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 Umea 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. Beyonce. Badonkadonk beats.
They boozed. Drank apple martinis, G and Ts, beer. Gustaf’s dad had a blender. They made fruity drinks: strawberry daiquiris, pina 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 here 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.
The success of the party was sealed. Their transformation into party animals, total. The two guys who hadn’t snorted the first time tried now. It gave the desired effect. Everyone got down, dug, danced. The music blared. The party spun. Everyone poured stiff drinks. Shouted along to the music, laughed at nothing, danced, bounced without stopping like Energizer bunnies. Felt hot like hell. Superfly. Jet set. Coursing through everyone’s veins: energy, intelligence, hard-ons. Gustaf’s party was the sickest rager. Rock on.
Five hours later, the cocaine ran out. JW was still wrapped up in the rush. He’d been checking Sophie out all night. She couldn’t have cared less about him. He felt deceived.
But Anna came up to him. Said she thought he was really nice, thanked him for their conversation at dinner, and started dancing with him. They got more and more entwined. Half the party’d passed out. The rest’d crashed on the couches, talking or making out.
JW and Anna went up to her room.
It was five-thirty in the morning. JW felt like he could go forever.
They locked the door and sat down on the bed.
Anna giggled. They looked at each other. Got turned on. JW caressed her breasts through her top. She unzipped his fly, pulled out his cock, bent down, and started sucking. Lip gloss on his cock. Groaned. Really tried to hold it, didn’t want to come yet. He pushed himself away and sat up, undressed her instead. Licked her tits. She
