She came back to the living room as Bill Frisell’s guitar was running amok as it had so many times before.
“Heavens,” she said. It was one of her expressions, like “darn.” She sometimes spoke a sort of lively 1950s Swedish that had become the Hoffman family’s language when they came to their new country. The language had encapsulated itself in the Hoffmans, and some of it remained with Angela. He had pointed it out to her. You bet, daddy-o, she had answered.
“Is it supposed to sound like that?” she said, nodding at the CD player with a towel around her head. He could feel her warmth.
“I don’t actually know how it’s
“Whoever played like that should get it checked out,” she said.
“I didn’t know you were so prejudiced.”
“Prejudiced? It’s called considerate.”
Bill Frisell ladled it on, and it was worse than ever, better than ever. Viktor Krauss on bass, Jim Keltner on drums like two tiptoeing caretakers while the crazy person ran into walls with his guitar in overdrive, attack after attack. Winter turned up the volume. “Lookout for Hope.”
“Good God,” yelled Angela. “Elsa is sleeping, you know.”
Winter lowered the volume.
Angela grabbed the album sleeve and read:
“Good title.”
“If the train leaves on time,” she said.
He lowered the volume until almost nothing was left.
“Are you naked under that robe?” he said.
She put down the album sleeve and looked at him.
“Come here and sit in my lap,” he said.
11
Aneta Djanali was back in the four seasons. Vivaldi was far away from here. These were buildings and streets built for heavy metal. One building on the left was on its way down. They had just demolished half of it. There was still concrete dust in the air. A wrecking ball swung in the air like a clock pendulum. A dull echo of an explosion remained.
This is like driving in a war. She turned left and left again. A war against the northern suburbs.
“Good that they’re tearing this shit down,” said Sigge Lindsten.
“Is it?”
“Who the hell wants to live here?”
“Your daughter, for one.”
She turned her head and looked at him. He didn’t look at her. They had to stop at a roadblock. A soldier held up his hand, waving with his Uzi. No. A concrete worker showed them the way around with a spade. There was a rumble in the near distance. There were marks on the finish of a car that was parked behind the worker. The blast mats had been made of wide mesh. Stones fell from the sky.
“It was a mistake,” said Lindsten.
“That she moved here?”
“Yes.”
“Why did they move here, anyway?”
“Back,” said Lindsten.
“Sorry?”
“They moved back. She and… Forsblad,” said Lindsten, and she heard how much trouble he had saying the name. He spat it out quickly. He rubbed his mouth. “The fact is that we lived here before we moved down to Fredriksdal.” He looked at her now. “This is like the home district of the Lindsten family.” He let out a laugh, a metallic sort of laugh that sounded heavy and hopeless. Heavy metal, thought Aneta. “It hasn’t always looked like this. It might never have been beautiful, but there was something else here, some vital culture around the factories.” He turned his head. “This is also some sort of native district.”
She nodded.
“Everything revolved around the factories.” He hacked out a laugh again; it scratched like iron filings. “And they revolved around us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there wasn’t really anyone who thought about escaping.”
“You did.”
“Yes.”
“Is that how you look at it? As an escape?”
“No.”
“Why did you move, then?”
“Well, my wife inherited some money and she wanted to live in her own house and she’s from down by Molndal.”
So that’s how it is, thought Aneta. The listener can fill in the rest.
“When Anette was going to move away from home-it was several years ago-at the same time, an apartment that one of my cousins had been renting became available, and, well, it could be worked out.”
“It’s quite a ways from home,” said Aneta.
“She thought it was exciting. That’s what she said, anyway.”
“Did she and Forsblad move in together right away?”
“No.”
“Were they together?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think of them moving in together?”
Lindsten turned to her again.
“Do we have to talk about that damned Forsblad the whole time?”
“Don’t you think about him? The whole time?”
Lindsten didn’t answer.
“When did you last speak to him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Repressed?”
“What?”
“Maybe you’ve repressed it?” she said.
“Repressed… yes… repressed. Yes. I have.”
She could see that Lindsten had gotten a different expression on his face. He seemed to relax. It was something she’d said. What had she said? That he’d repressed the memory of his daughter’s husband?
Later she would need to remember this conversation. Perhaps it would be too late then.
They sped away from the powdery construction smoke and drove up in front of the building, which was made of one enormous section.
Lindsten suddenly picked up the conversation from before. “Huge fucking monsters like this didn’t exist then. They were built later, when they thought that they could shove half a million slaves into a ghetto.” He looked up, as though he were trying to see the roof of the building. “First they built those piles of shit, and now they’re tearing them down. Ha!”
She stopped in front of the door. A marked car was parked there. A colleague stepped out; one remained inside.
“Cleaned out,” said the woman who had gotten out. Aneta didn’t recognize her.
“Cleaned out as in
