He lumbers away, leaving me alone with Hanne. Her gray eyes rest heavily on me. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m just wondering…Are you always like this…so hard on each other?”
I shrug. “This isn’t a course in personal development.” I glimpse a faint smile on her thin face.
The room is silent for a moment. The lamp flickers, and Hanne closes her eyes, as if trying to keep the cold light outside. She suddenly looks older. No less beautiful, just older and more tired, once you get past the years.
“How are you?” I ask.
She opens her eyes. Starts to giggle. And she resembles a teenager again—something about her impish laugh, or maybe her way of rolling her eyes.
“You’re funny. I’m fine.”
“Because I’ve been thinking about what you said…” I say quickly.
“Don’t worry. I’ll survive this investigation.”
I can no longer control myself. As if it’s finally hitting me how important she is to me. She’s the first and only person I’ve ever truly wanted, and it makes her more important than anything else—I just never realized it before. Perhaps it’s because she told me she was sick, and I know now our time together isn’t infinite. Instead, it has been reduced to a number of brief moments, assembled into days and weeks, which could be over much too soon.
“I love you, Hanne,” I say. And the moment I say the words, I know I mean them, maybe for the first time in my life.
Hanne’s eyes become shiny.
“Oh, Peter. You don’t know that. We haven’t even seen each other for ten years.”
“No. I do know. And I loved you then too, I was just too stupid to understand it.”
A few tears wind down her cheeks, but she ignores them. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she whispers, and looks down at her hands, resting quietly in her lap. “I’m sick, and we can’t be together.”
“But I don’t care if you’re sick. I can take care of you. I want to take care of you.”
She meets my eyes. “Believe me. You don’t.”
The rattling of the detective on the other side of the room has ceased. He stands up, pulls on his leather jacket, turns off his desk lamp, and leaves the room.
“Yes. I do.”
Hanne sighs and stares up at the overhead lamp. In the bright light, the skin beneath her eyes seems thin and has a bluish iridescence. Like the belly of a fish.
“Jesus, Peter. You’re like a stubborn kid. I’m…losing my memory. Soon I may not know my own name. You can’t be my caretaker; surely you can understand that.”
“Losing your memory? How so? Like Alzheimer’s?”
Hanne buries her head in her hands. “I have to go,” she says, and stands up without looking at me.
“Wait! Can I come with you?”
She turns around. Puts her hands on her waist and shakes her head slowly. “No. Give up! I told you it won’t work.”
I can’t tell if she’s angry or just thinks I’m too persistent.
Before she leaves the room, she stops in front of the evidence wall. Stares for a long time at the picture of Emma Bohman before finally turning around and waving goodbye to me.
—
The darkness outside looks even blacker and denser than before. I stand at the window searching for Hanne, but all I see is a snowplow approaching on a deserted street.
I wonder if it’s true, that she’s really losing her memory. But why would she lie about that kind of thing?
I am suddenly filled with sadness. Thinking of her slender body in bed, the freckles on her shoulders glowing in the dawn light. About her greedy desire when we make love, and her loud, uncontrollable laughter afterward, when we lie next to each other talking in the narrow bed. I can almost still hear her light snoring—it reminded me of a creaking boat, anchored in a calm sea.
A safe sound.
But most of all I think about how I felt when I was with her. How marvelously wide open, vulnerable, and light I became.
Like a feather.
Who says it can’t be like that again? Who decided it can’t happen?
Life is about loss, my mother used to say when she stood smoking under the fan. Loss of the innocence we’re all born with, of the people we love, of our health and our physical abilities, and ultimately—of course—the loss of our own lives.
As usual, she was right.
—
Manfred calls around nine. His voice is excited, and something else: There’s a sense of purpose there that I know well.
“Are you in the office?” he asks.
“Yes. Why? I was headed out soon.”
“Bergdahl spoke to one of Angelica Wennerlind’s girlfriends.”
