by Lars Kepler
‘Aren’t you supposed to be staying at Lyra’s tonight?’
‘Yes,’ DJ says.
‘Can I borrow your car, then?’
‘Of course,’ DJ says, setting out cutlery.
‘Then I’ll pick you up from Nykvarn, Sammy.’
‘Sure?’ Sammy asks with a smile, stubbing his cigarette out on the balcony railing.
‘Give me an address and a time – preferably not too late. I’m an old man these days …’
‘Is one o’clock too late? Or we can say earlier, something like—’
‘One o’clock’s fine,’ Rex replies. ‘That’ll give me time to pick up the award and get rid of it.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Can I talk to you?’ DJ says, leading Rex out into the orangery.
‘What is it?’
DJ’s face is calm, but his movements are restrained and nervous.
‘Borrowing the car might not be such a great idea,’ he says. ‘I sat in it with blood all over my clothes, and I—’
‘But you cleaned it,’ Rex interrupts.
‘I know … it must be the cleanest car in Sweden, but still, you never know … We’ve all seen CSI. They could show up with their special lights and find DNA.’
‘I don’t think the Swedish police would call in CSI,’ Rex laughs.
‘But what if he died?’ DJ whispers. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t understand how it could have come to this.’
Sammy appears in the doorway.
‘Now you’re whispering again,’ he says sternly.
58
A red carpet lined with burning torches leads the way to the glazed atrium of Café Opera. Rex is welcomed by a woman with a blonde plait who leads him to a backdrop made up of ads for the biggest sponsors.
The evening’s event is to present Rex with an award that he thinks he should have been given a long time ago. So much time has passed that he started to say he didn’t want it, that he wouldn’t accept the award even if they baked it inside a cake.
When he turned down the invitation to attend this time, he received a phone call from the organiser saying that a little bird had whispered the name of this year’s recipient to her.
Among the throng of people between the buffet table and champagne bars, the noise level is deafeningly high.
Rex makes his excuses and pushes his way through to the bar, where he asks for a bottle of mineral water. The music is turned down and the lights change.
A tall woman from the industry magazine Restaurant World gets up on the stage and walks into the spotlight.
Even though Rex knows he’s going to get the award, his heart starts beating harder and he can’t help running his hand through his hair.
When the woman raises the microphone to her mouth, silence spreads around the room.
‘For the twenty-fourth year in a row, we’ve reached the point where we celebrate the achievements of the Chef of Chefs,’ she says, breathing so loudly that the speaker system roars. ‘One hundred and nineteen of the finest chefs in Sweden have voted, and we have a winner …’
While she is talking Rex finds himself thinking of one birthday when Sammy hid under the kitchen table and refused to come out and open his presents. Veronica explained later that he had been so excited that his dad was going to be there that it had all become too much for him.
The audience laughs politely when the woman on stage makes a joke.
Mathias Dahlgren, who has won several times before, is sitting with his eyes closed and a tense expression on his face.
Rex feels his hand shaking as he drinks the last of the mineral water and puts the glass down on the counter.
The woman on stage breaks the seal on the envelope. Crumbs of red wax fall to the floor as she unfolds the paper, holds it up to the light and then looks up at the audience.
‘And this year’s Chef of Chefs is … Rex Müller!’
Applause and cheering break out. People turn to look at Rex. He heads towards the stage, stopping briefly to shake Mathias’s hand. He stumbles slightly on the steps, but makes it up onto the stage.
The tall woman from Restaurant World hugs him hard and hands him the microphone and a framed diploma.
He tugs at the T-shirt under his jacket to stop his stomach from showing too much. Camera flashes detonate in the darkness.
‘Can you hear me OK? Good … This is a huge surprise,’ Rex says. ‘Because I really don’t know anything about food, I just like trying things out – at least that’s what my professor at catering college in Umeå told me …’
‘He was right!’ his friend from Operakällaren calls out.
