by Hans Koppel
Mike was just about to phone Karlsson and Gerda when he saw them turn into the driveway. He opened the front door and saw their serious faces.
‘Have you found her?’
Karlsson put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Let’s talk inside.’
For the thirty seconds it took them to move into the kitchen and sit down, Mike was convinced that they’d found Ylva’s body. It was a relief when he realised that she was still missing.
‘Her mobile,’ he said. ‘Can’t you see where she’s been?’
‘She turned her mobile off on Tågagatan.’
‘When?’
‘At half past six on Friday.’
‘She should have been on the bus then,’ Mike said.
‘Why?’
‘That’s on the bus route, and it fits with when she left work.’
‘But she wasn’t on the bus,’ Gerda stated.
‘That’s not why we’re here,’ Karlsson cut in. ‘We’ve spoken to Bill Åkerman.’
Mike froze for a second.
‘I see, and what did he say?’
‘Well, first of all, he was working on Friday, the staff have confirmed that. But he told us something else that we thought was interesting.’
Mike leaned forward, all ears. Karlsson looked to Gerda for support.
‘How was your sex life?’
Mike’s face went bright red. But it was the red of anger, not embarrassment.
‘What the fuck do you mean, How was your sex life? Our sex life is absolutely fine, thank you very much. The fact that she jumped into bed with that moron doesn’t mean that she didn’t love me, it’s more that she doesn’t love herself. Yes, I know how clichéd that sounds, but in her case it’s actually true. My wife flirts, is always looking for pointless kicks. I’ve seen her dancing up tight with a neighbour several times, but I’ve also – and I assure you it’s a thousand times worse – been forced to live with the anguish she feels afterwards, when she hates herself and just wants to die.’
‘I thought you said she wasn’t depressed.’
‘Bill Åkerman was the final straw, the alarm bell she needed. It was like we started over again after that. And I’m sure that’s one of the reasons she didn’t go out with her colleagues.’
Karlsson and Gerda looked at each other and nodded.
Without a doubt.
29
It was difficult to hear what the other person was saying.
Calle Collin was sitting opposite an old actor, at a centrally positioned window table in an upmarket restaurant chosen by the actor. The other guests belonged to the same generation as the actor and glanced over at him discreetly. Two parties had passed the table on their way out and thanked the actor for many pleasurable moments and a lot of laughs. The actor had accepted these pats on the back with false modesty and great delight.
The reason that Calle Collin found it difficult to hear what the actor said was not that he spoke unclearly, but rather that he was so uninteresting.
‘I … success … anecdote … pause for laughter … public record … troubled childhood … not so easy to succeed … all the same I … modest … I always doubt … I constantly fight … I … the main thing … I interpret … I get to the heart of the character … I … empty phrases … I.’
Calle Collin nodded attentively and wrote down key words. He felt melancholy. The actor wasn’t a bad person, he was self-centred because he lacked self-confidence and therefore had an unquenchable need for confirmation. Moments like this were oxygen for him.
Calle Collin’s interview would be a carbon copy of every other interview the actor had ever given. Nothing new would be added and the truth would be crystal clear in its absence. Calle would send the text over to the actor for approval and the actor would have his say and perhaps even hint that Calle’s efforts didn’t quite meet his expectations, as the promise of a page in a publication meant so much more to him now that he had long since passed the peak of his career.
Then the actor would delete the only thing that might be called a real observation on Calle’s part and replace it with some self-glorifying statement, before both parties could agree that they were satisfied.
The actor had been interviewed countless times in the course of his career. The questions were always the same, as were the answers. Calle recognised the words that spewed out of his mouth from articles he had read before the interview. The words were exactly the same and so deeply entrenched that, even if the actor did want to open up and be honest, he couldn’t possibly break free from the image he’d built up of himself.
‘Why?’ Calle blurted suddenly, without warning.
The actor was thrown off track in the middle of an anecdote that he’d told a hundred times before.
‘Excuse me?’
Calle Collin realised that he’d been thinking out loud and didn’t have a clue as to what the actor was actually talking about.
‘How did you become who you became?’ Calle tried, and changed his position.
‘You should be who you are when you’re not who you wanted to be,’ the actor trotted out, well practised.
Calle gave him a friendly smile and nodded.
‘Who were you at school then?’ he asked. ‘The class clown? A shrinking violet?’
The actor was silent for a long time before answering: ‘I was horrible,’ he said, finally. ‘I beat up others so they wouldn’t beat me.’
Mike sat at the kitchen table. It was quiet, not even the fridge was humming. He thought about turning the page of the newspaper just to hear it rustle, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to lift his hand to make the movement.
He had done everything. That’s certainly what he tried to tell himself. He didn’t know whether it was true or not. Maybe he hadn’t done anything. Maybe he’d just sat paralysed by the kitchen table with a newspaper in front of him that he hadn’t read, a paper that he’d collected from the postbox, because he always collected the paper from the postbox. Every morning of his adult life.
Ylva hadn’t come home and that was that. She’d gone to the office, spent the day there and then left work. But she hadn’t come home.
