The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  I go out into the living room. Examine my well-ordered life: soft, inviting cushions; antique candlesticks carved from whalebone; bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling. Masks and small statues from all over the world are scattered among the books, which bear witness to the trip that never was: This Cold Heaven: Seven Seasons in Greenland, Inuit Art, and Eskimo Essays: Tales from the Top of the Earth.

  Owe doesn’t share my fascination with Greenland and the Inuit people. Can’t understand what’s so interesting about that inhospitable, uncivilized Arctic continent. You can’t play golf there, the food tastes like shit (Owe’s words), and, to add insult to injury, it costs a fortune to get to.

  I suppose I’ve given up hope of ever seeing Greenland. I’m not sure I’d dare to go on a trip like that alone. Not now, when the disease lies in wait for me wherever I go. Waiting to devour me, just like the sea devoured Sedna, according to legend.

  The beautiful but vain Inuit maiden Sedna ran away from her father with a storm bird to become his wife. The bird promised Sedna he’d take her to a fabulous country where she would never be hungry, where tents would be made from the finest hides, and where she would sleep on the softest bearskins. But when the girl arrived the tent was made of old fish skins that let in the cold and wind, and she had nothing more than old, hard walrus skins to sleep on and nothing but raw fish scraps to eat.

  When spring came, the father went to visit his daughter and found her despondent and exhausted in the storm bird’s country. He killed her husband and brought Sedna home in his kayak.

  But the birds retaliated. They whipped up a mighty storm and the father was forced to sacrifice his daughter to the sea in order to appease the birds. He threw her overboard into the icy water, and when she didn’t want to let go of the boat he cut off her fingers one by one. As each finger fell into the sea, it turned into a whale or seal. Finally, the sea devoured Sedna, and she became its mistress—the goddess of the sea.

  The ancient legend of Sedna is a warning, of course, to young Inuit girls about the dangers of vanity and disobeying your father, but it is also about the relentless elements, which we cannot control, but must appease in order not to perish.

  I myself have food on the table and a warm bed to return to every night, but still the disease is always there, waiting to devour me. To make me his mistress in the emptiness, in the life of no memory that awaits.

  —

  Owe doesn’t think we should tell our friends about my illness. Not yet. He repeats it irritatingly often, but always adds that he’ll be there to care for me. Just like you always have, I think, but I don’t say anything. Because that’s exactly how it is: Owe has always taken care of me. Ever since we met when I was nineteen and he twenty-nine, he’s taken care of me. Picked me up on the highway when the car broke down, paid my bills, taken me home from parties when I drank too much. Even pulled me gently out of strange beds, whenever I seriously attempted to revolt by cheating on him. And afterward, he has always been understanding. Understanding but patronizing. He’s given me pills that numb and calm. Explained that he knows I’m feeling bad, but that jumping into the arms of a colleague or some peripheral acquaintance won’t make my problems go away. I don’t understand what’s good for me, but he loves me anyway.

  Years of cloying care have left me feeling suffocated. It’s like I can’t really breathe in his presence, as if he takes up so much space there’s no oxygen left in the room for me. Sometimes I tell him that, and he explains that if I hadn’t been so immature and irresponsible, he wouldn’t have been forced to act the way he did. I made him like this.

  It’s my fault. Again.

  I tend to think there might be some truth to that, but it’s hardly the whole truth. His need for control is pathological and permeates all aspects of my life: what I eat, whom I associate with, and yes, even what I think.

  Ten years ago I was very close to leaving him. If everything hadn’t gone to hell that day, I wouldn’t be living with Owe now. But you can’t think like that. It will drive you crazy. So much of life doesn’t turn out as you expected, but it’s no excuse for bitterness. So I fight against disappointment as if it were a cluster of weeds, refusing to allow it to take hold in earnest. I try to grab on to all the positives: my work, the research I’ve dedicated the last ten years to, my friends—the ones who became my family in place of the children who never came.

