The Fire Dance

by Helene Tursten

“What’s this, Frej?” she asked in a sharper tone than she’d intended.

  “What’s what? Oh. Those. Pictures of the bonfires on Walpurgis Night. Sophie wanted some photos with fire blazing. For, like, inspiration.”

  “Inspiration?”

  “For her dance. The Fire Dance. Marcelo had been helping her with those parts where the two of us dance…capoeira, you know.”

  “You’re the one who took them, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Irene looked more closely at the photographs. It could well be that these were from a Walpurgis Night bonfire. The pictures emphasized the flames shooting up, but on one of the pictures the silhouette of someone’s head loomed in the foreground. Frej smiled at her as he said, “If you see The Fire Dance, you’ll understand. The fire is the most important part of the entire dance.”

  Irene nodded as she stuffed the pictures into one of her jacket pockets. “I want to take a closer look at these. Let Marcelo know that he’ll get them back.”

  “Okay, though he really doesn’t need them any longer. We’ve finished choreographing the dance. And I have copies in case he does need them.”

  Frej walked out of Marcelo’s bedroom and through the filthy main room to hold open the door chivalrously for Irene. Darkness had fallen and the hallway no longer looked at all welcoming—just deserted.

  Frej moved to the stairs and hit a switch. Irene felt relieved when the darkness was chased away. This old house made her irrationally fearful of ghosts. Ridiculous. She’d never been afraid of the supernatural before. It was probably just the realization that Anna-Greta Lidman had lived here during the last years of her life and had also died in the house. This house was filled with her tragic fate.

  “This way,” Frej said, as he opened the last door in the hallway.

  A small attic staircase was hiding behind it. It was steep, but there were railings on both sides. They went up into a narrow hallway with three doors.

  Frej pointed at the one of the left and said, “My darkroom.”

  Then he pointed at the one straight ahead. “My bathroom. And here’s the door to my apartment.”

  With a smile of pride, he opened the last door. They entered a short hall with wardrobes on both sides. Then they stepped into a large living room with a slanted ceiling. A large window and a balcony door were across the room.

  “Faces west,” Frej said, gesturing to the balcony.

  “What a delightful apartment!” Irene couldn’t help exclaiming.

  “The kitchen is to the right and the sleeping alcove to the left,” Frej said, not concealing his pride.

  Although the ceiling slanted down on both sides, there was enough room to stand upright almost all the way to the walls. In the kitchen, there was the same three-in-one combination as in Marcelo’s apartment, but there was a small kitchen counter with drawers beside it. The entire floor in the apartment had been recently sanded and painted a light color. The windows had no curtains, and there were no plants on the windowsills. The walls were a light lavender blue and all the furniture was black, including the bed in the alcove. Even the bedclothes were black, Irene noticed. The small sofa and the low armchairs had been draped with black covers and he’d lacquered the coffee table in shining black.

  Black and white photographs were on the walls and in the sleeping alcove hung an enlarged color photograph of the Walpurgis Night bonfire.

  “Did you fix it up all by yourself?” asked Irene.

  “Yep. The walls and the furniture,” he said.

  “Even the floor?”

  “Well…Felipe and his cousin Mats helped me there. Mats is a carpenter. He fixed up the kitchen benches, too.”

  The effect was aesthetically pleasing and functional in a strict and slightly cool manner. What Irene noticed above all was how clean it was. She didn’t mention that, but asked instead, “Did you carve out this apartment from the attic?”

  “Nah. It’s been here since the house was built. For, like, the servants. Sophie and her dad had some kind of housekeeper living here until the old man died.”

  “I’ve heard something about her…Mrs. Larsson, I believe her name was. Do you know where she moved?”

  “No idea.” He sounded completely uninterested.

  “Was it her furniture that you fixed up?”

  “Nah, she took her stuff with her. Sophie and I put whatever she left behind in the basement.”

  “Oh, the basement. I wanted to take a look at it. The bulb over the stairs was out. Do you have another bulb?”

