by Jens Lapidus
She came from the countryside, from an estate, and had enrolled in a regular school in first grade. Hadn’t worked. Her classmates weren’t nice to her. Called her a snob, didn’t pick her for teams in gym class, thought it was totally fine to swipe her stuff. It almost sounded silly, but JW understood, for real. After sixth grade, she’d switched to the prep school Lundsberg. To her own kind. She loved the place.
JW couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was his best source of sales and she was so foxy, but she seemed genuinely nice, too. A good girl. His goal was clear: He would work on her, doubly.
The next weekend, JW’d hung out with Sophie and her group of girlfriends at a private party. Lollo loved snow, shouted at JW, “This stuff totally gets me off! My sex life is, like, amazing!” Sophie loved snow. Anna loved snow. Charlotte loved snow. Everyone at the party loved JW. He made eight grand.
The weekend after that-last weekend-they’d pregamed at Nippe’s on Friday, then went to Kharma, where a table waited for them, and then on to an after party at Lollo’s. Saturday started with dinner at Putte’s, followed by a reserved table at Café Opera. The evening ended with an after party at Lollo’s again-crammed with new faces.
A new record: He’d cashed in eleven grand net.
Weekdays he tried to study. He felt like a new person. C sales did wonders for his finances, his confidence, and his wardrobe. Still, he got no peace. Thoughts of the yellow Ferrari kept bothering him. The night the Arab’d suggested he sell coke was the first time he’d ever asked about Camilla. He’d hoped that maybe someone knew something, but deep inside he didn’t think it would lead anywhere. But now there was the Ferrari tearing down Sturegatan at a furious speed as a constant image in his mind. He had to know more.
He’d called the National Road Administration. Unfortunately, JW didn’t remember the car’s license plate number, but it worked anyway-vehicle registration was a wonderful state institution. Anyone could find out who the owner of any Swedish registered car was. If the car was unusual, you could get information even without the license plate number. According to the guy at the Road Administration, there were two yellow Ferraris in Sweden the year Camilla went missing. One was owned by the IT millionaire Peter Holbeck, and the other was owned by a leasing company, Dolphin Finance, Ltd. The company specialized in sports cars and yachts.
JW began by looking up Peter Holbeck. The man’d made his money on Web consulting. Now, in retrospect, JW thought the whole thing seemed so obvious. How the hell could they think that consultants should make five million a head for building websites that any fifteen-year-old computer geek could handle? But that hadn’t bothered the entrepreneur and fake visionary Peter Holbeck. He sold out in time. The Web agency had 150 employees. Six months after the sale, the agency was shut down. One hundred and twenty of the employees lost their jobs. Peter Holbeck made 360 million. Now he went skiing eighty days out of the year and spent the rest of the time in Thailand or other warm places with his kids.
JW’s question: What had the IT millionaire been doing the spring Camilla went missing?
He took a chance on easy answers, tried to call Holbeck. It took three days to track him down. Finally, he got hold of him. Holbeck sounded short of breath when he answered the phone. “This is Peter.”
“Hi, my name is Johan.” It wasn’t often that JW introduced himself with his real first name. “I have some questions for you. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“Are you a journalist? I don’t have the energy to speak to you people.”
“No, actually not. It’s regarding a private thing.”
Holbeck sounded surprised. “Shoot.”
“I’m looking for a woman, Camilla Westlund. She disappeared about four years ago. No one knows where she is. We know that she was sometimes seen in a yellow Ferrari before she disappeared. You owned one of those during the year in question. Thought maybe you know something. Maybe you lent out the car, or something?”
“Are you calling from the police, or are you a journalist?”
“Not a journalist. Didn’t I already say that? Not from the police, either. I’m a private person, calling about a personal matter.”
“Either way. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Are you insinuating something?”
“Sorry if this sounds strange. I just wanted to know if you remember anything.”
“Whatever. I was in the Rockies half of that year. On skis. The rest of the time I was in the south of Sweden or in Florida. With my kids. The car was parked in a garage in Stockholm.”