‘And when I was working at Le Clos des Cimes, head chef Régis Marcon came rushing in,’ Rex goes on with a smile, and attempts a French accent: ‘Your services might be asked for at McDonald’s … somewhere outside the borders of France.’
The audience applauds.
‘I love him,’ Rex laughs. ‘But you can understand why this award comes as such a surprise … I would like to thank all my very dear colleagues, and promise that next year I’ll vote for you, not just myself.’
He holds up the diploma and starts to head towards the steps, but stops and raises the microphone again in the midst of the applause:
‘I’d just like to say … I wish my son Sammy could have been here this evening, so he could have heard me tell everyone how proud I am of him for being the person he is.’
There’s scattered applause as Rex hands the microphone back to the woman and leaves the stage. People make way for him and pat him on the back as he passes.
Rex makes his way to the exit, apologising and thanking people for their congratulations, shaking hands with people he doesn’t know and moving on.
It’s cool outside, and the gentle rain forms puddles. He looks at the row of limousines, thinks that he ought to go home, but starts walking towards Gamla stan instead.
Halfway across Strömbron he launches the diploma over the railing, watches it sail across the fast-flowing water, and just has time to worry about it striking one of the swans below before it hits the surface and disappears into the swirling darkness.
Rex doesn’t know how long he walks through the glistening alleyways before he reaches a bar with a row of coloured lanterns outside. It looks like a small merry-go-round among the dark buildings that surrond it. He stops outside and reaches for the door-handle. He hesitates for a moment, then goes inside.
The bar is warm and softly lit. Rex takes a seat, says hello to the barman and reaches for the wine-list.
‘Congratulations, Rex,’ he says when he catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the bottles.
‘Congratulations,’ a woman sitting a short distance away says, raising her beer-glass in a toast.
‘Thanks,’ he replies, putting on his reading glasses.
‘I follow you on Instagram,’ she explains, and moves to the stool next to his.
Rex nods and realises that DJ has posted something about the award. He leans towards the barman and hears himself order a bottle of 2013 Clos Saint-Jacques.
‘Two glasses, please.’
He tucks his glasses away in his pocket and looks at the woman, who unbuttons her waist-length fake-fur coat. She’s a lot younger than him. Her dark hair is curly from the rain, and she has smiling eyes.
Rex tastes the wine, then fills their glasses and pushes one across to her. She puts her phone down beside the glass and looks him in the eye.
‘Cheers,’ he says to the young woman, and drinks.
He feels the taste in his mouth, then the warmth of the alcohol spreading out from his stomach, and drinks some more. It feels good, not dangerous at all, he thinks as he refills his glass. He got the damn award, and he never really wanted to stop drinking anyway.
‘You’re too quick for me,’ the woman laughs, sipping her wine slowly.
‘Life’s a party,’ Rex mumbles, and takes a large mouthful.
She lowers her eyes and he looks
at her pretty face, quivering eyelashes, her mouth and the tip of her chin.
By the time the bottle is finished Rex knows that her name is Edith. She’s more than twenty years younger than him, and she works as a freelance journalist for one of the big news agencies.
She laughs when Rex tells her about his enforced AA meetings, the living dead around the table who can only think about one thing as they confess their sins.
‘Are you supposed to be sitting here?’ she asks seriously.
‘I’m a rebel.’
They’ve finished the second bottle, and Rex has just told her that his grown-up son does all he can to avoid him, and is out every night.
‘Maybe he’s a rebel too,’ she suggests.
‘He’s just being smart,’ Rex replies, picking up her beer-glass.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I need to go home and sleep,’ he mumbles.
‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ Edith says, licking the tiny red-wine stains from the corners of her mouth.
It’s raining hard as he calls for a taxi and stands by the window, looking out into the alleyway.
‘Are you going to stay?’ Rex asks when the taxi appears outside.
‘I’ll take the bus,’ Edith says.
