This new equilibrium included them emailing when he was out of town; he was rehearsing a children’s play in Gävle now. ‘Thanks, you’ began a reply to a message she’d written about how happy she was about the development of their relationship, then he wrote that he looked forward to another ‘sitting with Miss Nilsson’.
‘Sitting’ was of course a little boring because ‘lying’ was the decisive factor but at least he’d replied, met her halfway, wasn’t disappearing, there was nothing fickle about his behaviour even if his emails were a bit cool for her taste. He still seemed to be fishing his feelings out of a tin, rather than being driven by them. But she was convinced that his timidity in writing was due to shame and clumsy language. Not for a second did she think he was exercising discipline in the face of the written word’s endurance, the risk of leaving a trail.
Over New Year, Olof was with his wife on Yxlan. Ester continued her tradition of celebrating alone with a meal she’d cooked from scratch and three rented movies about people who, after many hurdles, got each other in the end. She felt a sort of ease. The ease carried into New Year’s Day. But on the evening of 1 January, the worry came creeping in. It was her fourth New Year’s with-Olof-without-Olof. On the second day of the year, the agony was already so deep that she lay on her bed taking short, quick breaths, unable to get up. Nothing had happened except him not getting in touch, but she’d gone from peace to a wreck in a few hours, precisely because nothing had happened. The seconds trudged on.
At 11 a.m. on 2 January the anxiety was so consuming that the mistress went against the prohibition of contacting her lover while he was with the wife. The prohibition was clearly articulated:
‘You’re not allowed to call when I’m with Ebba.’
She called.
Olof declined the call.
She could picture him sitting with his wife in a villa in the archipelago savouring a well-tempered brunch as the snow billowed outside the rustic kitchen windows, a white landscape stiff with cold.
Ester couldn’t even concentrate on the skiing competition on TV, she muted the sound. Soon she couldn’t stand the pictures of the skiers’ mountain-high vitality either, and turned off the television.
One and a half hours passed in this way. Then Olof called; the cramp in her chest released and Ester was so grateful she hardly needed to speak with him, it was enough that he’d called. But they spoke anyway. She said that longing was leaving her breathless and she’d rather be a snowflake in his hair than this creature in the bed being devoured from within. He was on the bus from Norrtälje, laughing warmly at the idea of the snowflake and said that if she picked him up at the bus station, they could see each other as soon as he arrived in Stockholm.
Ester leaped up, made the bed, showered, got ready. The pain was gone, her air passages opened and she was steeped in confidence. She was biochemically dependent on one individual’s presence in her life.
She thought: He’s calling me from the bus. He’s suggesting we meet. He doesn’t want to hide his longing, but show it. The break-up is nigh. This time he’ll come. This winter, this spring.
She was parked on Valhallavägen near the bus station and in the wing mirror, she saw him approaching. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear, it read on the mirror. Ester Nilsson believed in the accuracy of that line. And right then he seemed very close.
A backpack was slung over Olof’s shoulder, and he was taking small steps to keep from slipping. Once in the car, he gave her a suave look, but his appearance was shocking. He looked awful. Unshaven and grubby with filthy hair and a whiff of must. She’d never seen him like this.
Didn’t this speak to the state of his marriage, of Olof and Ebba’s lack of respect for each other? Did this suggest loathing and self-loathing laced with the indifference implied in not dressing properly even if they were in the countryside? Or did it suggest how comfortable Olof and Ebba were with each other, so incredibly close they didn’t need to put on airs, so close that one of them was looking elsewhere for a spark and flare of unpredictability – as well as for a reason to wash?
Ester read and read, interpreted and interpreted, making eternal deductions, but didn’t come any closer to certainty.
She drove with caution through the city because she wasn’t just transporting them, but their delicate mood. The snow that had fallen over Christmas muffled every sound. Even the snow on the carriageway was white, so dry and new it was.
It took less than fifteen minutes to drive to Olof’s. She parked on a side street in the neighbourhood. While he went up to his apartment, she went to buy them lunch at Cajsa Warg. Within ten minutes she arrived with two trays of lasagne, and he was freshly showered, clean-shaven and smelled of soap. Soft, hot and rosy, he sat in his bathrobe at the table. As they ate she ran her fingertips over his bare thighs and their bodies responded. He took her hand and they went to bed, the one the three of them shared.
Darkness arrived in haste and dropped like a theatre curtain. The love-making was short and fast but intimate. Olof sounded apologetic when he said that his ‘urges were pent-up’. That set of words – pent-up urges – could only mean that the level of sexual activity with the wife was zero and he wanted to communicate this and nothing else to Ester, so she would know they had a shot. The married couple’s sex life was dead, that’s what he’d said, and no words could have been sweeter. Ester knew that Olof knew she interpreted his subtexts and his messages were being received even when he was being cryptic. If he spoke plainly she could hold his words against him, so instead he indicated where they were heading so as not to have to spell it out.
