who was so creative. Maja, who didn’t want children.
“But, Karin,” he said, “don’t you understand that you are doing exactly what God wants? Looking after the children. That’s the most important thing of all right now. He has plans for you, but right now… right now you must be with Anna and Andreas.”
Six months later he had held the first summer church. A little flock of newly saved children waddled behind him like ducklings. Imprinting him as their spiritual parent. One of them was Viktor Strandgard.
She, Gunnar, Vesa Larsson and his wife, Astrid, were invited to share in the happiness when they held a baptism for the believers. Gunnar swallowed his bitter jealousy and went along. He knew how to join the winning team. At the same time he started the endless comparisons. The desire to try to shine himself. His face took on a cunning expression.
She wasn’t without blame herself. Hadn’t she said to her husband a thousand times: “Don’t let Thomas walk all over you. He can’t be allowed to decide everything.”
She had convinced herself that she was supporting her husband. But wasn’t the truth that she’d actually wanted him to be someone else?
Thomas Soderberg got up and walked over to the gospel choir. He was wearing a black suit. Normally his ties were colorful, verging on bold. This evening it was a discreet gray. An upside-down exclamation mark inside his jacket.
He carried his wealth as easily as he had once carried his-not poverty, she thought, his lack of money. Two people living on a pastor’s wage. But it never seemed to bother them. Not even when they had children.
Then things changed. He stood there now in his fine wool suit, talking to the choir. Said what had happened was terrible. One of the girls began to sob loudly. Those standing closest to her put their arms around her.
It was okay to cry, said Thomas. It was all right to grieve. But-and here he took a deep breath and uttered each word separately, with a short pause in between-it was not okay to lose. Not okay to go backwards. Not okay to sound the retreat.
She couldn’t face listening to the rest. Knew more or less how it would sound.
“Hi, Karin. Where’s Gunnar?”
Maja, Thomas Soderberg’s wife, sat down beside her. Long, shiny, sandy-colored hair. A little discreet makeup. No lipstick. No eye-shadow. Just a little bit of mascara and blusher. Not that Thomas had anything against women wearing makeup, but Karin guessed that he preferred to see his own wife without. A few years ago Maja had wanted to have her hair cut short, but Thomas had put his foot down.
“He was here a minute ago. I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”
Maja nodded.
“And where are Vesa and Astrid?” she asked.
Taking a tough line on attendance tonight. Karin raised her eyebrows and shook her head in reply.
'It’s really important that everyone sticks together at a time like this,' said Maja quietly.
Karin looked at the red rose lying on Maja’s knee.
“Are you going to put that with the others?”
Maja nodded.
“Yes, but I’ll wait until the meeting is under way. I can’t grasp what’s happened. It’s just so unreal.”
Yes, it is unreal, thought Karin. What’s going to happen without Viktor?
Viktor, who refused to cut his hair or wear a suit. Who turned down a pay raise and made Thomas give the money to Medecins Sans Frontieres instead. She remembered seven years ago, when she’d gone to a conference in Stockholm. How surprised she’d been when she saw so many young men who looked exactly like Viktor. On the underground and in cafes. Ugly knitted or crocheted hats. Soft shoulder bags. Jeans slung low on narrow hips. Suede jackets from the sixties. The slow, nonchalant walk. A kind of anti-fashion reserved for the good-looking and the confident.
Viktor had belonged to the court surrounding Thomas Soderberg, but he had never become a copy of Thomas. More his opposite. Without possessions, without ambition. Abstemious. Although the latter was perhaps because Rebecka Martinsson had crushed him in her madness. It was hard to know.
Maja leaned toward her. Hot breath hissing in her ear.
“Aha, here comes Astrid. But where’s Vesa?”
Pastor Vesa Larsson’s wife, Astrid, pushed her way in through the door of the Crystal Church. On the stage, Thomas Soderberg was leading the gospel choir in prayer before the evening service.
The trek up the hill from the car park had made her blouse wet and sticky under her arms. Just as well she had a cardigan over the top. She hastily wiped under her eyes with her index finger just in case her mascara had run. She’d once seen herself on one of the church video recordings. It had been snowing when she’d walked to the church, and on the film she had been going around with the collection bag like a trained panda. Since then she always checked in the mirror. But now the cloakroom was full of people and she was so stressed.
A pile of flowers and cards lay in the central circle.
Viktor is dead, she thought.
Tried to make it seem real.
Viktor is actually dead.
She caught sight of Karin and Maja. Maja was waving eagerly. No chance of escape. The only thing to do was to go over to them. They were wearing dark suits. She had rummaged in her wardrobe and tried things on for an hour. All her suits were red, pink or yellow. She had one dark suit. Navy blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.
“Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.
Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.
“Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”
She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.
Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.
So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.
She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.
Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.
“If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.
She shook her head obediently.
“Worried.” She tried out the word.
No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.
It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.
They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the dark. In silence.
And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.
She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.
“Astrid,” was all he said.
Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.