  Frej shrugged. “I imagine there’s a flashlight in Sophie’s kitchen,” he said.

  Irene suddenly remembered the strange pictures Sophie had set up in her room. She asked Frej if he knew what they were. He smiled crookedly as he replied, “Ask my mom. I can hear her coming now.”

  Irene listened and also heard the quick steps heading up the creaking stairs.

  Without knocking, Angelika pushed the door open and breezed into her son’s apartment.

  “Frej, whose car is…?” She stopped when she caught sight of Irene. “Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  “Hello. I had to check Sophie’s apartment one last time, and Frej was kind enough to give me a tour of the house,” Irene said, trying to look as friendly as possible. If you don’t have a search warrant, you don’t have one, she thought.

  Angelika didn’t say anything in response, but instead looked at Frej, who wouldn’t meet her gaze. His face had closed up and he had a morose look to his mouth. Was he angry with his mother?

  Angelika frowned and looked sharply at Irene. “Good thing you came today. The workmen will be here soon to rip out the entire interior. Not Frej’s apartment, but the rest of the house.”

  “Are you moving in here?” Irene asked in surprise.

  “I’m coming back into my own house,” Angelika answered.

  By the look she gave Frej, Irene realized her comment was meant for him. Probably Frej was not at all enthusiastic about his mother moving into the house.

  But the house does belong to her now, Irene reminded herself, even if the estate isn’t fully settled yet.

  Angelika smiled her pale smile as she said to Irene, “Staffan and I were considering moving in together anyway. We’ve been living apart for quite some time now. The Änggården mansion fits our needs, and he would enjoy helping me renovate this fine old building. His brother is a master carpenter and…”

  BOOM! Irene jumped as the door slammed behind her back. She hadn’t noticed Frej leaving.

  Angelika sighed loudly and gave Irene one of those between-us-mothers look. “Frej thinks he’s going to lose some freedom, but I’ve explained to him over and over again…” She paused a moment. “I’ve also promised Marcelo he can take over my apartment on Distansgatan. It’s a great two-bedroom. However, if Frej doesn’t like my arrangements, he can move there and we’ll let Marcelo stay here.”

  She gestured to include the space around them. Irene could understand Frej. He’d put his heart and soul into renovating this apartment. The thought that he would have to leave it must be unbearable.

  “As long as you’re here, could you explain what those signs are on the paper Sophie put on the wall in her bedroom?” Irene asked.

  “It’s called Benesh notation. It’s a way to make choreography notes. The notations are then written below the score so that the music and the dance movements can be read simultaneously.”

  “So it’s a way to write down dance steps?”

  “You could say that. I never use Benesh in my work, myself. I use a video camera or I write down stick figures.”

  “Do you know if Sophie always used this kind of notation?”

  “I would imagine so. It fits her…mindset.”

  In the silence that followed, they could hear a car drive up on the gravel outside. Angelika lit up.

  “Oh, Staffan’s here!” she exclaimed happily.

  She turned on her heel and held the door open for Irene, who couldn’t think of
any reason to stay. They walked down the stairs together and reached the ground floor just as the doorbell rang. Angelika rushed to the door with light steps.

  With a whoop of joy, she flung her arms around the neck of the man standing outside. They kissed and embraced for a long time. The man laughed as he finally loosened himself from Angelika’s arms and came into the house.

  “This is a police officer who’s just leaving,” Angelika said, staring hard at Irene.

  Irene smiled at the tall man and held out her hand in greeting. The man had a firm handshake and introduced himself as Staffan Östberg. Without a doubt, he fit the stereotype of the head of Volvo. She could glimpse his suit beneath his dark blue ulster. It was a sober medium brown with a matching nougat shirt and a wine red tie. His hair was steel grey and thin at the top. All in all, he was a proper man who had passed his use-by date and, as far as Irene could tell, would be nearing retirement shortly. Angelika still preferred older men.