JW realized: no point in pushing it any further. Holbeck’d said enough. He ended the conversation.
The next day, he Googled Holbeck for hours. Finally ended up in the archives of Aftonbladet. Holbeck was mentioned in articles about luxury vacationers. It was true: He had a house in the south of Sweden and one in Florida, and he’d been skiing in the States the same year that Camilla disappeared. Maybe the IT millionaire wasn’t involved.
There was one more yellow Ferrari, after all. JW looked up the leasing company, Dolphin Finance, Ltd. Just the name gave off sketchy vibes. He got in touch with the National Registry of Incorporated Companies. The administrator on the other end of the line was helpful, told him that the company’d gone bankrupt a year ago. All the assets-the cars and boats-had been bought by a German company. There wasn’t much more JW could do. It was almost a relief. He could let the Ferrari go. Or could he?
A honk from the street. JW looked out and saw Nippe in the Golf that’d been a twenty-first-birthday present from his mom and dad.
They headed south on the freeway-on the road to peeps, parties, possibilities.
A classic Swedish hip-hop song on the radio. JW wasn’t a big fan of hip-hop, but he couldn’t help but dig Petter’s lyrics: “The tide has turned.”
It applied to him. Big-time. His time had come-to stop living a double life, to become like them, for real. To get even deeper in the clover. Eat them for breakfast.
They chatted. JW listened. Nippe had the hots for Lollo. Nippe thought Jet Set Carl’d had attitude last weekend-who did he think he was? Nippe complimented JW’s Canali blazer. Nippe discussed the latest reality-TV show. Nippe had verbal diarrhea.
“I might quit the finance focus. Thinking about marketing instead.”
JW’s interest, lukewarm. “Really.”
“Marketing’s where it’s at, especially branding. Sell any product at any price, no matter how cheaply it’s made. As long as it’s branded and marketed correctly. There’s such fucking potential.”
“Sure, but in the end it’s your core business that matters, the leverage of capital employed, the financing. If your marketing costs too much, and you never really make a profit, you die.”
“Sure, but you make money. Just look at Gucci and Louis Vuitton. The clothes, the boutiques in Stockholm, the fashion collections, all of that is just an excuse. What really makes it rain are branded accessories. Shades, perfume, belts, purses. China-made crap, little stuff. Branding, that’s, like, all it is.”
In JW’s opinion, Nippe wasn’t the sharpest brat in the pack, and today he’d apparently gotten hung up on one word. Like a broken record.
They chatted on.
JW dug life. Next month, he’d triple sales. He did some mental arithmetic: added, subtracted, multiplied. He saw sales curves, credit, cash. He saw a bull market in himself.
It took an hour to get there. Nippe told him it was an old manor where Gustaf’s parents lived. The parents-good friends with His Majesty King Carl XVI Gustaf.
Gustaf welcomed them. JW made the same analysis of the guy as the last time they’d met: He was the essence of a backslick brat. Dressed in a tweed jacket, white chinos, red cravat, checked shirt with double cuffs, and Marc Jacobs loafers. Slicked hair stiff as a helmet-lion mane of lion manes.
The main house was over 21,000 square feet. Two massive crystal chandeliers dangled between the pillars in the hall, and paintings of snow-covered lands
capes hung on the walls. A curved staircase led upstairs. Gustaf introduced them to Gunn, “the housemother,” as he put it.
“She’s the one who looks after me when Mom and Dad are gone.”
JW retorted, “I guess that’ll be needed tonight.”
Gunn laughed. JW chortled. Nippe giggled. Gustaf guffawed, loudest of them all.
Definite good vibes. Gustaf seemed to like him.
Nippe and JW were led away by Gunn, who got them settled in a guest room in one of the wings of the house.
JW fingered the manila envelope in his pocket. Fourteen grams, just to be on the safe side.
Dinner was served at seven-thirty. Beforehand, Sophie and JW played tennis doubles against Nippe and Anna. Seven-five. Six-four. Four-six. Seven-five. Spirits soared among the winners. Nippe was a bad loser, threw his racket on the ground. Anna stayed calm. JW hadn’t really played tennis while growing up and thanked his natural athleticism for his ability to impress-made it look like he’d been playing all his life.