‘Why not come along, if we’re going in the same direction?’
‘I live in Solna, so …’
‘Well, then you’ll practically be home if you come with me,’ he declares.
‘OK, thanks,’ she says, and follows him out.
Inside the taxi some sort of slow cabaret music is playing. Edith sits with her hands in her lap, a little smile on her lips. She is gazing out through the windshield over the taxi driver’s shoulder.
Rex leans back and thinks how pathetic he is, studying his son’s face and tone of voice for signs that Sammy has started to like him.
They’re never going to be close, it’s far too late for that.
The car turns into Luntmakar Street, slows down and comes gently to a halt.
‘Thanks for this evening,’ Rex says, undoing the safety belt. ‘Time for my beauty sleep now.’
‘You promise?’ Edith asks.
‘Absolutely,’ he says, pulling his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘I thought you said you were a rebel,’ she smiles.
‘An old rebel,’ he corrects in a tired voice.
Rex leans forward to use the card reader between the seats. Edith moves slightly to make room for him, but he is still struck by the warm scent of her body.
‘Shall I come up with you and make sure you get to bed OK?’ she asks.
59
Rex leads Edith through the flat and out to the orangery beside the roof deck. The pale leaves of the olive trees press against the glass roof and the tendrils of the sugar-snap peas have twined around the little marble table.
Edith looks out across the city for a while before sitting down on one of the sheepskin armchairs among all the plants. Rex pours her a glass of red wine, and a large single malt whisky for himself.
He sits down on the other armchair, enjoying the relaxation offered by the alcohol and the knowledge that he can sleep in tomorrow. The Foreign Minister’s funeral isn’t until later in the day, so he can safely allow himself a little more to drink.
‘In this country you end up with a diagnosis the minute you reveal yourself to be the slightest bit human,’ he says, then drinks some whisky. ‘You know … I’m neither anonymous, nor an alcoholic. I only go to those meetings because my boss wants me to.’
‘I promise not to say anything,’ she smiles.
‘What’s your boss like?’ he asks.
‘Åsa Schartau … I’ve worked for her for three years, but she’d fire me in an instant if I ever swore,’ Edith admits.
‘If you swore? Why?’
‘She thinks it sounds coarse. Actually, I don’t really know.’
‘Well, you can swear now,’ he says, refilling his glass.
‘No …’
‘Go on, swear away,’ he teases.
‘OK, she’s a fucking cunt,’ Edith says, then blushes hard. ‘Sorry, that’s unfair.’
‘But it felt good, didn’t it?’ Rex asks.
‘It felt unfair.’
‘Then it probably was,’ he says quietly.
‘I like Åsa. She might not have much of a sense of humour, but she’s extremely professional.’
Thoughts of Sammy are thundering through Rex’s head, and he can no longer hear Edith. He’s staring fixedly across at the rooftops.
‘I should probably go home now,’ Edith says, looking at the time on her phone.
‘Do you have time to taste my chocolate mousse before you go?’ he asks, filling his glass again.
‘That sounds dangerous,’ she laughs.
He wobbles slightly when he stands up and leads her into the large kitchen. He takes the mousse out of the fridge, puts the bowl on the white table and hands her a spoon. She leans forward and he finds himself staring at her low-cut top. The lace on her bra has some of her foundation on it, and her breasts push together as she sinks the spoon into the mousse.
Rex puts his reading glasses on, then plays Corelli’s Concerto Grosso on the speaker system.
He feels giddy as the alcohol courses through his system and the melodic baroque music fills the room. It occurs to him that he’ll have to take a taxi to pick Sammy up from his party.
‘Since you’re a journalist,’ he says. ‘Have you heard anything about an assault out in Axelsberg?’
‘No,’ she replies curiously.
‘Some drunk who got into a fight,’ he says, and realises that he’s saying too much.
‘Why are you wondering about that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know … a friend of mine saw something, but … forget it.’