I look over to the evidence wall, where the image of Angelica Wennerlind hangs next to a photo of Emma Bohman.
“And?”
“You’ll never guess what she told me. She’s on her way to the police station now, with a colleague. We can talk to her in twenty minutes.”
—
Annie Bertrand is short, blond, and wearing workout clothes, as if she came straight from the gym. We meet with her in a small interrogation room on the ground floor; it smells like mold and cleaning products. Manfred has brought some coffee and buns from 7-Eleven, but she declines politely, explaining that she doesn’t eat bread.
Avoiding gluten—or sugar or milk—seems to be all the rage nowadays. Sanchez also stopped eating it, claiming her stomach swells up like a balloon as soon as she even glances at a pastry.
“Thank you for coming,” Manfred says. “We don’t usually ask people to come in at this hour, but the investigation into the murder at Jesper Orre’s house is at a critical stage, and we don’t want to lose any time. Can you tell us how you know Angelica Wennerlind?”
“We’ve been friends since high school. We hung out quite a bit back then, but nowadays we meet maybe once a month. She still lives out in Bromma, works at a preschool in Ålsten, and I live in the city. Also, she has Wilma, so she doesn’t get much time…”
Her voice dies out.
“Wilma, that’s her daughter?” Manfred asks.
“Yes. She’s the cutest thing ever. But really intense too. She’s only five.”
“And Angelica doesn’t live with Wilma’s father?”
“No. He’s American. Lives in New York. Wilma was kind of a mistake, I guess you’d say. Angelica met Chris on vacation, and they never really had a real relationship. But when she got pregnant, she decided to keep Wilma. She loves kids.”
Manfred writes something in his notebook.
“Can you tell us about Angelica Wennerlind’s new boyfriend?”
Annie Bertrand nods and takes a sip of coffee.
“Yes. It was top-secret, of course; I might have been the only one who knew. She was dating Jesper Orre, and I think it was pretty serious. He’d even met Wilma. But they wanted to lie low, considering how the media chased Jesper. I don’t even think Angelica had told her mom and dad about him. You know, they say he’s a huge womanizer. It probably wasn’t much fun for Angelica to read about him in the tabloids all the time. But I think they were pretty happy, actually. She said so, in any case. Told me it was serious, and that Jesper had said he was in love for the first time in his life. He wanted to move in with her, build a life together. Start over. He even thought about resigning. Was tired of being under so much pressure and scrutiny. They were going to go away this week. They’d rented a cottage somewhere, I think, but she didn’t say where. They probably wanted to get away from everything. Be left alone.”
Manfred meets my eyes in silence and slams his notebook shut with a small bang.
EMMA
EIGHT DAYS EARLIER
I sweep up my hair and weep. Not because I cut it off, but because I’ve finally completed the transformation that I always knew deep down inside would happen. It feels fated, melancholy and magnificent at the same time, and it makes me think of the caterpillar I carried around in the glass jar, which finally t
urned into a butterfly.
I asked my father why the caterpillar couldn’t stay a caterpillar, and he told me it had no choice: Change or die; that’s how nature is. And here I am, changed and reinvented. No longer Emma, but someone else instead, someone stronger, who refuses to be a victim. Someone who has power over her own life, and who will take revenge against those who have betrayed her.
I throw the hair into the garbage, and then I take all the bills and put them in the sink. I find matches in the bottom drawer of the bathroom cabinet. I hesitate for a moment before setting fire to the bills. The fire quickly gains traction and for a moment the flames are worryingly high, then they die out and all that’s left are the charred remains of my debts. The feathery paper remnants remind me of black petals.
The bathroom is warm and humid. I paint thick black lines around my eyes with kohl and inspect my new face in the mirror. Emma is gone. She died or vanished, or just got tired of being a loser. The girl in the mirror is someone else. Suddenly I realize how hilarious it is: In some way Jesper actually created the person I am now. His betrayal was what forced me to transform. He was the nature to my caterpillar.
