The information, like her sculpture, is feeling too generic. She needs to inject personality.
‘Tell me something interesting about yourself, something not many people know,’ she says. ‘It will help me shape you.’
‘Something interesting… I can do that,’ he says. ‘But are you easily shocked?’
She looks up, intrigued, shaking her head. ‘Not at all.’
‘Okay, here it goes… I’m into swinging.’
Her eyebrows rise, and to make sure she’s understood him correctly, she asks, ‘You don’t mean swing dancing, right? You mean, sleeping with many different people?’
‘Not dancing, no,’ he says. ‘I mean I enjoy intimacy with a variety of people without cheating. That’s the beauty of it. No one gets hurt. Everyone is there because they want to be.’
‘Interesting…’
‘That’s what you asked for!’
She laughs. ‘That’s true.’
It’s difficult to work and have this conversation at the same time, but she has a number of questions.
‘Don’t you have to be in a relationship to do… that?’
Is he seeing someone?
‘As a male, sadly you often do. As a female, though, you usually don’t.’
That doesn’t answer her real question, but she can’t pry any further without it sounding suspicious.
‘How did you get into it?’ she asks instead.
He doesn’t answer immediately and she goes back to her work, her tools fine-tuning the details while she eagerly awaits his response.
‘It was when I lived in the US,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I was kind of flitting around and struggled to completely connect with just the one person. But… I don’t like the idea of cheating or sleeping around behind someone’s back.’
‘Maybe you haven’t met the right person,’ she teases.
He forgets his pose then, his arms dropping down, hanging at the sides.
‘That’s not it,’ he says.
He starts to move, as if he’s had enough, and she wants to say, ‘No, please, not yet.’ But it’s too late.
‘I’m sorry, I’m getting restless,’ he says.
‘Fair enough,’ she says, noticing that it’s not just the mood that’s changed. The sky outside has transformed, making it harder to see. She should call it a day anyway.
Peter shakes out his legs and does a couple of yoga poses to stretch his limbs, seemingly oblivious of his own nakedness. Gabriella wipes her hands on the towel. She loves people who are comfortable with who they are and aren’t afraid to share. That’s what she strives for too, to be okay with who she is. She starts clearing away the tools when she senses Peter behind her.
‘Gabriella,’ he says, touching her shoulder.
She turns around. ‘Yes?’ He’s still naked and now that she’s stopped sculpting, she’s not sure where to rest her eyes.
‘I hope I haven’t scared you. I would hate for that to have happened. I’m just being honest, you know.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says.
She tries not to be judgmental of Peter’s lifestyle choices, or anyone else’s for that matter.
‘Good.’ He takes hold of her hands, cocking his head. ‘I’m not the type of person who messes around and I really like you.’
After the conversation they’ve just had, she’s both apprehensive and surprised but she does value how open he is with her.
‘I like you too…’ she says, aware of his eyes suddenly being intimately close to hers.
She feels a deep desire to lean into his bare chest but as they move closer to one another, a noise interrupts them. Tat-tat-tat-tat.
She stands back. ‘Did you hear that?’ she says, straining her ears. There it is again. Tat-tat-tat-tat. Is someone knocking on her door? Her wristwatch tells her it’s almost eleven o’clock at night.
‘Are you expecting someone?’ he asks.
‘No.’
Not that she’s aware of. Could it be her ex? A booty call for old times’ sake? No. He would more likely be banging on the door, drunkenly calling her name.
She walks towards the foyer, not exactly scared but wary. Her porch light needs a new bulb but since it’s summer it’s not completely black outside, just a dark shade of grey. Peter hasn’t acted the overprotective male by following her but, then again, he’s stark naked in her living room.
Outside, sitting in the trickling rain, is a woman in a wheelchair. She sports a short blonde bob and is wearing a smart black padded jacket with pearls decorating her cleavage. Gabriella stares at her. She’s never seen her before.