He wanted them to have a drink in the kitchen. This eternal red wine that they kept pouring into themselves at all hours of the day. Ester had never craved alcohol like Olof did and was never interested in a glass of wine other than with food, but if this is what it took, she’d keep drinking until everything was in order. She’d have to leave the car here and pick it up in the morning.
On the way to the kitchen he took a robe from the bathroom door and handed it to Ester. It was made of silk and threadbare in places with holes by the belt loops. Ester assumed it was the wife’s. She was taken aback by how casually and thoughtlessly he was handing her the wife’s robe. It was unacceptable for them both. She didn’t want to put it on, but neither did she want to break the mood.
Or maybe the robe was further proof of the change that had occurred? The wife was already out of the picture, formalities were all that remained. The one who wore the robe was the one who he considered his partner.
They hadn’t been sitting in their robes drinking red wine long before Olof became nervous and said Ester had to go. Ebba might be on her way, she had only been taking care of something in the house before returning to Stockholm. Ester better hurry. This brand-new level of risk-taking also must mean that his brain was breaking free from the marriage even if his conscious mind was still resisting.
‘It’s best you go,’ he repeated.
His jitters made his tone recklessly harsh.
‘Ebba might get here any second now.’
Ester put her hands on his cheeks.
‘What would happen if she were to arrive right now, as I’m standing here in her robe and holding your face in my hands?’
‘I can’t even imagine. My life would be in pieces.’
‘How could that be? I don’t understand. Explain.’
Olof lost his temper and shouted:
‘You think she’s got a hold over me or what the fuck do you mean?’
Stunned, Ester took a step back.
‘At least that would help straighten a few things out. What kind of hold would that be?’
‘She’ll be here any minute now. Hurry.’
Soon Ester was walking along Skeppsbron Bridge. The road was picture-perfect, frosty with yellow lamplight. The black sky encircled the stars’ flickering holes.
A week went by. On Sunday evenings, the rehearsal was held in a space near Huvudsta, an
d as usual Ester gave Olof a lift home afterwards. It was their little ritual. Before she started the car she touched his knee, and he put his hand on hers. Then she drove off and soon was on Klarastrandsleden, heading towards Södermalm. She drove slowly to extend their time together.
‘It would be so nice to go home with you,’ said Olof.
‘Do you have to go to your place?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘Is Ebba there?’
‘Unfortunately.’
Klarastrandsleden is a few kilometres long. They didn’t say anything else for a while. A hundred metres before the Kungsholmen exit, Olof said:
‘It’s a pity I have to go home.’
‘Maybe you can be late?’
‘But not too late.’
‘Should I get off here? Decide, quick.’
Thirty metres to the exit.
‘Take the exit,’ said Olof.
Ester drove steadily and accelerated up Fleminggatan. It was green lights all the way and right outside the building was a free space that was always taken. They walked the few metres to her front door. Something incredible was happening.
And then Olof said:
‘How naughty of us.’
The comment didn’t sit right with Ester, something was out of whack. This was part of the preservation, not the break-up – in the way that a mistress is part of a marriage and not of its dissolution.
Once, when they’d felt very close to each other, Ester had asked Olof to describe his feelings for her. He’d replied that the most incredible thing about men is that no one can see what we’re thinking or feeling, which constituted an individual’s freedom in relation to others. Society was a dictatorship of truth, especially the women with their constant demands for soul-searching. Olof was a dissident of the dictatorship. He refused to search his soul. Thank God, he said, that we can’t see inside each other, even if he often felt the world could see right through him. It was a ghastly feeling, and each time he realized that his interior was his and his alone, it made him all the happier.
Recalling that exchange, Ester wondered if secret-keeping was the attraction for him. Was she just a pawn in their power game, the person Olof could be ‘naughty’ with in order to prove to himself that the wife didn’t know what he was doing, giving him the upper hand?
She banished the unease, pushed away the knowledge that she could never have a lasting exchange with a person who wanted to keep his interior hidden from her, and thought about the breakthrough she was witnessing. Never before had he taken such initiative.
They were standing in the hall. Ester asked if he wanted something to eat. He replied by embracing her with hungry lust, kissing her, taking off her clothes, and steering them to bed.
Ten minutes later, no more, they were on their way out of the door. Olof had to go home to the waiting wife before she had a chance to get suspicious.
In the snow that kept falling and falling this winter, Ester made a handbrake turn at the crossing and took Hantverkargatan towards Södermalm.
As always, she drove him home after love-making with a feeling of affinity and sorrow. It was a quick drive, hardly any cars were out that night. At about ten to eight, or 19:53 according to the clock in the car, Ester Nilsson dropped off Olof Sten. She’d almost be home in time for the eight o’clock TV programme she’d been looking forward to. With one last kiss – and this was indeed their final kiss – he disappeared into his building with half a wave.
Driving down Katarinavägen, Ester could picture him opening the door and forming his features for the wife, to appear as though he hadn’t just spilled his seed inside another woman. Was he being evasive? Did the wife notice? Was he compensating with ardour and prattle?