And now here I am.
I pack. Only the bare essentials go down into the backpack: wool underclothing, the warm socks I got from Aunt Agneta the last Christmas she was alive, binoculars that were once Dad’s, and the big knife with the carved handle Dad got from his grandfather, who was a sailor. Then I listen to my phone messages. There’s only one. It’s from the police. They’d like to see me again and talk some more about the engagement ring. The word “talk” annoys me, because it sounds like we’re going to sit around conversing about something nice—our latest vacation, for example, or housing prices in the inner city. If it’s an interrogation, can’t they just say that instead?
Change or die.
I go over to the kitchen window, open it, and look down. The cold air is filled with small, sparkling ice crystals, which swirl into the kitchen. The snow settles like a thin film on my skin and immediately melts. Somewhere down there Sigge disappeared, I think. No—I know it’s true, even though I never found him. I grab the phone and hold it out the window.
I let go, and it floats to the ground. After a few seconds I hear a smash beneath me in the courtyard.
I have no need for a phone anymore.
—
“What kind of sleeping bag? How low will the temperatures be?”
I don’t know how to answer. I can’t exactly explain how I intend to use it. For a second, I think she’s looking at me strangely, maybe because of my DIY hairstyle or my harsh makeup. But it must be my imagination—doesn’t half of the Swedish population look like this? She’s obviously not looking at me any differently than she would anybody else. She’s just doing her job.
“It needs to withstand outdoor temperatures at this time of year,” I say in a moment of quick thinking, and pick a little at the wound I got when I climbed through Jesper’s basement window.
“Okay,” the girl with the light blond ponytail says. She nods, and goes over to a shelf by the window. Next to the backpacks and ice picks, a wide range of sleeping bags are lined up.
“I’d recommend this,” she says, pointing to a yellow sleeping bag. “It’s synthetic, which makes it good even in humid environments. It can handle as low as fifteen degrees, but then you have to be wearing insulated underwear and a hat.”
I nod as if I know exactly what she’s talking about. “I’ll take it.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, wait a minute. Let me check.”
I take out the list and read the other things aloud. Ten minutes later and several thousand kronor poorer, I go out onto the street. All my money is gone. I have only a few hundred left for food and a rental car.
—
The snowfall has changed—instead of sharp, tiny crystals, now large, feathery flakes fall silently to the ground. It’s getting dark too; a gray-blue haze covers the city, and the streetlights turn on.
Despite the lack of funds, I feel strong and light. Knowing exactly what to do is such a relief. I go to the grocery store on the square and gather what I need. It occurs to me that I must look like a bag lady now: I’m dragging two large plastic bags, and my hair is standing on end. But no one seems to see me. Maybe I’ve become invisible for real, like Frodo when he wears the ring.
Today none of the pimply guys behind the counter at the rental car company say hello. They clearly don’t recognize me, which is good. Very good. Without a glance at my big bags, Peter—it says so on the name tag, as if that would make us friends—inputs my name and address into the computer.
“How long do you want it?”
“One day,” I answer, though I really have no idea. But I have only enough money for a day.
He hands me the keys.
“Can you find your way to the parking lot?”
“I’ll find it.”
—
It almost feels like I’m on my way home. Every intersection, every side road is familiar. Despite the darkness, I know exactly where I’m going. I park three blocks away. It would be stupid to park too close to Jesper’s house. It might attract undue attention.
But it’s not Jesper’s house I’m on my way to. Instead I walk to the abandoned house situated farther up the hill, lying dark and gloomy in the snow, like a grounded shipwreck. Cautiously, I creep over the white carpet of newly fallen snow, toward the little shed in the garden. I leave clear tracks behind me, but the snow is still falling. Soon my tracks will disappear, as if I never passed this way.