Ylva had disappeared. She hadn’t been in touch and she hadn’t been seen. She was gone.
In five days’ time, their daughter would turn eight. Sanna’s classmates had been invited to the party. Mike didn’t think that Ylva would come back for it.
Mike thought about their relationship, if it had been a relationship at all.
His mobile phone vibrated on the kitchen table and made a surprisingly loud noise in the silence. Mike looked at the display, saw that it was from the office and answered.
His colleague strained to be casual in a sympathetic way.
‘Just wanted to check whether you’d be coming today.’
‘Of course, I’m just on my way. I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘No rush,’ the colleague assured him. ‘The meeting’s not until this afternoon.’
‘Thanks for phoning,’ Mike said.
He hung up and folded the newspaper. It was the tenth day since Ylva had disappeared.
30
People who claimed there was no difference between boys and girls had obviously never organised a children’s party, Mike mused. The boys were boisterous and made a noise; they fought and spilled their popcorn and fizzy drinks, whereas the girls gathered round to watch Sanna open her presents.
How much of the difference was due to genetics or culture was another matter, but Mike was grateful that he had a daughter and not a son. Even though there were obviously exceptions. The kind, philosophical Ivan who, when asked how his mummy and daddy were, answered, Not so good, in fact we’re quite poor now, so we won’t be able to go to Thailand. Or the quiet Tobias who, a couple of years ago, had cried as though he’d never stop when he discovered that the party bags didn’t include any chocolate buttons. Mike had made sure not to repeat the mistake at any birthday party since.
Mike and K
ristina had carried an extra table into the kitchen so that there would be room for everyone. The table was set. Two other couples scooped ice-cream on to a serving plate full of meringues, Kristina sliced the bananas and Mike made up some jugs of squash. The noise and chaos in the sitting room was music to his ears, a reminder that life went on regardless, even though he himself was in a vacuum.
Because that’s how it felt. Nothing changed, everything was the same. An ocean of words and stiff phrases uttered to make a point, to add importance, to gloss over and comfort. But they didn’t prevent Holst from driving past in his Volvo estate or Mrs Halonen from waving in the distance as she passed with her Alsatian.
Life carried on. This inconceivable event was but a ripple on the surface, and would never be anything more. The sympathy from those around him had now boiled down to Nothing new? Which Mike answered with a troubled expression: Nothing new.
He looked at the clock. Twenty past two. The meringues were nearly ready. Judging by the noise level, it was like Lord of the Flies in the next room.
‘Shall I go in and get them?’ Mike asked.
‘Yes, do,’ his mother replied.
Mike went out into the sitting room, whistled loudly to shut them up and told them to come and get something to eat in the kitchen.
There were balloons tied to the postbox and the front door. Ylva watched the guests arrive on the screen. Sanna’s classmates were there, all dressed up and ready to hand over the wrapped presents. The children were welcomed into the house. Mike stood in the doorway and chatted with the parents.
Ylva thought they all looked uncomfortable, stiff and uncertain. She guessed that the fact that she was missing was still at the forefront of their minds. It would be strange if it wasn’t.
The sun shone and the balloons danced and bobbed on the wind. Ylva realised that they wouldn’t have been able to set the table with paper plates and plastic glasses outside. Anders and Ulrika stayed to help, and so did Björn and Grethe. Mike’s mum had come over the evening before. The other parents were probably doing their own thing in the meantime: going for a walk, heading into town, to the cinema or something like that. If there was time. Parties normally didn’t last more than two to three hours.
When all the guests had arrived and the door had been closed, Ylva couldn’t see what was going on inside, but didn’t find it hard to imagine. The noise from previous children’s parties was still ringing in her ears.
For the next hour or so, nothing much happened other than Mike coming out with the rubbish. Then the terrace door was opened. The children spilled out in an organic mass. Mike and Anders divided them into teams and they did some kind of relay with oranges under their chins. Then they played hide and seek.
Mike and the other adults disappeared into the house. Fifteen minutes later, he stuck his head out of the door and shouted something. The kids stopped in their tracks and then rushed indoors.
Lucky dip, Ylva guessed.
The party would be over soon. The parents would be back any minute now to rescue them from the noise and mess. Some would stay for a glass of wine in the kitchen and keep them company as they wound down and caught their breath after the timed chaos that was a children’s party.
Sanna was buttering a piece of bread. She did this with such care that Mike and Ylva had started to put two knives in the butter before they put it on the table, one for them and one for Sanna.
Each slice was a work of art for Sanna that was not finished until the bread was covered in an even, smooth layer of butter. Without any bumps or marks.
‘So, do you think it was a good party?’ Mike asked.
Sanna nodded without lifting her eyes from the bread.
This fixation with spreading the butter was a running joke for Mike and Ylva. They wondered what it might indicate, speculated where she might have got it from and what other things in life would be given such time and care.