They showered. JW napped for half an hour. Nippe took a shit.
They changed into tuxes. JW had a secondhand Cerruti that he said had cost twelve grand. The actual damage was 2,500. Nippe wondered if JW’d brought some gear. “Seems like you’re reliable these days.”
JW didn’t know if the comment was good or bad. Had he moved too quickly?
He laughed. “Sure, I’ve got some. You want a taste?”
They split thirty milligrams, enough for a mild rush.
The coke hit right away.
They were slammed unexpectedly fast with a fit of giggles.
They walked down the stairs to the cocktail party in the salon. JW felt like the world’s most intelligent human being.
The fourteen other guests waited with champagne glasses in hand. JW scanned the crowd.
The guys: JW, Fredrik, Nippe, Jet Set Carl, Gustaf, and three other dudes.
The girls: Sophie, Anna, Lollo, and five chicks JW hadn’t met before. They were all upper-crust creamers. Girls with good genes. Rich dads equaled hot moms, or the other way around. They knew how to make themselves up. How to apply the right rouge, the best eye shadow, smooth foundation. Above all, they knew how to rock self-tanner for a sun-kissed look. They knew how to dress themselves, how to cover up the flaws: a somewhat saggy belly, a thick waist, too-small breasts, too-flat back. They highlighted their strengths: nice neck, full lips, long legs. Fit, slim girls. Odds were, they all had luxury gym memberships.
Gustaf was selective with his invites. It was an honor to be invited, especially since he’d met the evening’s host only three times before.
Everyone sipped, made small talk, chilled. JW had to try to contain himself; he was soaring. Felt like every word coming out of his mouth was brilliant, like he was the life of this party. Nippe winked at him-you and me, JW, flyin’ in the C sky.
They sat down for dinner.
JW was seated between Anna, whom he often sold to these days, and a girl named Carro. Worked well; both were easy to chat up.
The appetizer was already on the table. JW could see right away that it was not of this world. A piece of toasted bread topped with Kalix roe, sour cream, and finely chopped red onion. The basic idea wasn’t too original, but it was the large glass bowl in the middle of the table that made it so ridiculous-at least eleven pounds of extra roe. An orgy of excess. JW piled at least four hundred kronor’s worth on his plate.
Gunn brought the main course: venison with a sauce of wild chanterelles, and oven-roasted potatoes. JW loved game. They drank a Bordeaux. Anna told him about her parents’ wine cellar. Sorbet with blackberries and raspberries for dessert. JW promised himself: Within ten years, he’d have his own Gunn. Gorgeously good gastronomical miracles.
The mood grew lighter in time with the bottles of wine that Gunn kept bringing. After dessert, Gustaf walked around with a frosty bottle of Grey Goose and poured out brimming shots. The heat intensified.
The girls eyed Jet Set Carl and Nippe. Always Nippe.
JW checked out Sophie.
She didn’t give him the time of day.
The room wasn’t a room. The right word would probably be salon. Or maybe hall. Huge, incredibly high ceilings, tremendously grand decorating job. Two chandeliers with real candles burning in them were suspended from the ceiling. Two-toned dark red wallpaper with wide stripes. Modernist art on the walls. A few were possibly very valuable.
JW’d gone to the Museum of Modern Art with Sophie that week. He wasn’t exactly a fine-art kind of guy, but Sophie said she liked powerful color combinations and therefore was more a fan of modern art. JW’d read up on what was on display in the museum a couple of days beforehand. He wanted to make an impression. Without realizing it, he’d gotten a feel for a couple of artists. Maybe one of the paintings here was a Kandinsky. An enormous one with three muted fields of color that matched the wallpaper might be a Mark Rothko.
The table was set with style and panache. White linen tablecloth, pressed green linen napkins, and silver napkin holders. Antique coasters for the wine bottles. Gleaming silver cutlery and crystal stemware-only appropriate.
JW ate it all up.
