She took a few steps back. Suddenly the gate slid open, without making a sound. No creaking or scraping, it just slid open. Olivia went in. Then she saw lights. A long row of beautiful iron lanterns on tall posts leading the way. She started walking down a wide gravel path in the glow of the lanterns. It’s so strangely silent, she thought. The rain had almost stopped and she heard her own breath and a faint noise. Was it water? The house did lie next to the water apparently. But she could see no house and no water. She followed the lanterns. Soon I suppose I’ll have dogs barking at me, guard dogs, but she didn’t hear any. The lanterns took her round in a curve, and then she saw it.
The house.
Well, Olivia actually thought it looked more like something that had landed, from high up above, from outer space. Various concrete platforms overlapping each other in different directions, poorly lit, from the side, large glistening glass facades, broken up by black angled pieces of metal. A long, hidden bank of lights made it look as though the roof was floating in the air.
She stood still.
Unbelievable, she thought, un-fucking-believable! Do buildings like this really exist? Do people live like this? I wonder how many taxpayers’ care sector millions have been ploughed into it. She shook her head and proceeded towards the spaceship. I hope I’ll find an entrance, I don’t have a remote control. But the lanterns guided her all the way to a gigantic door with silver details. The sound of her knocking would be carried all of about ten centimetres into the wood. So she searched around looking for some kind of doorbell. There was a large copper urn to the right. Perhaps you’re supposed to throw this at the door, she thought.
Then it slid open.
Again, without a sound.
There was a man standing, backlit, looking at her. Jean Borell. The man she’d seen on the news. Rather differently dressed now, a nice pair of skinny jeans and a thin beige blazer over a tight black jumper. His artistic attire, Olivia just about managed to think before she remembered who she was supposed to be. The woman with the big smile and the academic interest in art.
‘Hi. Olivia Rivera.’ She smiled.
‘Jean Borell.’
They greeted each other. He had a firm handshake and he hugged pretty hard too. But not as hard as Hilda at Silvergården, she thought.
‘Come in,’ he said.
Borell stepped to the side and Olivia went in. She noticed a pleasant sober cologne, without a hint of nutmeg. Borell allowed the door to slide closed again before he caught up with Olivia. He stopped just behind her.
‘Rivera,’ he said. ‘Do you have Latin American roots?’
Olivia turned around.
‘Yes. Mexico.’
‘I can see that. Any relation to Diego?’
‘Distantly. What a fabulous house!’
‘It was designed by Tomas Sandell. I gave him free reign. Would you like a martini?’
‘No, thanks, I’m driving.’
‘A Mustang.’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
Borell was already walking off.
‘Please have a look around in the meantime!’
He gestured towards the inner part of the spaceship.
‘Maybe I’ll have that martini after all,’ Olivia said. ‘But not too much gin.’
‘Perfect.’
Borell was on his way towards a bar further in. A large well-lit bar area with a fantastic fluorescent creation as a background. Probably a work of art. Olivia racked her brains, but she couldn’t think of a possible artist. She started walking around in the first large room. The off-white walls were sparsely decorated with art that she recognised, at least most of them. Marie-Louise Ekman. Ernst Billgren. Cecilia Edefalk. Olle Kåks. Lena Cronqvist. There was a faint sound of music, as though from outer space, electronic sounds swirling around without disturbing one’s concentration. This space was built for art, for an art lover, a large roomy space.
‘What do you think?’ Borell hollered from the bar. Olivia turned towards him. He was busy cutting up small bits of lemon peel.
‘I think it’s fantastic!’ she replied.
‘Me too.’
Borell smiled and put some lemon peel in a cocktail glass. Olivia carried on looking around and felt that she was gripped by something almost sacred in the room, the perfectly placed spotlights were carving out the paintings in front of her. This is how I’ll live one day, she thought, this beautifully, walking around in a room like this, just enjoying. And the world won’t be full of hideousness and bedsores full of fly larvae.
The image brought her back.
Remember why you’re here, Olivia! Pull yourself together! Just think how many cut care services these paintings have cost!
‘One martini.’
Borell passed the thin, low glass over to her. He raised his glass and they toasted. With his drink in hand, Borell initiated a guided tour through his collection in the room – he really adored his paintings. Once they’d come full circle he stopped and looked at Olivia. Ever since she’d come in she’d avoided looking into Borell’s glass eye. She knew he had one. Now she was dodging his gaze. Borell noticed.
‘A hunting injury,’ he said. ‘We were near Mount Kilimanjaro and I had a lion in my sights. I was a little too eager, the breech hit me in the eye. But we got the lion.’
‘Oh good.’
A hunting accident? According to Alex he’d lost his eye as a child? And he’d been at school with him. But OK, who hasn’t tweaked their CV a little?
‘You have a slight squint yourself,’ Borell said.
‘Yes.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘Why?’
‘I know a specialist in Lausanne, he could fix that.’
‘It isn’t something that bothers me.’
Olivia sipped her martini. She didn’t like the private nature of this conversation. She didn’t feel in control.