At times, Ylva worried that Sanna might have some kind of disorder, a touch of autism or some condition known by an acronym. But that wasn’t the case. Mike guessed that spreading butter was a form of meditation. And there was absolutely no point in analysing to death something that worked. A lot simpler to put an extra knife in the butter. Live and let live. With all our individual peculiarities.
‘What was most fun?’ Mike wondered.
‘Mummy’s not coming home, is she?’
The question was like a slap in the face. Mike had thought a great deal about his mother’s misguided decision, keeping his father’s suicide secret from him and talking evasively of a car crash. He recalled how the feeling of hopelessness and guilt had floored him when the truth finally came out. Mike had decided not to embellish or protect his daughter from the truth.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t look like it.’
Sanna looked at him.
‘Is she dead?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mike replied. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Sanna put the knife back in the butter and started to eat. She glanced quickly down at the table before looking out the window to the world beyond: light green leaves, flowering lilac, it would be the summer holidays soon.
Mike’s eyes filled and his nose got blocked, forcing him to breathe through his mouth.
31
Friendliness, privileges
When the victim has been sufficiently broken in, the manipulation becomes even more devious. The perpetrator, who has hitherto physically abused and mocked the victim, is suddenly kind and generous. The victim becomes confused and starts to reassess the perpetrator, to the point of denying earlier assaults. The perpetrator was only doing what he had to. The victim understands him. The victim starts to experience her situation as normal and self-inflicted.
‘Close your eyes.’
Ylva looked at him warily. She was standing with her hands on her head, as she’d been instructed to do. He had opened the door just enough to peer round it.
‘It’s a surprise,’ he said. ‘Close your eyes.’
She obeyed, her eyelids quivering uneasily. She heard him come in through the door and walk towards her. She opened her eyes. He was holding a floor lamp in one hand and a heavy paper bag in the other.
‘Something to read,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to have something to pass the time. Do you use glasses?’
She shook her head. The man smiled at her.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Ylva did as she was told. The man put the bag and the lamp on the floor, and sat beside her on the bed.
‘You’re here now,’ he said. ‘I know that it’s hard to accept. You want to think that it’s temporary, that you’ll be able to get away. Even though you know that will never happen. And the sooner you stop thinking that, the sooner you’ll settle down. Believe me, in a year’s time you won’t want to leave. In a year’s time, you’ll stay, even though I open the door.’
He stroked her hair. As if she was a child and he was comforting her, the wise adult.
‘And it’s not a bad life, the one we can give you,’ he said.
He put his finger under her chin and turned her face gently towards him.
‘Violence isn’t really my thing,’ he said. ‘I only hit you because I have to, to make you obey. It’s effective, but doesn’t help build strong bonds. I prefer the carrot to the whip, praise to censure …’
‘But what do you want us to do?’
Like most men, Karlsson was in fact soft. The unshaven and red-eyed husband of a missing wife was more than he could cope with. If Karlsson hadn’t been convinced that Mike’s tears were due to guilt rather than grief, he could have got him to do anything.
‘I want you to find her,’ Mike said.
‘How?’ Karlsson asked.
Mike didn’t know.
‘Either she doesn’t want to be found, or …’
Karlsson stopped himself, but it was too late. Mike was crying again.
Good God, what a pansy, Karlsson thought. If he doesn’t stop the waterwor
ks soon, he’ll get me started too.
‘Sorry,’ Mike sobbed.
‘Not at all,’ Karlsson said. ‘Perfectly understandable.’
He opened his drawer and found a packet of tissues that he pushed across the table.
‘Thank you,’ Mike said.
Rusty knife, Karlsson thought.
Crime of passion, rusty knife, guilt.
32
A foreign country was always a good place to hide your alcoholism. The man assumed that was why all Western men living in exile were so confusingly alike.
Johan Lind was, to be fair, married to an African woman and the proud father of two small children, but the whites of his eyes were bloodshot and jaundiced, his cheeks were puffy and his stomach was tight as a beer barrel, like most white men in the Third World.
Johan Lind started to drink at lunchtime and often stopped by a bar on his way home from work. The bar was a corrugated-iron shack that offered only the local beer and a handful of young women who sat on men’s knees and laughed at their jokes, in return for drinks and tips.
The man guessed that this was how Johan Lind would justify his wayward life. Something evasive like them being poor in Africa, but at least they know how to have fun. Everything wasn’t so damn serious. People had forgotten how to laugh in Sweden.
Something along those lines.
The man couldn’t be certain that Johan Lind was actually of that opinion, as he kept his distance and made his observations from a rental car, but it seemed a qualified guess.
The man had been in Zimbabwe for six days now and wanted to accomplish what he had set out to do as soon as possible. He had learned the following: Johan Lind worked as a foreman on a construction site in central Harare. He lived with his family in Avondale, a nice suburb to the northwest of the city. Every working day was the same.
The man was waiting for the right moment. Which came the next day.
Johan Lind had decided that, as it was Friday, he would take his motorbike to work. It was a mean machine with high suspension and erratic acceleration. The man saw him pull out from his house and speed up on the bend as if he was still a death-defying twenty-something-year-old.