They kept chatting. The guys liked the sound of their own voices. Jet Set Carl bragged, Nippe made lame jokes, and Fredrik spewed business plans. Same old.
Anna told him about her latest trip to Saint Moritz. Reapplied lip gloss between every other sentence. She and a girlfriend’d become friendly with a polo team that traveled down every year to play on the frozen alpine lake. Normally, they were bankers in London; polo was just a little weekend fancy. JW dove right in, told her about his trip to Chamonix last year. Made up most of it, added and exaggerated. The only time he’d been to the Alps for real was on a budget trip during spring break five years ago, when fifteen guys from up north, from Umeå and Robertsfors, had crowded, slept, and farted on a bus for twenty-six hours.
Anna was pretty and nice. But boring. No spark. He listened to her, laughed at her jokes, and asked follow-up questions. She kept talking, seemed to like his company. JW only had thoughts for Sophie.
The dinner rolled on. People were lit but still mellow. Gunn kept serving and clearing the table. Everyone seemed expectant.
Fredrik gave a speech of thanks to the host.
They rose from the table and went into a kind of barroom. Wide couches piled with pillows stood along two walls. A long table was placed in front of each couch. Gunn had put iittala glass candlesticks in four different colors on the table. In one of the corners of the room was a bar, built with classical wood paneling. Behind the bar: martini glasses, highball glasses, tumblers, beer steins, and wineglasses in a built-in glass display case. An insane number of bottles lined up on shelves.
Gustaf positioned himself behind the bar. Hollered that he was the bartender for the night and that it was time to place their orders. Someone put on music. Beyoncé. Badonkadonk beats.
They boozed. Drank apple martinis, G and Ts, beer. Gustaf’s dad had a blender. They made fruity drinks: strawberry daiquiris, piña coladas.
JW drank a beer. Eyed his friends.
Nippe hit on Carro. Jet Set Carl was at the bar, talking to Gustaf. The rest of the guests sat on the couches, chatting.
Music played in the background. JW heard clatter from the dining room as Gunn cleaned up.
He got the feeling that something was off.
Gunn’s sounds were distracting, too audible.
JW understood what was wrong. The barroom lacked volume-no one was dancing, no one laughing, no one hollering. Simple conclusion: It wasn’t much of a party.
He got behind the bar and walked up to Gustaf. Took a sec to listen to what Jet Set Carl was saying before he excused himself. Asked to speak with Gustaf privately. Suggested they talk in another room.
They went back into the dining room, where the table was completely cleared. Gunn was efficient. JW pulled out a chair for Gustaf.
“Gustaf, it’s so damn nice to be invited h
ere tonight. What a fantastic dinner.” JW knew the linguistic ground rules: Swearwords were permitted only in positive contexts. He started his pitch. “I’ve got a totally sick idea. I happened to bring a couple grams of Charlie. I know you’ve tried before. How about taking some? That’ll rev up the party for sure.”
“Yeah, you’re totally right. You got coke? That’s fuckin’ sweet. We’ve gotta have some. What do you want for it?”
Best-possible question. Saved JW the tricky business of asking for money. Gustaf wanted his party to be a rager. Who didn’t? JW could deliver.
“I don’t usually, like, sell and stuff, but right now I’ve got some left over. You want six grams? You can have it for twelve hundred a gram. That’ll last all night, for everyone. The chicks go wild, too; you know that.”
Gustaf bit the bait straight off. He didn’t have cash but promised to pay JW the following week-no problem for JW.
Gustaf positioned himself behind the bar once again. Blazoned out, “There’s a fuckin’ blizzard over here!” JW’d already lent him a snort straw and two mirrors.
Everyone but two guys took a hit, twenty milligrams each.
The party exploded.
The music was jacked up. The girls climbed up on the coffee tables and danced, rolled their hips. Fredrik shouted along to Eric Prydz’s “Call on Me.” Sophie rocked back and forth, Nippe sucked Carro’s face on one of the couches, Gustaf tore his shirt off and jumped to the beat on the other couch, Jet Set Carl dug it all hard. He did the brat dance-pumped one fist in the air in time with the music.