Rex gets a bottle of Pol Roger from the champagne cooler and sees that it’s the exclusive Winston Churchill blend.
‘I should go,’ Edith mutters.
‘Shall I call a taxi?’
He tries to tuck his glasses in his pocket but misses, and he hears them fall to the floor and break.
‘I can get the bus from Odenplan. It’s not a problem.’
He opens the bottle, tensing as the cork pops, then gets out two glasses for them and starts to pour, waiting for the bubbles to subside before half-filling them. He sees the hesitant look in her eyes.
‘I won tonight,’ he says.
‘Do you want me to stay?’
She strokes his cheek and a tiny frown appears between her pale eyebrows.
‘I have a boyfriend,’ she whispers, taking the glass.
‘I understand.’
They drink and she leans forward to kiss his closed mouth, very softly, then looks at him seriously.
‘You don’t have to do this,’ he says, refilling their glasses.
He tries to see what the time is, but has trouble focusing on his wristwatch.
‘I like kissing,’ she says quietly.
‘Me too.’
He touches her cheek, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, returns her smile, then leans over and kisses her. She parts her lips and he feels her warm tongue. He caresses her back and buttocks as they kiss. She starts to pull at his belt before they both stop.
‘Just so you know, I don’t track down celebrities in order to sleep with them.’
‘Me neither,’ he smiles.
‘But I like you.’
‘That’s where the similarities between us end – I can’t pretend to be very fond of myself,’ he says, looking away and pouring more champagne.
He drinks as Edith adjusts her clothes, takes her phone out of her bag, dials a number and inserts her earpiece.
‘Hi Morris, it’s me. I know, sorry, but I haven’t been able to call … Yes, well, Åsa doesn’t seem to think I have a life. That’s what I was about to say: I need to be at work early tomorrow, so I’m going to stay over at hers. There’s no point getting mad … I know, but …
OK, bye, then. Big kiss.’
They don’t look at each other as Edith ends the call. With downcast eyes she slips the phone back into her bag, then raises her glass to her lips with a trembling hand.
Rex picks up the champagne and walks towards the bedroom, swaying and hitting his shoulder on the doorframe. A little cloud of foam spills from the neck of the bottle, dripping down his hand and onto the floor.
Edith has a serious look on her face as she follows him to the bedroom. The dark sky is visible through one of the skylights, and from the foot of the bed you can see the whole of Stockholm, all the way to the white curve of the Globe.
Edith stands beside Rex and strokes his face, tracing the deep scar across the bridge of his nose with one finger.
‘Are you drunk?’ she asks.
‘Not badly,’ he says, and hears himself slur his words.
She starts to unbutton her dress and Rex pulls the covers off the bed. The combination of sudden movement and his unexpected intoxication makes him stagger as if he were negotiating the deck of a ship in rough seas.
Edith lays her dress over a chair, turns her back to him and quickly slips her tights off.
With a sigh Rex sits down on the edge of the bed, manages to pull his T-shirt off, and drinks some more champagne straight from the bottle. He knows he’s fairly muscular, but far too broad around the waist. A line of hair leads from his chest to his navel.
Edith slips off her pink panties and folds them to hide the pad, then puts them on the chair and lays her bra on top of them. Her bra straps have left red marks across her shoulders, and she’s plumper than he had imagined. Her pubic hair is blonde, with an almost tobacco-coloured tint, and her skin is unblemished.
Rex stands up and pushes his trousers and underpants down, trampling his way out of them, then he turns aside and tugs at his limp penis so it doesn’t look so small.
‘The men who leave me usually regret it,’ she says.
‘I believe you.’
‘Good,’ she mutters, with a stern look on her face.
‘My hands are cold,’ he whispers as he puts his hands on her hips.
She pushes him back playfully onto the bed, and he lands on his back, shoves an uncomfortable pillow out of the way and closes his weary eyes for a moment. The room spins as if someone were tugging at the sheet beneath him.