Engage your intuition!
‘Shall we do the interview here?’ she said.
‘Let’s do it in the bar.’
They went over to the spectacular bar. Olivia pulled herself up onto a leather barstool, and Borell sat on the stool next to her. There was a black object at one end of the bar that immediately caught Olivia’s eye.
‘What a beautiful violin,’ she said.
‘Blackbird. Lars Widenfalk. He made it according to Stradivarius’s drawings. Touch it.’
Borell handed the beautiful violin to Olivia. She was expecting a light instrument, but she actually almost dropped it. The violin was made from stone. It was heavy.
‘What’s it made of?’ she said.
‘Black diabase,’ said Borell. ‘He made it from an old gravestone. The only violin in the world made from stone.’
‘Can you play it?’
Borell reached for the beautifully shiny diabase violin. He picked up a bow from behind the bar and turned off the fluorescent creation in the background. The gentle lighting from the art room shone onto the bar.
They were sitting in the shadows.
‘Close your eyes,’ he said.
Olivia hesitated for a moment, then she closed her eyes. What am I doing? Then she heard the fragile notes of the violin. The resonance from the stone body was powerful. And then a few more notes that joined together to form a melody. He could play the violin? She opened her eyes. Borell lowered the bow.
‘You can play it,’ he said.
He carefully put the violin down on the bar.
‘The interview,’ he said.
Olivia took out a little tape recorder and asked him whether it was OK that she recorded their conversation.
He agreed.
She also got out a pad of paper with some questions she’d prepared and started the interview after explaining to Borell what her thesis was going to be about. In a way that made Borell understand that his role in it was going to be very significant.
He appreciated that.
She’d compiled most of the questions using different articles about a
rt and the questions that followed them. Some of them came from interviews with Borell that she’d found on the Internet, about his passion for art. Largely in English. She also made it clear that she wasn’t even close to his level when it came to knowledge about modern Swedish art, but that she hoped he didn’t find it too basic.
He didn’t. He liked talking about his collection. And about his own relationship with it. About his deep passion for art and how much of his life he dedicated to it.
‘Have you ever dreamed of being an artist yourself?’ Olivia asked when she reached the end of her list of questions.
‘Never. My talents are rather more pecuniary.’
‘You’re a venture capitalist.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you regard your collection as an investment?’
‘Yes, but not in financial terms. It’s an investment in myself. I think I develop as a person through my art.’
‘You become a better venture capitalist?’
‘In a way.’ Borell smiled.
‘So then it is a kind of financial investment?’
Borell looked at Olivia. Does he think I’m being impudent or does he like a challenge? His work involves him taking risks after all.
‘Are we done with the interview?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll show you my L-room, as a bonus. Come.’
Borell slid down from the barstool. Olivia followed him, through various corridors and smaller rooms with beautiful watercolour paintings on the walls. A short while later they reached a long atrium with a huge glass wall facing out to the dark sea. Olivia peered outside and realised that the whole room had to have been built on a rock over the water. She saw the waves breaking below. Coastal protection laws clearly didn’t apply to everyone, she thought to herself and scurried after Borell. Suddenly she stopped. One of the gigantic glass walls had been turned into a narrow floor-to-ceiling aquarium, full of green liquid. The foetal remains of a pair of conjoined twins were floating around inside. Their fused bodies were slowly moving towards one side of the glass.
‘That English artist,’ he said.
There was only one person this could be. That guy who shocked people with pieces about death. But this…?
She looked at the bizarre aquarium.
‘You’re not allowed to write about this,’ Borell said. ‘It’s not an official piece of art. He created it specially for this house. On site. For me.’
Olivia was struggling to find words.
‘But where did he… where are…’
‘Stillborn twins. From Manchester. Their parents received a substantial sum of money. Now the foetuses live on as a work of art.’
Borell carried on into the atrium. Olivia pulled herself away from this macabre piece of ‘artwork’ and felt a great sense of unease. What’s he going to show me over there? In the L-room?
‘Here.’
Borell had stopped in front of a metal door at the far end of the hall. He pressed a button on one side. This door slid open without a sound too.
‘After you.’
Borell gestured with his hand and Olivia stepped inside, rather hesitantly. The room wasn’t very big – square, no windows. All the walls were adorned with paintings, two on each wall. She recognised most of them and she now understood what he’d meant by L-room. There was Lena Cronqvist again, Lars Lerin, Linn Fernström and Lars Kleen.
‘Lena, Linn and Lars times two. My favourites.’
First names? Olivia thought to herself. Did he know them? It certainly wasn’t unlikely. Or was he just showing off? She looked at the valuable paintings hanging in the room. Profits from neglecting the elderly invested in exquisite artwork, she thought. Complete cynicism. I wonder how many artists have views on where their buyers get their money? Do they even reflect on that? Or does ‘money talks’ apply here too? Are they only responsible for their own work of art? Not what happens to it? In whose hands it ends up? Their creations being bought with private blood money and hung up in a sealed-off bunker. Don’t they give a shit?
