be real jerks, and we know exactly what hurts the most. Our society is completely obsessed with appearance, and there’s no better way to break a woman than to say that she’s ugly.”
“How do you break a guy, then?” Katarina asked, gruffly.
“Say with a voice as sweet as honey,” Irene volunteered before her husband had a chance to reply, “that he has the world’s cutest tiny little dick. And the fact that he’s a terrible lover is something he can probably fix, if only he’s willing to get help. And then you finish with a beaming smile and add that there’s always Viagra.”
Both Krister and Katarina started laughing, and Irene’s mood improved.
Krister walked over to the stove and poured boiling water through the tea strainer. The coffee had already finished percolating. He opened the refrigerator.
“Anyone else want an egg?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he put four eggs in a pot, filled it with water, and turned on the burner. Then he said to Katarina, “For once, I think you really should listen to your mother. As I said, men can be real jerks; but as you just saw, women can be, too. It usually evens out in the end.”
Katarina opened her mouth to reply, but quickly closed it. She scrutinized her parents, and then said, “Okay. Can we eat breakfast without discussing this any more?”
Her parents nodded and exchanged a look of agreement.
IRENE PHONED Rebecka Schyttelius after they had finished their weekly marketing at Frolunda Torg. The phone rang several times, and she was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered, in English. “Yes?”
Irene was nervous about having to speak English over the phone. Hesitantly, she said, in her stilted English, “Excuse me. I’m looking for Rebecka Schyttelius, but maybe I have the wrong number?”
The man laughed softly. “Not at all. This is Rebecka’s number, but she’s not home right now. Who am I speaking with?”
At first Irene couldn’t remember what her title was in English. When she had finally managed to introduce herself, there was another moment of silence on the line before the man replied, “I understand. Another police officer from Goteborg called for her a few days ago…. She’s been taken to the hospital again. The shock she received was terrible, and it’s only been a short while since she found out … the horrific news. But I’ve spoken with her doctor, and he says that she might be allowed to come home on Monday.”
Irene thought for a moment before she asked, “May I ask who you are?”
“Christian Lefevre. Rebecka works for my company.”
“The computer company?”
“Yes.”
And what are you doing in Rebecka’s apartment? Irene was about to ask, but she refrained. Maybe it would be best to ask Rebecka first. She also noted the man’s French name, but it seemed to her that he spoke English without an accent.
“Could you tell Rebecka that I called?”
“Of course.”
Irene gave him her numbers: work, home, and cell. Then she hung up.
THEY HAD purchased a lot of good food and were preparing for a cozy evening. Krister was actually scheduled to work this weekend; but his colleague, Lenny, needed the following weekend off, so they had traded.
Jenny had disappeared early that afternoon to rehearse with her band. Before the front door closed behind her, she had informed them that she was staying at Martin’s.
“Who’s Martin?” Irene had called after her but only got the echo of her own question in reply.
Katarina shrugged when she was asked that question a little while later.
“Don’t know. They’ve been seeing each other for a while. I think he’s a musician.”
It was a guess that Irene could have made herself.
Irene dialed Jenny’s cell number and demanded to be told Martin’s full name, address, and telephone number. It was a condition for spending the night somewhere. The alternative was to be collected by the police; in plain words, by a detective inspector: in even plainer words, Mom. Irene reacted when she heard the address. Apartments in that neighborhood were not cheap. It seemed Martin was a boy with rich parents.
Katarina left for a classmate’s who was having a party. Aside from the clattering of the pots and pans and other kitchen utensils that the master chef used when he created, the peace of the weekend fell over the family home. Irene took Sammie out on an evening walk so she wouldn’t be in the way. When she returned, she would set the table. Maybe Krister would, mercifully, let her fix the salad. She didn’t complain about this arrangement, since she was a terrible cook. Before she met Krister, she had never learned how and after they had moved in together, she had never needed to.
It was almost eight o’clock and her hunger was sharp. In her imagination, she could already see the scrumptious dishes Krister was preparing. Since they had been together when he had bought the ingredients, she knew what was on the menu. The appetizer was going to be baked goat cheese encrusted in honey, served on a bed of basil on a slice of bread. The main course was grilled cod, vegetables in wine sauce stir-fried in a wok, and home-fried potatoes. The dessert was Irene’s favorite: chocolate mousse. Not exactly food for weight-watchers, but incredibly good. The wine was from South Africa and was called, oddly enough, Something Else. Intriguing, because they hadn’t had it before.
Reluctantly, she peered in through the Bernhogs’ kitchen window when she passed by. Mr. and Mrs. Bernhog were sitting at their kitchen table, with the lamp over the table lit. No candlelight dinner in there, Irene thought. The next second, she saw Margit Bernhog take a handkerchief and dry her eyes. Her husband didn’t look at her. He raised his spoon mechanically, up and down. An open can of Bong’s meat soup stood on the kitchen counter behind them.
All her joy and anticipation left her. The Bernhogs were so sad over Felix’s death that they didn’t even have the energy to cook dinner on Saturday night. Because Sammie was strutting around, carefree, on his end of the leash, she, on the other end, was the one who had to bear the feelings of guilt.
She decided not to say anything to Krister, in order not to disrupt the mood at their dinner table. Naturally, though, he immediately noticed that something was bothering her; and before they had finished the appetizer, she told him what she had seen through the Bernhogs’ window.
“They are really grieving for their cat,” she finished.
Krister nodded. “Seems so. We’ll just have to get them a new one.”
Irene felt a little twinge of hope. “Do you know anyone who has a cat they want to get rid of? Or kittens?”
“No. But we’ll have to explore the options. Maybe someone at work knows some cat people.”
Irene’s mood began to improve. They would get a new cat for the Bernhogs!
“Sweetheart,” Krister said, “this wine is far too light and dry. Shall I go to the wine cellar and get a Drosty- Hof instead?”
Irene thought the wine they had had was good, but Krister was the expert; if he said they should drink the other wine, then it would probably be better.
Krister went to the laundry room and opened the top cabinet of the closet next to the drying cabinet. An almost-empty bottle of Famous Grouse was there, along with two bottles of Drosty-Hof white wine and a small Bristol cream purchased on their last short vacation to Skagen because the blue bottle looked so nice.
DURING JU-JITSU training on Sunday, Irene gave it everything she had. She felt her heart pounding, and a great feeling of well-being streamed through her whole body. She rarely had the chance to attend more than one training session a week these days, and it was far too little.
The female officers she taught were getting to be really good. They would be tested next month. The two beginners were going for orange belts, four would be promoted to green, and three to blue. Irene felt satisfied. But they needed to schedule some extra sessions, which wasn’t easy. Most of them already worked out at least once a week with their male colleagues, but they needed to do some intensive training before being promoted. And in the midst of all this, Irene was going to England. A maximum of two days in London was all she could afford, she decided.