She rolled past Slussen. Crowds of people were out and about, and the groaning accordion buses were all in a row. What she and Olof were doing was wrong, Ester thought. One shouldn’t allow people, that is to say Ebba Silfversköld, to believe their lives were something they weren’t. People should be able to reject the truth if they didn’t want it, but it had to be proffered. However, this was Olof’s job, not Ester’s. He had to be the one to tell Ebba about them.
Reeling with emotion, she passed the town hall. She thought about the things he’d said over the years that made his actions seem less immoral because they were supposedly part of an imminent divorce: ‘I’m slow, Ester.’ ‘Break-ups are hard for me, you know.’ ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’ ‘We have the rest of our lives.’
A new week began for Olof and Ester. It would be their last. The next morning, Olof went back to Gävle, and the telephone was silent for four days until Ester called on Thursday.
He was curt at first. She suspected he was afraid of being embroiled in relationship talk after Sunday’s events, afraid he’d transferred too much of his capital from his account to hers, for as soon as she asked what he thought about the morning’s news about the culture minister’s blunder he relaxed, expressing his surprise at the minister’s poor judgement, and added that he’d sat next to her once during a performance of Richard III, which she’d slept right through.
The conversation didn’t feel great, but laughing together about the minister made it better. Olof said he was recovering from a bad cold. There was something intimate about colds, Ester thought. When director-generals had colds while being interviewed on TV or the radio, it made them seem less powerful, closer, more human. Presumably this was the reason heads of state never made appearances when they were under the weather. She was gripped by tenderness at the idea of an ailing Olof. It struck her that he was often ill. Was it because he didn’t ‘feel good in his situation’? The lies and secrecy around his emotional life were taking their toll on his immune system.
They talked about the up-coming day-long rehearsal with the theatre troupe. In the final phase of rehearsal, they sometimes worked full days, and this Saturday was one of those. Olof said he would arrive in Stockholm late on Friday afternoon. Ester asked if she could meet the train. He made it clear that he would go straight home from the station but, sure, she could meet him there if she wanted to.
He seemed to have lost his sense of urgency. It puzzled and troubled her, but still the next day, she was there waiting at the platform for the trains arriving from the north. In her pocket, she was clutching a packet of bright red goji berries that she’d just bought at the Hötorg market hall. They were supposed to be good for colds.
The train arrived on time, and there was Olof and that aimless gait of his. His legs didn’t seem to know where they were going and yet were transporting his upper body, which was even more clueless. Ester was wearing a black winter coat that went down to her ankles and which she thought was beautiful, like something out of Anna Karenina.
She didn’t think there was anything strange or submissive in waiting for Olof at the train station. They were lovers, and lovers were equal in their gestures of love.
Olof’s smile flickered between mocking and warmly amused, as though he was undecided.
He said:
‘You look like a stationmaster. In that long coat and with the brand on your hat.’
She was wearing a black cable-knit hat with a pale leather patch on the front.
He didn’t touch her and didn’t stop. They walked side by side towards the main hall. His coolness made her feel silly, but it didn’t stop her from offering him the goji berries.
‘These are good for colds. Full of antioxidants.’
Olof stuffed the packet in his pocket. They walked down Tegelbacken and caught the number 3 bus. As his eyes wandered across her body in the crowd, Ester sensed vague disdain streaming towards her. But she didn’t agree that she was degrading herself, that would be a conventional opinion. Degradation was impossible between lovers. It was only natural to steal twenty minutes when the opportunity presented itself. Until Olof dared make his big decision, this was how they’d have to carry on. Only those who were careless with life would find this pathetic.
T
he bus lurched. She remembered other lurching buses and their bodies eagerly swinging towards each other.
‘See you tomorrow?’
‘At rehearsal, sure,’ Olof replied with indifference.
‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘Eating dinner with Ebba.’
Ester deliberated before continuing. Beyond a certain degree of torment, pain stopped mattering, and at least things became interesting.
‘What are you going to have?’
‘Ah, well, I’ve got no idea what Ebba’s come up with. Something tasty, I’m sure. It usually is.’
Her heart was being burn-beaten and the smoke stung her eyes. He hadn’t been this married since October, before they’d ushered in their era of openness and trust.
‘Maybe you could have goji berry for dessert,’ she said. ‘And give one to your wife. So you have a long and healthy life together.’
‘Have you poisoned them?’ Olof chuckled.
They arrived at his stop. Ester wasn’t expecting any pleasantries upon parting, but got off with Olof in order to walk home from there. It was a fair distance. Sometimes the toxic stuff that had accumulated in her needed cold, crisp air to evaporate.
She had taken but a few steps when Olof called after her to say they could walk to rehearsal together tomorrow. She turned around.
‘I’ll call when I’m on my way,’ he said.
She set her course for home and mulled over the situation. She really had believed and felt that they’d progressed during their last rendezvous. But here she was again, a distant being, a stranger waiting on platforms, someone who resembled a stationmaster, tendering goji berries without invitation or request. It was as easy as ever to regress. Maybe because nothing was developing. Only Ester had it in her head that progress was inevitable.
Acts of Infidelity Page 20