‘Hello, Gabriella,’ the woman says, who clearly knows more. ‘I’m glad you’re home.’
Gabriella looks up and down the road. Where the hell did she come from?
Chapter 19
Frank
Frank has an excruciating headache. He wakes up with what feels like a knife slicing his brain in half. The whiskey last night surely didn’t help, but when Birgitta suggested a nightcap, he appreciated the gesture. It’s been a roller coaster since they arrived, her disability making her moody and fickle.
He steps out of bed, slipping his feet into comfortable sheepskin slippers. Birgitta is stirring next to him.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks. ‘Can I get you anything?’
He shakes his head, which makes it worse. ‘No,’ he says. He just needs to make it to the kitchen, drink water and take a couple of tablets.
As he stands up, he grabs his dressing gown. Their new house feels chilly in the mornings. He almost stumbles and, to regain his balance, he holds onto the wooden bedframe, his eyes resting on the floor to avoid the sensation of the world spinning. There, something catches his attention. At first he thinks it must be the piercing pain that causes his mind to play tricks on him: Birgitta’s motorised wheelchair is in the bedroom and the wheels are glistening in the morning sunlight.
‘They’re wet.’
Birgitta sits up behind him.
‘What’s wrong?’
On unstable legs, he walks up to her chair where he lets his fingers slide over the black wheels. She’s used it? That’s unusual. She prefers the manual wheelchair, says the sound of the motorised one reminds her that something else is moving her body around.
‘Look,’ he says to Birgitta, holding up his right-hand index finger. His head is throbbing, but he needs to prove to himself that he’s not losing his mind. ‘They’re damp. How is that possible?’
‘Why does it matter?’ Birgitta says, disappearing under the covers.
Everything matters to Frank. Everything. The way the house is organised, the freshness of the food in the fridge, the layout of his garden.
‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘Do we have a leak somewhere?’
He looks around the room but there’s no puddle, only dirt lines on the floor leading up to the wheelchair.
‘Must be from the bathroom last night,’ Birgitta says from under the covers. ‘You fell asleep before me, so I had no choice but to get ready for bed by myself.’
Her attempt to make him feel guilty is not successful. Normally, he’s the one who stays up late to unpack and tidy up, but the previous evening he felt unreasonably tired. Maybe he’s coming down with the flu?
‘Why did you use that wheelchair? I didn’t think you liked it.’
‘I was giving it a try since you’re always complaining about the money you spent on it.’
That’s true.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Is it any good?’
‘I was playing around with it last night and it’s not bad. I think I will mix it up, alternate between the two. Anyway, I’m tired. I need to sleep.’
He reluctantly takes the cue and leaves, moving towards the kitchen, holding a hand to his head. He does need those painkillers.
*
After a couple of ibuprofen together with a slice of rye bread with liver pâté and gherkins, he feels better. Sitting at the kitchen table, he looks out over the vast space
s, a few stretched-out clouds across an otherwise blue sky.
Perhaps he should visit that sculptress today? Maybe she knows where girls in their mid-twenties hang out. She’s younger than he had expected. But he can’t allow himself the distraction. First, he needs to locate the post box in Helsingborg.
He pours himself a cup of coffee and looks for the newspaper through the kitchen window. It should be in the courtyard, but he can’t see it. He walks towards the main entrance when there’s a gentle knock on the door, a silhouette visible through the frosted glass.
He pushes the door open and there she is. Gabriella. She’s naturally pretty; casually dressed, with no make-up. He smiles at her.
‘Well, good morning,’ he says. ‘You’re up early.’
The birds are chirping; the chilly air is crisp and fresh. He takes a deep breath, his head feeling lighter, as Gabriella hands him his paper.
‘I was collecting my mail and this was sticking out of your mailbox,’ she says, peering into the house. ‘Also, I was hoping to meet your wife.’
‘My wife?’ he asks, disappointed.
Gabriella nods. ‘Is she up yet?’
