as scraps of food. There was burned coffee in the glass pot of the coffeemaker. Someone had dropped a plate on the floor. He could make out the remnants of fried herring and mashed potatoes among the pieces of china. On the kitchen table, beer cans were crowded together with liquor bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and a stack of racing cards.
Suddenly he remembered why he should be happy. He had brought home the jackpot as the sole winner of all five races. The sum was breathtaking, at least for him. Over eighty thousand kronor had been paid out to him, in cash, and gone straight into his pockets. He had never before had so much money in his possession.
His eyes flicked anxiously up and down over the half-empty cupboards. Surely he’d had enough sense to hide the money. If only none of the others… No, he refused to believe that. Although when it came to liquor or money, you never could tell.
He pushed aside the thought and tried to recall what he had done when he arrived home from the track the previous evening. Where the hell?
Oh, that’s right. The broom closet. With trembling fingers he pulled out the package of vacuum cleaner bags. When he touched the bundle of banknotes, he breathed a sigh of relief. He sank down onto the floor, cradling the package in his hands as if it were a valuable porcelain vase. At the same time, thoughts about what he was going to do with the money flickered past. Fly to the Canary Islands and order drinks with little umbrellas. Maybe invite Monica or Bengan to come, too-or why not both of them?
An image of his daughter appeared. He really ought to send some of the money to her. She was grown up now and lived in Malmo. Contact between the two of them had been broken off long ago.
Henry stuffed the package back in the closet and stood up. Thousands of stars danced before his eyes.
The need for a drink became more urgent. The beer cans were empty, as were the liquor bottles. He lit one of the longer cigarette butts from the ashtray, swearing as he burned his finger.
Then he discovered a bottle of vodka under the table, and it turned out to have a decent slug left in the bottom. He greedily gulped it down, and the merry-go-round in his head eased up a bit. He went out to the patio and breathed in the cold, raw November air.
On the lawn lay an unopened can of strongbeer, of all things. He picked it up and definitely started feeling better. In the fridge he found a piece of sausage and a saucepan of dried mashed potatoes.
It was Monday evening. It was past six o’clock, and the state liquor store was closed. He had to go out and find some booze.
Henry took the bus downtown. The driver was nice enough to let him ride free, even though he could now afford to pay the fare. By the time he got out at Ostercentrum, he was the only passenger. Rain was in the air, and it was dark and desolate on the streets. Most of the stores were closed at this time of night.
On one of the benches near the Allis hot dog stand sat Bengan with that new guy Orjan from the mainland. An unpleasant type, pale with dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp look in his eye. The muscles of his arms testified to how he had spent his time in the slammer, from which he had recently been released. He had apparently been sent up for aggravated assault and battery. Tattoos covered his arms and chest; part of one was visible inside the dirty collar of his shirt. Henry felt anything but comfortable with him, and things were made only worse by the fact that he always had that growling attack dog in tow. The animal was white with red eyes and a square snout. Ugly as sin. The guy bragged that his dog had bitten a toy poodle to death in Ostermalm in the middle of downtown Stockholm. The fucking upper-class dame who owned the poodle went nuts and starting hitting Orjan with her umbrella until the police showed up and took charge. He had gotten off with a warning to buy a stronger leash. The incident was even reported on TV.
As Henry approached, a muted rumble issued from the dog’s throat; the animal was lying at Orjan’s feet. Bengan greeted him with a wobbly wave of his hand. It was apparent from far away that Henry’s friend was quite inebriated.
“Hi, how are things? Congratulations again. It’s so fucking great.” Bengan gave his friend a befuddled look.
“Thanks.”
Orjan pulled out a plastic bottle containing a colorless, unidentified liquid.
“Want some?”
“Sure.”
The liquor had a pungent smell. After several sizable gulps, Henry’s hands stopped shaking.
“That went down nice, didn’t it?” Orjan asked the question without smiling.
“Absolutely,” said Henry, and he sat down on the bench next to the other two men.
“How’s it going for you?”
“Well, I’ve got my head up and my feet down.”
Bengan leaned closer to Henry and breathed loudly in his ear.
“Shit, what about all that dough?” he muttered. “It’s amazing. What are you thinking of doing with it?”
Henry cast a quick glance over at Orjan, who had lit a cigarette. He was staring out toward Ostergravar and seemed to have stopped listening.
“We’ll talk about it later,” whispered Henry. “I want you to keep your mouth shut about the money. Don’t tell anyone else about it. Okay?”
“Sure, no problem,” promised Bengan. “Of course, buddy.” He patted Henry on the shoulder and turned back to Orjan. “Give me a swig.” He grabbed the bottle.
“Take it easy, damn it. Pianissimo.”
Typical Orjan, thought Henry. He always has to sound so odd. Pianissimo — what the hell is that? The dog bared his teeth.
All Henry wanted right now was to buy some booze and get out of there.
“Have you got anything to sell?”
Orjan dug through a worn bag made of imitation leather. He pulled out a plastic bottle containing home- brewed liquor.
“Fifty kronor. But maybe you can afford to cough up more than that?”
“Naw. I’ve only got a fifty.”
Henry handed over the banknote and reached for the bottle. Orjan kept his grip on it.
“Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“What if I don’t believe you? What if I think that you’ve got more and you just don’t want to pay more than that?”
“What the hell-let go!”
He yanked the bottle away from Orjan. At the same time he stood up. Orjan laughed and jeered, “Can’t you take a joke?”
“I’ve got to go. See you. I’ll be in touch.”
He headed for the bus stop without looking back. He could feel Orjan’s eyes fixed on his back like needles.
He was sitting in the living room, comfortably leaning back in the only armchair. On his way home he had passed a kiosk that was open at night, and he had bought some Grape Tonic, which he mixed with the booze to make himself a nice, tasty highball. He studied the glow from his cigarette in the dim light of the room, enjoying his solitude.
It didn’t bother him that the apartment was still a mess from the party the night before.
He put an old Johnny Cash record on the stereo. The neighbor woman protested by pounding on the wall, presumably because the music was interfering with the Swedish soap opera on TV. He pretended not to notice because he despised everything that had to do with normal Swedish life.
During his professional days he had also avoided routines. As the foremost photographer at Gotlands Tidningar he’d had plenty of opportunities to plan his own work hours. When he eventually started his own business, of course, he did precisely as he pleased.
In moments of clarity he surmised that it was this freedom that had spelled the beginning of the end. It created space for his drinking, which slowly but surely nibbled away at his work, his family life, his free time, and finally took precedence over everything else. His marriage fell apart, his clients disappeared, and contact with his daughter became increasingly sporadic and then ceased altogether after a few years. In the end he had neither
