“Silly girl.” Grandmother smiled. “You mustn’t talk like that. I’ve got nothing to do these days. Helping you is the least I can do.”
Annika kissed the woman’s cheek. “Are there any chanterelles yet?”
Grandmother chuckled. “All that rain in the spring and now all this heat— the whole forest is golden yellow. Take two bags with you!”
Annika leaped to her feet.
“I’ll just go for a quick swim first!”
She tore off her skirt and top on the way down to the jetty. The water was lukewarm and the bottom muddier than ever. She swam over to the cliffs, pulled herself up, and lay breathing deeply for a while. The wind tore at her wet hair, and when she looked up, the clouds were flying past at a good speed several thousand feet up. She slid into the water again and slowly floated back on her back. Dense forest surrounded the lake, and not a living soul was to be seen apart from Whiskas, waiting for her on the jetty. You could get lost in these woods. She had once as a child. A search party from the local orienteering club had found her in a forest clearing, frozen blue.
She started sweating as soon as she got up on land. She pulled on her clothes without drying herself.
“I’ll borrow your rubber boots,” she called to her grandmother, who had picked up her knitting.
She tucked one plastic bag in her waistband and carried one in her hand. Whiskas followed in her footsteps as she strode into the woods.
Her grandmother was right— the chanterelles grew in clusters alongside the path, as big as the palm of your hand. She found some cèpes as well, parasol mushrooms, and hoards of little pale hedgehog mushrooms. All the time, Whiskas was dancing around her feet, chasing ants and butterflies, jumping after mosquitoes and birds. Annika crossed the road and walked past Johannislund and Björkbacken. There she took a right and walked in the direction of Lillsjötorp to say hello to Old Gustav. His beautiful little house stood in the sun, a wall of huge fir trees behind it. The silence was absolute and she didn’t hear the sound of the ax from over by the woodshed. That probably meant that the old man had gone out into the forest, probably for the same reason she had.
The door was locked. She continued up toward White Hill, where she climbed a hunting tower and sat down for a rest. The forest clearing stretched out below her. She’d hear an echo if she called out. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind. It was loud and hot, almost hypnotic. She sat like this for a long while, until a sound startled her. She carefully looked out over the edge.
A stout man came cycling from the direction of Skenäs. He was breathing heavily and wobbling somewhat. A dried pine twig was stuck in his back wheel. The man stopped right underneath the tower, pulled out the twig, mumbled something, and continued on his way.
Annika blinked in astonishment. It was the prime minister of Sweden.
*
Christer Lundgren stepped inside his overnight apartment with a feeling of unreality. He had a sense of impending catastrophe. Hot winds were blowing in his face. The electrically charged air made him realize the inevitable: the storm was blowing his way. He was going to get drenched.
The heat in the small apartment was indescribable. It had been exposed to the scorching sun all day. He was annoyed. Why weren’t there any blinds?
He dropped his bag on the floor in the hallway and opened the balcony door wide. The ventilation system in the backyard was roaring.
Damn that hamburger chain, he thought.
He went into the small kitchen and poured himself a big glass of water. The drains smelled of old yogurt and apple peel. He flushed away what he could.
His meeting with the party secretary and the undersecretary of state had been dreadful. He had no illusions about his position. It was crystal clear.
He took the glass of water with him and with a heavy sigh sat down on the bed with the phone on his lap. He took a few deep breaths before he dialed his home number.
“I’ll be staying here for a while,” he said to his wife after the initial small talk.
His wife paused. “For the weekend?” she eventually asked.
“You know I don’t want to.”
“You promised the kids.”
He closed his eyes and held his forehead in his hand. “I miss you so much I feel sick.”
She became worried. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. It’s one big nightmare.”
“Jesus, Christer! Tell me what’s happened!”
He swallowed and braced himself. “Listen to me— take the kids and go to Karungi. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
“I won’t go without you.”
His voice acquired a hard edge. “You must. I’m telling you all hell’s about to break loose. You’re going to be besieged if you stay there. It would be best if you could leave tonight.”
“But Stina isn’t expecting us until Saturday!”
“Call her and ask if you can’t come earlier. Stina’s always willing to help.”
His wife waited in silence. “It’s the police,” she then said quietly. “The thing with the police calling.”
He heard the twins laughing in the background.
“Yes,” he said. “Partly. But that’s not all.”
*
Annika returned home just in time for the quarter-to-five Eko.
“Guess who I saw in the forest? The prime minister!”
As she tipped the contents of the two plastic bags on the table, the opening chimes of the news pealed from the transistor radio.
“He’s got it into his head he should lose some weight,” her grandmother said. “He often cycles past here.”
They sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table and cleaned the mushrooms while the radio voices droned on. Nothing was happening.
“So, you still keep in contact with people at Harpsund?”
Grandmother smiled. She had been the housekeeper at the prime minister’s summer residence for thirty-seven years. The local news came on and she turned up the volume.