She hoped that they did.
Borell went and stood right in the middle of the room with his martini glass in his hand. It was empty.
‘This is my treasure chamber,’ he said. ‘Maybe not in terms of market value, but to me. This is my Shangri-La.’
Olivia peered at Borell. His gaze slowly scanned the walls and she felt that he really meant it. This room was special. To him.
‘What’s that I can hear?’ she said.
The electronic music had stopped, and instead she could hear a gentle buzzing sound, from above, from a ledge running along the ceiling.
‘The vacuum system.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The world’s most modern way to prevent art theft. It’s only available to private buyers so far.’
‘How does it work?’
‘You’re inquisitive.’
‘Is it secret?’
Borell smiled.
‘Not at all,’ he said and gestured up towards the ceiling. ‘When the system turns on, the doors slide shut and all the air is sucked out of the room. As you can see, there are no air valves. It gets hermetically sealed and it’s impossible to get inside.’
‘What happens if someone happens to be in there?’
‘It would be pretty excruciating.’
Olivia looked up at the buzzing ledge on the ceiling. Was he lying? Why would he do that? He could probably install whatever high-tech system he wanted with all his money.
She felt that she wanted to get out.
From this room.
From the house.
‘Would you like another martini?’ Borell said.
‘No. Thank you.’
Olivia left the L-room. Borell followed her. The whole way through the atrium, Olivia tried to keep her gaze on the wall opposite the glass facade. She didn’t want to see that disgusting formalin aquarium. Borell was silent the entire time. As they passed through a short, poorly lit hallway, Olivia suddenly smelled smoke. Cigarette smoke. They were not alone. There was someone else here too.
She started walking faster.
‘You met Magnus Thorhed?’
Borell’s voice revealed that he was right behind her.
‘Yes, at Bukowskis,’ she said. ‘He seemed interested in a Karin Mamma Andersson piece. Was that for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s involved in your art collection?’
‘He’s involved in everything that concerns me. He’s very loyal. Very much at the forefront of things.’
‘Did you buy the painting?’
‘Yes. I also bought some video art by Ann-Sofi. Would you like to see it?’
‘Ann-Sofi Sidén?’
‘Yes.’
Olivia had read about Sidén, one of Sweden’s most successful international video artists. She had no desire to see this video. What she wanted was to go to her car and back to civilisation.
She’d had enough.
‘It’s in my office,’ said Borell.
His office?
‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘But then I have to go.’
Olivia followed Borell into his office. She couldn’t quite work out where exactly it was in relation to all the other rooms and corridors, suddenly it was just there. On the other side of another door that slid into the wall without a sound. Borell went up to a large flat-screen television, pushed a CD into a player and put on Ann-Sofi Sidén’s video.
It started.
Whatever was playing on the screen was probably fine art, a talented woman’s attempt to explore the human psyche with the tools available to her. But it just passed her by. She didn’t look at the screen. She let her gaze wander around the room without turning her head. She couldn’t see much in her field of vision. There was a large beautiful mirror with a gold frame on one wall. On the left was a desk with an open laptop on it. A PC. On one side of the flat screen she saw a large bookshelf full of folders and on the other side was
a shelf with random piles of art books. And at the far end, on top of a couple of large books, she saw a thin bag. Closed.
A very special bag made from checked hard-pressed cork.
A laptop bag.
Olivia felt her pulse rise dramatically.
‘What do you think?’
Borell looked at her. He’d been looking at her the whole time, ever since the video had started. He hadn’t even glanced at the screen. Olivia felt it.
‘It’s fascinating,’ she said.
‘Very.’
Borell carried on looking at her with his good eye. Olivia tried to fix her gaze on the screen in front of her. Borell laid his arm around her shoulder and turned off the video. He leant in towards her and almost whispered.
‘You’re not writing a dissertation,’ he said gently. ‘Am I right?’
Olivia removed Borell’s hand from her shoulder. That gave her a couple of seconds. Then she said: ‘Yes, I am.’
‘I think you’re lying. Why did you come here?’
‘To interview you. But now I need to go back to the city. Thanks for letting me come. I’ll find my own way out.’
Olivia quickly proceeded towards the door. Borell stood still. Olivia came out into a corridor and she didn’t quite know where it led. She turned her head slightly and saw that Borell was looking at her. She started walking faster and heard the electronic sounds bouncing off the walls. When she turned a corner she saw a coloured stream of light a bit further off. The bar? She quickened her step, her heels clicking against the stone floor.
It was the bar. She reached a room that she recognised and hastily headed towards the front door. From the corner of her eye she saw something move and looked back at the bar. A man was sitting there with his back to her. A ring of blue smoke was swirling up in front of him. She immediately knew who it was, she recognised the plait at the back of his neck. Had he been there the whole time? Why didn’t he turn around? She reached the hallway and saw the large wooden door. How the hell do I open it? She didn’t need to. A couple of metres before she reached it, the door slid open by itself.
She ran out.
She ran along the avenue of lanterns.
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