  I set the bowl on the floor and watch Frida gulp down her food. Wonder if maybe life as a dog might not be better after all. Then I pack up my things. Grab my notepad and write: “IKEA café, 2 P.M., help Gunilla choose furniture.” A simple reminder in case I forget where I’m going. Not that it’s that bad yet. I remember where I’m going, and I can still drive a car. But I dread the day when I have to ask Owe for help with that.

  The temperature has dropped well below zero over the weekend, so I put on my down coat and warm boots. I lock both locks on the door (yes, I still remember that too) and go down to the car, which is parked on Skeppargatan, on the hill that leads down to Strandvägen. Everything is blanketed by four inches of snow, and it takes me a while to clear enough away from the windshield so that I can drive.

  The clouds hang alarmingly dark and heavy over Nybroviken, and the gently billowing surface of the water seems almost black. The weather forecast calls for more snow, so I decide I better get going as quickly as possible—start up the car and drive north. I have to be back by five. Owe and I are going to a Christmas concert at Hedvig Eleonora Church.

  Being cultured is very important to Owe. Music, theater, and books aren’t just hobbies, they constitute the subject of most of the conversations we have with our friends. If you don’t stay up to speed on cultural life, you’ll end up embarrassed and silent at our dinner parties.

  Just more proof of Owe’s excessively controlling behavior: his need to be in charge of what is discussed when people get together. Sometimes I’m overcome with an almost irrepressible urge to start talking about something completely different. Frivolous topics that would embarrass Owe and bring him to yell at me after everyone’s gone home. Mention how I just got an amazing facial with essential oils, or start talking about clothes or jewelry or beach vacations. Or, most unthinkable of all, with feigned seriousness insist that I both read and enjoyed Fifty Shades of Grey.

  As I exit near Barkarby, I summarize all the reasons I hate Owe:

  Self-righteous. Egocentric. Narcissistic. Dominant. Smells bad.

  —

  Gunilla is already sitting at a table in the café. She’s hung her little fur jacket on the back of her chair and seems to be studying her nails. Her mid-length, strawberry-blond hair is perfectly blow-dried, and her polo shirt fits her slender frame to a T.

  There are several reasons Owe doesn’t like Gunilla. First of all, she’s one of those superficial people he despises so much: the kind who paints her nails, wears makeup, and buys expensive clothes. Also, she laughs too loudly and too long when she visits us, and at all the wrong things. But most important of all: She left her husband after twenty-five years of marriage. Just like that, because she was tired of him. That’s just not done. Not in Owe’s world anyway.

  Not if you’re a woman.

  Her hug is long and warm, and she smells like expensive perfume. “Here, sit down, I’ll go buy us something,” she says.

  I nod and sink into the chair opposite her. Pull off my heavy winter coat and look around. It’s remarkable how many people are crowded into the café at IKEA. It smells like wet wool, saffron buns, sweat, and food. There’s scattered laughter and the low hum of conversation coming from nearby tables.

  Gunilla returns with a red plastic tray, some saffron buns, and two cups. Their spicy scent is unmistakable.

  “Mulled wine? Is it alcohol-free?”

  She laughs indulgently. Tilts her pretty face.

  “No, I thought we should treat ourselves today. Celebrate that I bought an apartment.”

  “But I’m driving.”

 
“Oh, it’s just a tiny cup. And we’ll surely be here for a while?”

  I shake my head. “You’re funny. Celebrate? At IKEA?”

  “Why not?”

  “Is there anything more tragic than celebrating at the IKEA café?”

  Gunilla takes a sip of her hot beverage and looks around. Observing the people at the tables around us. Her bright eyes settle on an elderly couple sitting in silence, each eating their respective child-size serving of meatballs.

  “I can think of worse things. How are you feeling?”

  Gunilla is the only one besides Owe who knows. In fact, I told her about the disease before I said anything to Owe. Maybe that means I’m actually closer to her than to my own husband. I guess that’s so.