‘Actually, she’s not but you’re welcome to come inside and wait.’
He’s not keen on Gabriella and Birgitta meeting yet, but, by inviting her in, he can hopefully spend a bit of time with her alone.
‘No, that’s okay,’ she says. ‘Another time. Enjoy the paper. You must find US politics fascinating.’
He peers down on the paper in his hand, the black-and-white photograph reflected back at him: Trump.
‘Yes, well, it was a controversial election,’ he says. ‘But Trump is a respectable businessman and now he’s the president.’
‘I can’t stand Trump,’ Gabriella says. ‘Why didn’t people vote for Hillary Clinton? Because she’s a woman?’
She’s a feminist. He should have guessed.
‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘We’re not there now.’
‘But for the sake of the ones who still are,’ she says, ‘you should have voted for Clinton.’
He laughs, thinking she’s not qualified to have this conversation.
‘We can discuss this another time,’ he says. ‘I’m still planning to come over to look at your work.’
‘Excellent,’ she says, her face relaxing into a smile.
She leaves and he stays on the doorstep, watching her get back onto her bike. There’s something feisty about Gabriella, reminding him of a younger Birgitta.
‘Who was that?’
Startled, he turns around. How did Birgitta get there so quickly? Wasn’t she supposed to sleep longer? He hates the way she creeps up on him.
‘What?’ he says. ‘Who? The neighbour?’ She must have heard him talking to Gabriella. ‘Well, interestingly enough, I never told her I had a wife and yet she just turned up asking to meet you.’
Birgitta’s eyes widen, only slightly but he notices.
‘She was obviously here to see if you have a wife,’ she says.
Frank looks through the still-open door, observing Gabriella as she disappears behind one of the trees lining the road. Is she going to be an interfering neighbour or stimulating company?
He clears his throat.
‘I was going to ask her where girls in their twenties might spend their time,’ he says. He turns to Birgitta and lowers his eyes to meet hers. ‘But I couldn’t get the words out. It would sound wrong without mentioning Sofia and I couldn’t bring myself to talk about her.’
He wants to go back to his coffee but Birgitta is blocking his path, her arms folded.
‘What’s your plan for today, Frank, and does it include me?’
He sighs. ‘Does it have to?’
A violent urge to throw her out of the chair, leaving her in a helpless heap on the floor, overcomes him but he calms himself.
*
Frank wishes he had unpacked his Nikes but steps into his loafers instead. To reach the bus that’s going to take him into Helsingborg, he walks along a winding path to the main road. He checks the timetable and sits himself down in the bus shelter to wait. It humours him to see that scattered along the road are triangular signs warning vehicles about moose. Further up north, where he grew up, there were considerably more of the heavy animals wandering the forests. His sister once came face to face with one but that wasn’t what killed her.
A yellow bus soon approaches and as Frank politely greets the driver he swipes his new transportation card, Jojo, to pay for his fare. Apparently cash can’t be used on public transport. And he thought they were in a developed First World country that would provide options?
Anyway, he needs to adapt. He walks to the back of the bus where he’ll have a good view of the other passengers, but as people join them along the way he’s amazed by how well synchronised the Swedish youths are. They’re unashamedly homogenous, as if they’re required by law to dress the same. No one stands out and that bores him. There are certainly no young women for him to help here.
It’s only while seated on the bus that he realises that Birgitta will be home alone without a housekeeper to check on her. Will she be able to cope? She should be able to wheel herself through the ground-floor hallways and rooms, make coffee and a sandwich, and be able to go to the bathroom by herself. Although the facilities are relatively old, he’s installed handles on either side of the toilet and Birgitta’s stubbornness should provide her with enough strength to lift her light body across.
Comforted by this, he turns his eyes to the window. Between a few scattered trees, the dark sea reaches a fully visible Denmark, the famous Kronborg castle prompting him to think of Hamlet. To be, or not to be? They also pass several residential areas, the houses surrounded by protective hedges. At least there’s no electrical wiring precariously hanging at the edge of the gardens, as was the case in their earlier homes in the US.
