‘Don’t you understand what it feels like? If you think we have problems then I’m the one you ought to talk to, not her.’
A brief silence. Then the indifference in his gaze again.
‘I have the right to talk to whoever I want, you have nothing to do with it.’
There was a stranger sitting across the table.
Maybe he had always been one. Maybe she had never really known him. She had merely lived in the same house with him for fifteen years but never knew who he actually was. She simply didn’t understand his rage. Why couldn’t he at least understand how bad he was making her feel? Or if he did, why didn’t it matter to him? Why did he keep striking when she was already vanquished?
He got up, and now there was something new in his eyes. Maybe it was utter disgust that she saw.
‘You’re just jealous that I’m having fun.’
‘Oh, is that what you think? Do you sleep with each other too?’
She had to know.
This time he snorted.
‘No, what the hell do you think? Just because we like talking to each other and having fun. You can save your fucking fantasies for your fucking business strategies.’
He went to his office and slammed the door.
Two years ago they had replaced the glass in that door, working on it together.
Maria at Widman’s. She’s a really fun girl.
She saw that the geranium in the kitchen window needed watering, and she got up to fetch the watering can. And then she mustn’t forget to pay that bill for Axel’s swimming lessons.
She stood there holding the watering can and staring out the window. A van was parked in the neighbour’s driveway, and two men were busy unloading a large assortment of well-packaged appliances. Boom or bust. How different things could be just a few metres away.
She took her handbag and went downstairs to the front door.
‘I’m looking for Maria.’
She was standing outside amongst the trees in the park. Ringing from inside the house had felt impossible. The mere thought of standing amongst their things and hearing this woman’s voice at the same time was inconceivable. She didn’t really know why, but for some reason she felt a tremendous urge to hear her voice. This Maria at Widman’s who knew things about her that she didn’t even know. What had Henrik said? What had he told her? Somehow she had to regain her equilibrium, create her own advantage.
‘You’re looking for a Maria?’
‘Yes, Maria.’
If you have several, then pick the one who’s the most fun and who likes to stick her nose into things that are none of her business.
‘You must have the wrong number.’
‘Isn’t this Widman’s Graphics?’
‘Yes it is, but there’s no Maria here.’
She hung up and stood there. The adrenaline was pumping through her body but had no means of release. What, there was no Maria?
In her confusion she went round the corner of the house and saw the van pull out from the neighbour’s driveway. She went in the front door and continued into the bathroom, letting her clothes drop to the floor.
Why was he lying to her? Why did he say that he was talking to Maria at Widman’s when she didn’t exist? She couldn’t really ask him, didn’t want to admit she was snooping, for goodness’ sake. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of knowing that she had stooped to something like that.
She found them behind the shower gel Axel had given her for her birthday. Mostly she was surprised at his carelessness. Or had they been left there intentionally, as an open declaration of war? Perhaps someone who was so much fun and so good to talk to wanted to consolidate her new territory, make a show of strength as she took over.
He was lying to her.
That pig was lying to her, and the contempt for his cowardice aroused a new impulse inside her. A feeling she had never experienced before.
You must not lie. Especially not to someone who trusted you, someone who for fifteen years had trusted you and believed that you were her closest friend.
And when the lie also threatened the other person’s entire life, it was unforgivable.
And the thing you definitely shouldn’t do, without deliberately planning it, was to leave her earrings behind your wife’s eucalyptus shower gel.
He had stayed with Anna after Yvonne Palmgren left them in peace. The only time he left the room was when he used the microwave in the staff room to heat up his lunch. He wondered how many Gorby’s pirogi and pizza slices he had eaten in the past two years, but hurried back in to Anna before his mind would force him to calculate the exact number.
Two months had passed, then three. His mother still stayed locked in her room. The compulsion controlled his whole life, but escaping from this mute punishment would just make everything worse. After those nine words, the silence continued. Each night he would hurry off to deliver his newspapers and then rush back home so that she wouldn’t have to be alone. His father stayed away. Now and then, but not very regularly, a letter would arrive with a few thousand-krona notes to pay the bills for the heating oil and electricity. There weren’t very many other expenses in the household. He took money for groceries from his own wages. The house belonged to her, she had inherited it from her aunt. The income from Pappa’s job as a plumber had been all they needed to cover the costs in the family; his mother had never needed to go out and work. Her entire identity revolved around her role of wife to her husband and mother to her son.
It was a Tuesday when he discovered the classified ads, and it all started with a catastrophe.
Every night the same ritual. He would collect the bundle of newspapers down by the pizzeria. There were always a few extra copies, and before each night’s delivery he counted the copies so he would only have to take with him the exact number he needed. It was the only way to be completely sure that he hadn’t missed someone’s letterbox. He could never be entirely certain, though; many days the worry had pursued him when he imagined that he had skipped one subscriber and delivered two papers to another.
First he would count out the sixty-two papers he needed directly from the bundle. Then he took out the plastic sheeting he kept in his backpack to protect the newspapers from getting wet. After that he piled them up in six stacks of ten. He placed number sixty-one and sixty-two directly in the pouch on his bike rack. When he had checked the stacks of ten four times, he was ready to put them in the pouch and get going. Always exactly the same route.
And then, on this particular Tuesday, the unforgivable happened.
He had one copy left over.
Someone had been missed out.
It was easy enough to check the letterboxes at the houses, but what if someone had already managed to collect their paper and it wasn’t their box that had been skipped? And what about the ten flats in the building above the pizzeria that had slots in their doors? How would he be able to see whether it was one of them he had missed?
He felt the panic rising.
The leftover paper burned in his hands and he couldn’t get rid of it. He stood there on the steps outside the front door when he came home, and he still had the newspaper in his hand.
Sandviken to Falun 68, Skovde to Solleftea 696.
He had to read it. He had to read every single word in it to neutralise the mistake.
He sat down on the steps. It was just beginning to get light. The stone steps were cold, and as soon as he had finished the first page he was so cold he was shivering, but he had to keep reading. Each individual letter of every word had to be seen and respected by the eye of a reader. That was the only way.
It was on page 12 that he found it.
