled in glittery silver. A treble clef in the middle served as a kind of clavilux, flashing in time to the music.
Upstage, at one end of this ostentatious display, were the back-up singers. All women. Chris Hammond had clearly thought carefully about his choices. Like Noah. A dark-skinned woman, a redhead, and that blonde, her with the breasts. Agnes just had time to catch a glimpse of the pierced navel under a very cropped, figure-hugging vest before she switched the set off and launched the remote at the wall.
Agnes’s breath came short and fitful, her hands were trembling in her lap. She tried to think calming thoughts, say nice things to herself, but all she managed to do was feel how much she loathed the stupid fucking bitch. And then she started to cry.
Just as she turned the light off, the phone rang. Her eyes stung when she turned it on again. She knew what she’d look like in the morning; it might be good for the soul to release your grief, but hardly for the eyes. She froze when she heard who was on the phone.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“What do you want?” said Agnes almost in a whisper.
“Just wanted to hear how things were. It’s been a while.”
“Good.” Her reply was curt. She might not have been able to slam the phone down, but she had no intention of contributing to a conversation. Her silence made Tobias nervous, Agnes could hear that.
“Good. That’s good. That it’s good.…” His voice trailed. Agnes said nothing. “Hey, er.… Did you see me on TV?”
“No.” Her revenge was feeble. What did it matter to Tobias that she hadn’t seen him on TV? Over a million other people had.
“Oh, OK.… They recorded us up in Sundsvall. Too bad they didn’t do us in Umeå instead, the gig there was even better.” So what did he want her to say? That she felt badly for him?
“Was there anything else you wanted?” It took infinite energy to keep the distance. It was Tobias she was talking to, her Tobias.
“Listen.…,” he began tentatively. “I know this is hard, but can’t we try to be friends? I mean, it’s not that I like you any less just because I’ve met Ida. Can you understand that?” Agnes said nothing, it was enough for him just to mention that person’s name for her to lose the power of speech. “There was nothing else, really.” He too fell silent. They breathed down their respective receivers. “Is it OK if I pop by this week and pick up a few things?” Agnes nodded, until it dawned on her that her gesture was inaudible.
“You can come on Tuesday.” Agnes’s voice sounded reedy and she coughed quickly before continuing. “At eleven. I won’t be in then.”
“Would it be all right if I came a little later? I’m not sure I’ll be up so early.”
“Sure.”
“Cool.… That’s that, then.… Er, bye.…”
“Bye.” He was on the point of hanging up when Agnes collected her wits enough for one last effort. “And put the keys through the mail slot when you’re done.” And then she hung up. Quickly. Before she regretted anything.
Madde and Jonas were having a housewarming party in their new terraced house. Agnes sat on the train looking at her reflection in the window, trying to convince herself that it would be fun. She’d put on a dress, but almost wished she hadn’t. She feared it was a bit on the dressy side, and Madde was not one for dressing up. But then again it was a party and more guests were going to turn up.
She decided to walk from the station up to Fredriksro. It was a little over a mile, but she was early and needed some fresh air. These days, it was all round trips on the subway to Skärholmen and the only views she could enjoy in between times were painted on walls. The bike path leading up to the little house wasn’t particularly scenic this time of year, but at least the branches were swaying in the wind, and that made a nice change.
Welcoming tiki torches burned outside the house, and Agnes walked up to the door and rang the bell. Madde appeared, dressed in jeans and a top, just as Agnes had suspected. Agnes hugged her sister and held out the present she’d brought with her.
“Congratulations on your new home! To think you’ve become a homeowner!”
Madde led her into the hall. Agnes looked around her. She’d been expecting piles of unopened boxes, but it all looked surprisingly organized given that they’d only been there two weeks.
“Pah, we did it all over the first weekend,” said Madde, dismissing the comment. “We didn’t have that much stuff, at least not to fill the whole house. Come on, let me show you around!” She escorted Agnes into the kitchen, opening the present as she went. “Why, that’s lovely! What is it?” she said as she put the present on the counter top.
“It’s Tuscan truffle oil, and the dark one is extra aged balsamic vinegar.”
“Truffle oil? What do you use that for?”
“You use it as it is, on salad, for example.” She was just about to add that it was delicious on Carpaccio, but changed her mind. Madde would never make Carpaccio, anyway.
They took a tour of the house. There was indeed much more space than furniture. Two small upstairs rooms were completely empty. Agnes said nothing, but assumed that they were intended as future children’s bedrooms. Otherwise, the house was nice, or rather just as she’d expected. Terraced houses were pretty much the same. The wallpaper was light and discreetly patterned in apricot or pale yellow. The linoleum on the floor, likewise. Madde had hung up some of her framed posters. Agnes recognized them, she’d had them ever since her teens on Snickarvägen. A picture of Madonna from her Like a Virgin era. A little fleshy with wild hair and jewelry piled up around her neck. Madde was a big fan. A von Schantz still life, cowberries in a basket. And a later addition, a Magritte purchased at the Museum of Modern Art the other year while visiting Agnes in Stockholm.
In the glow of a spotlight was a small statue on the windowsill in the upstairs hall. It looked as if it had been made of scrap metal. Agnes went over to it and picked it up. It was hard to say what it was of – a pregnant woman, perhaps, or a kangaroo.
“Who made this?” she asked.
“Jonas.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Madde looked proud. “He welded it together from old bike chains.”
Agnes turned the little figure round. It certainly wasn’t beautiful, but there was something naively charming about it. “Does he do a lot of art?”
“Not much. The last time was a couple of years back. I found this in the wardrobe when we were moving out. Jonas thought we should just toss it, but I didn’t want to. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Agnes examined it for a while in silence. It looked different now that she knew that Jonas had made it. “Yes,” she said at last. It was. In its own way.
Madde walked on, and Agnes followed along behind. “It’s lovely,” she said summing up the tour.
“Thanks. We love it here already. We’re going to buy a corner sofa suite for the living room, too, so it’ll be even better.”
“I’m sure it will.” Agnes sat down on the gray-patterned Ikea settee that undeniably looked a little dwarfed by the room. There were many guests still to arrive and Madde returned to the kitchen to help Jonas set out the drinks – bag-in-box wine and cans of Carling Black Label – and the food – quiche and salad, bread and cheese. Through the doorway, Agnes could see Madde open the truffle oil and po
ur it over the salad. It took great presence of mind not to rush over and stop her. If she wanted to drown her iceberg lettuce and canned sweetcorn with Tuscan truffle oil, then so be it.…
More people started to arrive, and Agnes greeted Madde and Jonas’s friends. One or two couples had babies with them. She’d known most of them for ages, but some of Jonas’s friends she hadn’t met before. Madde put on a CD of Enrico Iglesias, or was it Ricky Martin? Agnes could never tell them apart. The girls drank white wine, the guys beer, and no one danced. This was some kind of adult game, thought Agnes. Couples that socialized together, that had arranged babysitters, and that had brought tulips for the hostess.
Agnes wondered what they thought of her. A cool city girl who hadn’t got stuck in the rut of small-town tedium? Who’d escaped and made something of herself instead of working at the factory and getting married to a childhood friend? Was that how they looked at her, with envy? Or did they think that she was just some sad old maid who’d left their cozy little neighborhood for an anonymous life in the city?
A guy sat down on the sofa beside her. He was one of the ones she didn’t know, and he was clearly buzzed.
“Hi, you’re Madde’s sis, aren’t ya?”
“Yes.”
“Who lives in Stockholm?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck, that’s major. So you got any kids?”
“No.”
“Me neither. Though my girl thinks so. That it’s time, I mean. She wants three.”
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