  “We’re going to spend the entire weekend figuring out what the workmen are going to do here—or, at least where they’ll begin,” Angelika twittered as she gazed, star-struck, at her new live-in companion.

  He smiled tenderly and looked at her the way one looks at an overenthusiastic child. “Of course, my dear. We already know what needs to be done here, but Kenneth will stop by and give us some advice.”

  “Kenneth?” Angelika asked.

  “My brother. His men will take care of everything. Disposal, plumbing, woodwork, painting…everything.”

  Staffan Östberg said this so evenly and calmly that Irene almost wanted to jump in and ask if Kenneth could stop by her house as well. She had a few rotting roof boards where the attic met the gutters…but she stopped herself in time, when it dawned on her that this wonderful man certainly didn’t work for free, and handymen charge an arm and a leg.

  Obviously, Staffan Östberg could afford it. Angelika did like her guys to come with money.

  Perhaps she always searched for economic security in her choice of men. Now she was coming into a great deal of money from her daughter, who certainly hadn’t been a spendthrift.

  “Are you going to start your renovations on the ground floor?” Irene asked.

  “No. First we’re going to look into the drainage around the building as well as replacing the water main. Then we’ll make sure the roof is sound. Once that’s done, we can move on to the house itself.”

  Irene could tell Angelika wanted to protest, but held her tongue. It was obvious who was going to be paying for the party.

  “So we will still have a few months if we need another look at Sophie’s things,” Irene said.

  “Of course,” Staffan said. “We won’t be getting started inside until after Christmas.”

  Angelika looked disappointed, but again, she said nothing. Irene knew it wasn’t easy for her to refrain from speaking. She said goodbye to the lovebirds and began her treacherous journey across the paving stones, which were still as slippery as soap.

  She hadn’t seen Frej on her way out, and once she reached the street, she knew why.

  His red Mégan was gone.

  “I’m going to dance this evening, too!” Katarina happily told Irene.

  Irene was not taken by surprise. When she’d heard her daughter singing as she walked down the stairs, she’d suspected the worst. It was Saturday morning, and the only reason that Irene was up this early was that she needed to drive downtown to run some errands.

  “Going to the House of Dance?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “What dance class is on this evening?”

  “South American. It’s going to be great!”

  “A beginner class?”

  “No, it’s a student party. And each student can bring a guest. And I was, like, invited!”

  Katarina smiled and her eyes lit up. Irene felt her mood sink into the joints of her toes. She recognized these symptoms. Her daughter was falling in love.

  Things had been calm on the guy front since August when Katarina and Johan broke up. Katarina had said then that she planned to stay single for the rest of her secondary education, and even, perhaps, for the rest of her life.

  But now it was happening again. Gisela Bagge was right.

  Marcelo Alves was a danger for the hearts of every woman out there. He’d take whomever he pleased. Marcelo with his glittering eyes and sensual mouth. His hair, which begged for fingers to run through it. A perfect body over which he had complete control. But poor as a church mouse and just about to be thrown out of his filthy apartment. Marcelo was not a mother-in-law’s dream. His love lasted as long as the carbonation from champagne. Should she warn Katarina? After quick deliberation, Irene decided not to say a word. Anything she said would have the opposite effect. At any rate, the best thing to do for now was to wait and see how things developed. This great love was hardly more than twenty-four hours old.

  “Just think! I never knew how fantastic it was to dance,” Katarina said, as she poured milk and cornflakes into a bowl.

  “Better late than never,” Irene said. She tried to smile as encouragingly as she could.

  She could feel the strain in her facial muscles, but it seemed Katarina was not aware of it. Katarina eagerly whirled her spoon around for emphasis.

  “I want to sign up for capoeira after New Year’s, but I have the chance for some private lessons right now. So from this day forward, I am only going to go to jiujitsu one day a week. And after New Year’s, I’m going to quit.”

  “But, sweetie, please reconsider…why quit after putting in all those years of effort?” Irene realized she was stammering.