Annika cut the chanterelles in pieces and placed them in the bowl next to her. Then she let her hands drop and eyes rest. The wall clock ticked and the minutes went by. For Annika, her grandmother’s kitchen was the very home of peace and warmth. The iron range with its white plaster hood, the linoleum flooring, the plastic tablecloth, and the wild meadow flowers in the windows. This was where she’d learned to live without hot running water.
“Will you stay the night?” her grandmother asked.
Just then the signature tune to Studio 69 rang out. The old woman reached out to turn the volume down but Annika stopped her.
“Let’s hear what they’re up to today.”
The music faded and the deep bass of the program presenter sounded:
“The police have questioned a man on suspicion of the sex murder of a young woman in Kronoberg Park in Stockholm. The man is said to be Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren. More about this in today’s current affairs program with debate and analysis, live from Studio 69.”
The signature tune resumed, and Annika put her hands across her mouth. Good God, could it be true?
“What’s wrong? You’ve gone all pale,” her grandmother said.
The music faded out and the presenter was back: “Tuesday, July thirty-first. Welcome to Studio 69 from the Radio House in Stockholm.” He continued in a somber voice, “Social Democracy in Sweden is facing one of its biggest ever scandals. The minister has been interviewed twice, yesterday over the phone and today at Krim, the criminal investigation department on Kungsholmen. We’ll go direct to the police headquarters in Stockholm.”
Some rustling static was heard.
“I’m standing here with the police press officer,” a male reporter with an authoritative voice said. “What has happened here today?”
Annika turned up the volume. The voice of the press officer filled the kitchen.
“It’s true that the police are following certa
in leads in the hunt for Josefin Liljeberg’s murderer. However, I can’t give you any details. Nobody has been arrested even if our interviews are pointing in one particular direction.”
The reporter wasn’t listening. “A minister suspected of having committed this kind of crime in the middle of an election campaign— what’s your comment on that?”
The press officer hesitated. “Well, I can neither confirm nor deny anything at the moment. No one has as yet been—”
“But the minister was here today for an interview?”
“Minister for Foreign Trade Christer Lundgren is one of several persons that have been interviewed in the line of the ongoing investigation, that’s correct,” the press officer answered mechanically.
“So you will confirm that the interviews have taken place?” the reporter said in a triumphant tone.
“I can confirm that we have carried out around three hundred interviews in the investigation so far.” The press officer sounded as if he was beginning to sweat a bit.
“What did the minister have to say in his defense?”
The press officer was becoming annoyed. His pager started bleeping. “As everyone must understand, I can’t comment on what has been said in any interviews during an ongoing police investigation.”
The control room cut in and the program presenter reappeared. “We’re back in Studio 69 at Radio House in Stockholm. Now, this will naturally give the Social Democrats a run for their money during the election campaign, even if the minister isn’t guilty of the crime. The mere fact that a cabinet minister should figure in this kind of context is devastating for the party image. We will be discussing this in today’s edition of Studio 69.”
A jingle played, and when the presenter returned, he had a guest in the studio, a poor excuse for a media professor. Annika knew him by reputation. He had got the post through having worked as the politically appointed editor in chief of the labor movement newspaper that also ran Sweden’s biggest printing house for pornographic material.
“Well,” said the professor, “this is of course a downright disaster for Social Democracy. The mere suspicion of this kind of abuse of power puts the party in a very difficult situation. Very difficult, indeed.”
“Though we don’t know if the minister is guilty, and we won’t judge anyone beforehand here,” the program presenter pointed out. “But what would happen were he to be arrested?”
Annika got up, her head spinning. So a government minister was involved. The fat woman had been right.
The professor and the studio reporter droned on, occasionally with the involvement of two reporters out on location.
“Does this have anything to do with your job?” Grandmother asked.
Annika gave a wan smile. “You can say that again. I’ve written quite a lot about this murder. She was only nineteen, Grandma. Her name was Josefin.”
The studio reporter sounded serious and confident. “We have not been able to get hold of the minister for foreign trade for a comment. He has been in a meeting with the prime minister and the party secretary all afternoon. Our reporter is outside the Cabinet Office.”
Annika opened her eyes wide. “They’re wrong!” she exclaimed.
Her grandmother gave her a quizzical look.
“The prime minister— he hasn’t been in any meetings. I’ve got to go back to Stockholm. You have the mushrooms.”
“Do you have to?”
Annika hesitated. “No, but I want to.”
“Take care of yourself,” the old woman said.
They hugged quickly and Annika stepped out into the hot evening sun. Whiskas scampered along the path with her.
“No, go back. You can’t come with me. You have to stay with Grandma.”
Annika stopped and cuddled the cat for a moment before she pushed him back in the opposite direction.
“Stay there. That’s it, go back to Grandma.”
The cat ran past her on the path, toward the barrier. Annika sighed, called the cat to her, scooped him up in her arms, and returned with him to the house.
“I think you’ll have to shut the front door until I’m gone,” Annika said, and her grandmother chuckled.