  “I feel fine.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “The usual.”

  She nods and all at once looks very serious. Takes my hand, squeezes it gently. I can feel her warmth flowing into me.

  “You’ll tell me if you need any help, right?”

  “I don’t want any help.”

  “That’s exactly why.”

  Her face looks so serious that I have to laugh.

  “And what about you?” I ask. “How’s your love affair going?”

  Gunilla smiles and stretches like a cat. Sets her cup of mulled wine on the table, leans over and whispers, as if she’s about to reveal a secret.

  “Absolutely fantastic. And we’re so incredibly…attracted to each other. Horny, to be vulgar about it. Is that allowed, at our age?”

  “Oh please. You have no idea what I’d give to be a little horny.”

  Owe and I don’t have sex anymore, but I don’t want to tell that to Gunilla. Not because she’d have any opinions on it, but because I think it’s so damn tragic to live with someone you don’t desire. Only weak people stay in bad relationships. And I don’t want to be weak—not even in Gunilla’s eyes.

  I hear my cellphone buzzing in my purse. Pick it up and glance at the screen. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Go ahead and answer,” Gunilla says. “I have to use the ladies’ room anyway.”

  I pick up as Gunilla stands and walks off, limping slightly. She suffers from sciatica, and I suspect she’s in more pain than she wants to admit.

  The man who’s calling has a soft, rich voice. He introduces himself as Manfred Olsson and explains that he’s a detective at the National Police. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from them. I stopped working for them five or six years ago, when I decided to concentrate full-time on my research and end my consultancy work for the police. Or, actually, Owe decided that for me. He thought I was working too much, said it made me surly and grumpy.

  Also, we didn’t need the money.

  “We worked together about ten years ago,” says Manfred Olsson. “But maybe you don’t remember.”

  I have no memory of any Manfred Olsson, but the last thing I want to do is talk about what I do or don’t remember, so I say nothing.

  “It was in connection with the investigation of a murder on Södermalm, here in Stockholm,” he continues. “A young man was beheaded. The head had been—”

  “I remember,” I say. “You never arrested anyone for that, right?”

  Dementia or not, the memory of how that man’s head had been placed on the floor is etched into my memory. Maybe because the murder was so brutal, maybe because we all worked so hard to find a suspect. By the time I was called in, the investigation had already been going on for a few months. Back then the National Police didn’t have any criminal profilers, so I was hired as a consultant to assist the investigation team in creating a psychological profile of the perpetrator.

  I’m a behaviorist, but over the years my research has increasingly focused on psychological models for particular crimes. I stumbled into police work, and then worked for them regularly for several years.

  “No, that’s right. We never caught him. And now there’s been a similar murder. Eerily similar. I wonder if you’d be willing to meet for a coffee. I remember finding your thoughts on the matter very interesting.”

  Gunilla is back. She sits down opposite me and empties the rest of her mulled wine in one gulp.

  “I don’t work with the police anymore,” I say.

  “I know that. This wouldn’t be a consultancy. I’d just like to pick your brain on the subject. Over a coffee. If you have time, that is.”

  There is a silence, and Gunilla raises her eyebrows. “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  “You have my number,” he says.

  —

  When I get home Owe is standing in the hall as if he were waiting for me. His thinning gray hair is combed to the side in an attempt to hide his bald spot. His stomach stretches out his shirt, his face is bright red, and his skin is shiny with sweat, as if he’s just come home from a jog. He throws a meaningful glance at his watch (which is expensive without being ostentatious and sends just the right message to his surroundings).

  “We’ve got ten minutes,” I say.

  Owe turns around without a word and walks toward the bedroom. In a minute he’ll return with that cardigan on. I put the bag of tea lights and napkins from IKEA on the floor and greet Frida, who’s jumping around my legs trying to catch my attention. I run my hands through her curly black fur, which resembles sheepskin.