  “That’s right. After all those years. It’s boring! I’m never going to get any better than I am now. I’d like to try something different. I want to dance!”

  Her last sentence was so determined that Irene realized argument was useless. She remembered Katarina’s earlier words: you were the best in the world, not me. Deep down, she knew Katarina was right. Jiujitsu had been her thing, not Katarina’s. Her daughters needed the freedom to develop their own interests.

  When she heard Jenny thumping down the stairs, Irene really became nervous. It was just nine o’clock and her girls hadn’t come to breakfast so early in almost ten years.

  “Hello, sweetie. You’re already up!” she said to her other daughter.

  “Yep.”

  Jenny walked over to the counter and sliced a French roll in half. She’d gotten dressed in black baggy jeans and a tight turquoise sweater with a boat collar. She wore a black camisole beneath it. Between her shoulder blades was a small tattoo. She wore no makeup, and her dyed black hair made her face seem pale and washed out. She headed over to the fridge to get a jar of olive paste. Jenny was a faithful vegan and she never ate cheese or any other animal product. The French rolls had been baked with olive oil and water instead of milk. Jenny always knew what was in her rolls because she baked them herself.

  Irene realized it was too late. The girls were already grown. She couldn’t really influence them any longer. There’s so much that could go wrong in a young person’s life, but they have to go out into the world and make their own way.

  Irene wanted to plead: Please, Katarina, don’t mess with Marcelo! He’ll leave you broken-hearted. And, Jenny, please just try to be a young girl and don’t waste your energy on aping pop stars! She knew she wouldn’t say anything. If the girls made a bad decision, they would learn from it because people only learn from the mistakes they make themselves.

  “Are you girls going to come downtown with me? I need to do some shopping,” Irene said.

  Jenny just shook her head.

  Katarina said, “I’ll come. I need to buy a pair of dance shoes.”

  “I see you’re hot for that Latino guy.” Jenny gave her sister a teasing look.

  “Sí, sí!” Katarina said, laughing as she danced out of the kitchen—a salsa step judging from the swing of her hips.

  Jenny rolled her eyes and sighed. �
��She’s such a nerd.” She plopped down on her chair and poured herself a cup of tea.

  “Why are you up so early?” asked Irene.

  “I have to study. Got a test on Tuesday. And I have to write a plan for my senior project.”

  “What’s it on?”

  “We’re going to make a recording.”

  “A recording?” Irene echoed.

  “Yep. Polo is going to record a demo, and I plan to document it on video and with photographs. I’m going to write about it as well. It’ll be, like, a documentary of the entire process from when we start writing the songs until we have a finished CD for sale. Though I have to say, we’ve already written most of the songs.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” Irene exclaimed with honest admiration.

  “Well…we do want to do a good job,” Jenny said with a smile and a wink.

  For a second, Irene was reminded of the scatterbrained fifteen-year-old Jenny had once been. Irene felt the warmth in her heart spread to her entire body. Her wonderful, stubborn, risk-taking, beautiful—not to mention good-hearted—daughter! She got up and gave Jenny a big hug and a kiss on the forehead.

  “You get that from me,” she said.

  They had a hectic morning downtown. Irene and Katarina ran in and out of the stores, taking a coffee break standing at a coffee bar before rushing on. Irene felt stressed because she didn’t want to miss her jiujitsu training that afternoon. Just to be on the safe side, she’d packed her bag with her uniform in the trunk of her car. She’d been wise.

  One glance at her watch after they’d finished and she realized she had no time to go home.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take the express bus from Drottningtorget. You’ll take all the shopping bags in the car, so it’ll be easy enough for me.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be fine? I mean…”

  “Of course, I’ll be fine.”

  Katarina got out of the car and waved happily. She disappeared into the crowd in front of the Nordstan shopping mall entrance. Irene felt guilty, but also relieved. Now she would have no trouble getting to the dojo on time, but she wouldn’t have an opportunity to bring up the subject of dance and the possible new boyfriend.