Thinking back to their many moves reminds him how hard he’s worked for his children. He’s always tried to be the best possible father, and yet his daughter never even wanted to sit with him and cuddle. On many occasions, he would force her. It was what fathers and daughters did: they bonded. Instead, she behaved like a house cat, escaping from his lap, hiding from him. If she’d been more loving, she most likely would have turned out differently.
*
Frank reaches the final destination, Knutpunkten, and walks up towards the medieval fortress Kärnan, one of the prominent landmarks in Helsingborg. The city is supposed to house over 120,000 people and it feels busy today. In the city centre, there are a number of restaurants and bars, a packed shopping street, prams and mothers with milk-filled breasts.
He arrives at a square that seems to attract alcoholics and misfits and lingers there for a moment, taking in the miserable sight. Do Swedish citizens dedicate themselves to voluntary work as he himself did back in Chicago, or does the socialist state solely rely on tax money to help others? He should look into it. Charitable work helps one’s standing in society.
Looking at the map on his phone, he heads west towards the office with the post boxes. It’s relatively easy to find but it’s not particularly impressive. From the street, it looks like a shop window, but through the glass he can see grey rectangular boxes with three-digit numbers. He opens the door but quickly realises that he won’t be able to get any further. Inside is a second door with bars, similar to what you would expect in a prison, guarding the space. That door is locked.
He waits outside on the street for a while but no one enters. There’s only one thing to do: he heads to an actual post office where he purchases stamps and an envelope. He will send a letter to the post box to see who receives it. Will she pick it up herself? Will she respond? It’s not likely, but hopefully it will make her realise how serious he is and show her that he is one step closer.
Locating someone who can monitor the post box isn’t too difficult. It never ceases to amaze him what money can buy.
‘Watch the post box,’ Frank tells the guy, ‘
and take photos of whoever collects the letter and email them to me.’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Actually, please follow the woman back to her place. I want to know where she lives.’
All of this is necessary because there is not a single Kristin Smith listed anywhere in Sweden.
Chapter 20
After my attempted escape, X ordered me to get dressed in a ridiculously colourful, short dress and told me we were going back out. This time, he dragged me to the car, rather than lovingly holding my hand, and there was no sign of Stanley.
‘Come on,’ he said impatiently. ‘They’re not going to wait much longer.’
By ‘they’, I thought he meant his regular party friends. I expected to go to a bar or a nightclub, or, worst-case scenario, another party in a hotel suite, but instead we arrived at a cheap-looking motel.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
Was he throwing me out and setting me up in my own room? That wouldn’t be too bad, but I should have known he wouldn’t be that generous. Inside the room were three men, each one more disgusting than the other. Unwashed, scruffy beards and smiles that revealed brown teeth. Panic started to set in. What was this?
‘You’re going to sleep with them,’ he said, the horror of what he was asking exploding within me.
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘No way.’
I took a step backwards, towards the door.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, kissing my cheek. ‘You owe me rent money, remember?’
‘No! Please, no.’
I was fighting the tears while desperately looking for an escape. But X was blocking the exit and I would have to pass the men to get to the bathroom.
‘No,’ I screamed, clawing at X, trying to get past him, but he grabbed hold of me and held me tight.
‘You do as I say,’ he said calmly. ‘Or I get my knife out. Do you understand?’
I didn’t care. I was still going to try and escape at any cost, but he pushed me towards the men with such force, I ended up on the floor at their feet. A hairy arm grabbed me and pulled me up, a reeking mouth reaching for my lips. I turned away, screaming ‘no’ over and over again but their hands were everywhere, yanking at my dress, their fingers groping and searching for my breasts, between my legs, and I thought for sure I would vomit; my body cold with fear. I kept twisting my head to avoid their puckering lips, looking for X, begging him, the tears fully flowing now: ‘Please, anything but this.’
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