  Owe comes back into the hall in his mustard-yellow cardigan. The ugly one. Puts on his coat and boots and looks into my eyes.

  “We have to leave now if we’re not going to be late.”

  —

  Kaptensgatan is unplowed. I try in vain to avoid getting snow in my boots by walking down an already beaten path as we move through the darkness toward Artillerigatan.

  “I got a call from the National Police today,” I say.

  “Okay,” Owe says in a neutral voice that doesn’t reveal his feelings on the matter. But that’s how it is with Owe: He’s like a steam engine, holding in his emotions until the pressure has built up. Then he explodes.

  “They want to meet with me.”

  “Okay.”

  We start to go up the hill toward the church, pass by the Army Museum’s restaurant, where we sometimes have lunch.

  “There’s been a murder similar to an investigation I was involved in ten years ago.”

  “You have to be kidding me, Hanne. Tell me you’re joking.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask innocently.

  He stops mid-step, still not meeting my eyes.

  Instead he stares in the direction of the well-lit church rising up in the snow in front of us. The church steeple points into the black night sky toward eternity. I can see that Owe’s hands are in fists, and I know exactly how angry he is. In some strange way it excites me, fills me with primitive, mischievous joy. Like a teenager who finally managed to provoke a reaction from a restrained parent.

  He turns around, puts his hand lightly on my arm, and there’s something in that subtle gesture—which signals both indulgence and ownership—that infuriates me.

  “What?” I say. “What is it?”

  “Is that really appropriate?”

  He’s lowered his voice now, and I know he’s struggling to regain control. Owe loathes losing control, loathes it almost as much as when I lose control.

  “What isn’t appropriate?”

  “Taking on a lot of work in your…condition?”

  “ ‘Condition’? You make it sound like I’m pregnant.”

  “If only that were the case.”

  “And who says I’m going to work for them?”

  “Oh Christ. You know how it always ends when they call you in.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be able to work?”

  He raises his chin as he looks down at me, in that way I detest, and takes a deep breath.

  “Because I say so. You’re not healthy enough to take on something like that, and as your next of kin I have to be the one to tell you that.”

  I know I should give some scat
hing reply or perhaps just slap him, or at the very least turn around and go home to Frida. Light a fire, pour myself a glass of wine. But instead I say nothing, and we continue walking in silence and darkness toward the church.

  EMMA

  TWO MONTHS EARLIER

  “So, how was last night?”

  Olga’s gaze is curious, but kind. She keeps her gray eyes on me while she folds the jeans lying on the long table next to the checkout.

  I don’t know how to answer her. Part of me wants to say that it went well, that the food was good and we had amazing sex all night long. Another part of me wants to tell the truth, but maybe I’m not up to it.

  “He didn’t show up.”

  “He never showed up?”

  Olga puts down a pair of jeans without folding them and looks at me more attentively.

  “Nope, he never came over. And I couldn’t get ahold of him either, so I don’t know what happened.”

  “He never called?”

  “No.”

  The silence that follows is uncomfortable. I can see that Olga is having a hard time comprehending the situation and doesn’t really know what to say.

  “But, does he usually call you if he’s late or not coming?”

  I hesitate a moment. “He’s never late. And it’s never happened that he couldn’t meet me.”

  Suddenly the room feels cramped, even though we just opened and almost no customers have come in yet. The bright artificial light hurts my eyes, and there’s a dull throbbing at the back of my head.

  I lean against the jeans table and feel tears burning behind my eyelids. “What if something happened?”

  Olga’s voice is quiet, almost a whisper. Between those painted-on eyebrows, a little wrinkle has emerged. I can’t speak, so I nod instead.

  “You tried calling today?”

  “Yes. Just now. Just before we opened.”

  She says nothing more, instead starts folding jeans again as she glances around the store.

  “Here he comes!” she whispers without looking at me.

  I grab the closest pair of jeans and start to fold. Lay them on top of the pile, but already it’s too late.