The wind had picked up and was sweeping down the road, helping Annika along. She pedaled equally hard up and down the hills and was out of breath when she parked the bicycle outside the house on Tattarbacken.
“I heard you were back.”
Sven slammed the car door and came walking toward her from the parking lot. Annika locked her bicycle and gave him a pale smile.
“It’s only a quick visit.”
Sven took her in his arms. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
Annika hugged him and he kissed her hard. She withdrew.
“What’s wrong?” He let go of her.
“I’ve got to go back to Stockholm.”
The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked over to the street door. She heard him following behind.
“But you just got here. Don’t you get any time off at all?”
She pulled the door open. The stairwell smelled of garbage.
“Yes, I’m off right now. But things have happened in the murder case I’m covering.”
“And are you the only reporter they have?”
She leaned against the wall, shut her eyes, and thought about it. “I want to go. This is my chance.”
He stood in front of her. He placed one hand on each side of her head, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “To get away from here? Is that it?”
She looked him in the eyes. “To get somewhere. I’ve already written everything there is to write about at Katrineholms-Kuriren: forestry supplements, auctions, municipal meetings, composting reports… I want to move on.” She ducked under his arm.
He grabbed her by the shoulder. “I’ll drive you.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take the train.”
*
The club was empty. Daytime business was slow in this heat. The men could ogle tits for free on the beach. Patricia took a quick look in the register— only three thousand. Five customers all afternoon and evening. Pitiful. She pushed the register closed. Oh, well, they’d make good during the night. The heat got the tourists’ blood boiling.
She went into the bare dressing room next to the office and hung up her bag and jeans jacket, pulled off her top and shorts, and put on the sequined bra. Her panties were dirty and she had to remember to wash them before she left tomorrow morning. She quickly put on a thick layer of makeup. She didn’t really like wearing it. Her shoes were wearing down; the heel was almost gone on one of them. She did up the straps, took a deep breath, and tripped back to the entrance.
The roulette table was gray from cigarette ash on the guests’ side; she noticed yet another cigarette burn on the green baize. She removed the ashtray— smoking shouldn’t be allowed at the table. She picked up the brush from the shelf on the croupier side and brushed off the ash, up over the edge and down on the floor.
“So the cleaning lady is keeping herself busy.”
Joachim was standing in the doorway to the office, leaning against the doorpost.
Patricia stiffened. “It was filthy.”
“You shouldn’t have to think about that.” Joachim smiled at her. “You should only be beautiful and sexy.”
He straightened up and approached her slowly, still smiling and with his hand stretched out. Patricia swallowed. He stroked her shoulder and down her arm. She pulled back. His smile died.
“What are you afraid of?” The look in his eyes was totally different now, cold and penetrating.
Patricia looked down at her glittering breasts. “Nothing at all. What makes you think I am?” Her voice wasn’t steady.
Abruptly, he let go of her. “You shouldn’t believe what you read in the newspapers,” he spat.
Patricia looked up with innocent eyes. “Which one of them?”
His gaze rested heavily on her; she made an effort to return it.
“They’ll c
atch him soon,” he said.
She blinked. “Who?”
“The minister— they said it on the radio. Those bigwigs that were here that night, he was one of them. He’s been interrogated all day. They say the prime minister’s mad as hell.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”
He turned around and walked toward the bar. “They said so on the radio. Studio 69.”
He stopped short, looked at her over his shoulder, and smiled again. “Now isn’t that just too fitting?”
Part Two
August
Eighteen Years, One Month, and Three Days
Love is often described in such dull and impassive terms, a monochrome rosy red. But to love another human being can involve all the colors on the palette, vary in strength and intensity, become black or green or a horrible yellow.
This has been hard for me to realize. I’ve been stuck at the light crystal colors, unable to absorb the stronger colors.
I know he does it to help me, still it shakes me to the core.
His theory is that I’ve experienced something in my childhood that stops me from letting go sexually. I’ve tried and tried to think of what it could be, but have come up with nothing.
We experiment to help me move on, united in our love. I sit on top of him, feeling him deep inside of me as he hits me hard in the face with the palm of his hand. I stop short, my eyes full of tears. I ask him why he does that.
He caresses my cheek and pushes hard and deep inside me. It’s to help you, he says, hits me again, and then continues hard until he comes.
*
We talk about it in detail afterward— how we’re to find the way back to the divine dimension of our relationship. It’s lack of trust. I know that. I have to trust him. How else will I ever succeed?
We are the most important thing
there is
to each other.
Wednesday 1 August
Annika walked into the newspaper entrance hall just before 9 A.M. Tore Brand was at reception and gave her a glum greeting.
“Bombs and shootings,” he said. “That’s all they’re interested in at this paper.”
He nodded toward the Kvällspressen table of contents that was posted over by the elevator. Annika looked at it. It took her a few seconds to process the information. She felt the floor swaying beneath her feet. It can’t be, she thought, grabbing the reception counter and reading the bill again: “Terrorist Act Last Night— Ninja Barbies Taunt the Police.”
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