It’s not difficult to get into the shed. The key, lying under a plastic geranium on the wooden steps, takes less than a minute to find, even though I don’t use a flashlight. It looks odd, a blooming geranium covered by snow. Even if the flower is artificial, it just doesn’t fit. The brain doesn’t want to accept it. The image of delicate pink flowers and inches of thick snow contradict each other.
Like Jesper kissing the dark-haired woman.
Inside, the shed is dim and smells of mildew. I have to rearrange a pair of teak chairs in order to fit all my bags. My arms ache from the effort of carrying those packs, and I’m sweating even though it’s below freezing.
I spread the yellow sleeping bag on an old worn sofa with care, then stand in the middle of the small space. I put the food on the garden table in the corner and the rest of my pack I stow under the grill. Then I sit down on my provisional bed with binoculars in hand and look out the window, but the falling snow makes it difficult to see anything.
I lean back and close my eyes. Something is lurking just below the surface of my consciousness, struggling to rise up, make itself known. Something important.
Then I remember.
—
Jesper was standing beside me on the crowded bus. We weren’t looking at each other, but from the corner of my eye I sensed that he was smiling. It was a kind of game. We stood there as if we were strangers, but after a while he’d sneak his hand down and gently stroke my thigh. And now the important part: I couldn’t react, couldn’t reveal that I felt his touch.
Then his hand would find its way into my pants or under my skirt or sweater and brush against my skin. No groping, just a light touch, as if it were all happening by accident. And here maybe I might stretch a little, spread my legs, let him reach me more easily. Then he’d press against me, so I knew he was hard. Yes. That’s how it was supposed to be: In the middle of a crowded bus, bumping and lurching along, we remained bound by our desire.
And maybe I’d throw him a glance, as if in passing. As if I were actually just looking out the window, checking to see where we were. And our eyes would meet, and his face would be as expressionless and uninterested as mine.
But now it didn’t go as planned. Not this time. Just as I felt his hand against my butt, I heard a voice somewhere in front of us on the bus. “Jesper. Well, I’ll be damned. Long time no see.”
He froze behind me. His hand disappeared
instantly. “Hey! How’s it going?”
A man in his forties wearing a suit was headed toward us. Winding his way through the sea of humanity until he was standing next to Jesper.
I felt Jesper slip away, and knew immediately I shouldn’t say a word to reveal we knew each other. This was his other life. His real life—which included jobs and friends and a past and future.
For Jesper and me there was only the present.
“…Great. And sure, compared to Austria, it’s expensive, but it’s fucking worth it. I don’t know about you, but that whole charter thing makes me nauseous. What you’re after is quality and something genuine. You won’t find that in St. Anton. That’s just how it is. And then there’s the food. The French can really cook…”
Jesper’s acquaintance continued to babble on about the skiing and stellar restaurants and après-ski with masseuses circulating between the tables dressed in tiny rabbit-fur skirts.
“And what about you? What did you guys do over the holidays?”
—
I freeze. My legs start shaking uncontrollably, and I reach for the thermos, the one that holds a liter of scalding-hot coffee. Dusty streaks of moonlight cut through the dirty window, but it’s so dark in the narrow space that I knock over a carton of soup while I’m groping for my steel thermos.
He said “you guys.”
Jesper’s friend didn’t ask what he had done, but what they had done on their vacation. Why didn’t I think of that earlier? Probably because I didn’t realize how important it was. “You guys” could have been Jesper and his friends or maybe even his colleagues. “You guys” could have been anyone. But it wasn’t.
“You guys” was the woman with the dark hair.
“You guys” was the reason that Jesper left me, and why everything else went to hell.
After a few seconds of hesitation I stand up, go over to the window, and rub off the bottom two panes with my sleeve. It has stopped snowing. The garden spreads out, an innocent white in the moonlight. The snow rests inches thick on bushes and trees. Directly below stands Jesper’s house. Light pours invitingly from the windows. It looks very cozy. Like an advertisement for one of those ski trips Jesper and his friend on the bus were talking about.
The Ice Beneath Her Page 29