More Bitter Than Death (9 page)

“Maybe we have only ourselves to blame.” I throw out the idea cautiously, curious to see Aina’s reaction.

“And just what do you mean by that? Do you perhaps agree with our friend the analyst here?”

“I just mean that we like to talk about results and how long treatment takes, tangible evidence and money, not so much about reducing human suffering—”

“Now you sound just like them,” Aina protests.

“I do not. I just don’t like the black-and-white thinking, not by the analysts and not by us.”

Aina shakes her head and throws the paper aside. “Whatever. I ordered food too, meatballs. It’ll be here anytime. Why were you so late? I mean, how long does it take to load the dishwasher?” She studies me for a long time, without looking away, and then asks, “Have you been drinking? You have red wine at the corner of your mouth.”

I instinctively raise my hand to cover my mouth, as if to hide any traces of my sin. Aina notices and smiles wryly.

“Caught with your fingers in the cookie jar,” Aina says triumphantly. “You were drinking wine at the office? That is so wrong. Why? Did Sven come in or something?”

I shake my head and realize that I don’t actually have any desire to tell Aina about Kattis. I just say, “Something came up, that’s all. It’s not like I planned it.”

“And the thing that came up was . . . ?”

“One of the women from the group,” I confess.

“My dear Siri, could you be a little more forthcoming? I don’t want to have to coax every single word out of you.”

She looks irritated again and I just want to appease her. I’m not up for dealing with an angry Aina tonight. I decide to tell her about Kattis but leave out the wine. I know that Aina won’t like it, as well she shouldn’t. Besides, I don’t want to risk having to listen to yet another lecture about my drinking. It’s enough that Markus is always complaining about it. I tell Aina what happened with Kattis, and she listens intently.

“Okay,” Aina says. “I get it. Why didn’t you just say that? That sounds, I don’t know . . . Do you think she’s going to have a breakdown?”

I close my eyes and think about it, picturing Kattis, her tense body, arms wrapped around her torso in a straitjacket grip, those tearstained cheeks, but also the look in her eyes, her upright posture.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. There’s something about her that’s strong, unscathed.”

A noisy group of girls sits down at the table next to us. They reek of cigarette smoke and wet wool, and I realize they’ve been outside smoking. Aina and I exchange glances and change the topic. We can’t talk shop if there are other people around who might overhear.

“So how are things going with you and Markus?” Aina asks.

Not exactly the conversation I wanted to have right now. I’m still feeling guilty about our recent argument. It’s as if I’m walking around with a knot in my stomach these days, a nagging sense of not being enough, of having done the wrong thing. Sometimes I don’t even know what I did, just that I did something wrong. I picture Markus’s face, his tousled hair, that faint blond stubble, those full lips, his eyes, the sad, hurt look in his eyes. I sigh.

“I see,” Aina says, genuine sympathy in her eyes.

“I’m constantly disappointing him. I can’t give him what he wants.”

“And just what does he want?” Aina asks.

“The whole shebang, you know? He wants some kind of stupid family idyll, just like his traditional old mom and dad up in Norrland.”

I feel even more uncomfortable when I think about his family. How he annoys me by idealizing their happy familyhood, as if that were something anyone could have, something you could just get, like a new table or a couch.

“Markus is young, and sometimes he’s so naïve,” I say, shaking my head and looking down at my wineglass, which is now almost empty.

“What if he isn’t? Naïve, I mean,” Aina says, brushing a strand of blond hair out of her face and searching mine. “What if you’re the one who’s not giving him a chance because you’re too chicken to take that step?”

I look at her, surprised, because she’s usually the one who’s skeptical of my relationship with Markus.

“I mean, you’re obviously very fond of him, but you’re still scared. You won’t take ownership of your relationship. I think you should figure out what you really want, because you’re not being fair to Markus.”

I don’t understand what Aina is doing. She’s usually more loyal than this, always on my side. I’m about to argue but am interrupted by a friendly waiter who sets down a plate with an enormous helping of meatballs. I sigh and glance up, focus on the playing card that hangs oddly from the ceiling. It’s been up there for as long as I can remember. When our eyes meet again, I shrug at Aina and pick up my fork.

The conversation is over.

I’m alone at the office, transcribing case notes and taking care of other administrative matters. It’s evening and I ought to go home, eat dinner, and watch some TV with Markus. Instead I eat a gummy bear. I’ve been feeling vaguely sick all day, like I’m suffering from a mild but annoying hangover, as if some insidious flu were sitting in my intestines, waiting to take hold.

The office is silent, dark, and deserted. The smell of an old banana peel turns my stomach, but I don’t know where it’s coming from. Finally I locate the brown peel behind the trash can. With a wrinkled nose, I take it to the kitchen and throw it out.

My cell phone rings as I’m walking back into my office. It’s my oldest sister calling to remind me about my nephew’s birthday. She sounds happy and tells me about her new job and an upcoming vacation, but when she finds out I’m still at work, I can hear in her voice that she’s worried.

“But it’s eight o’clock. How late are you going to be there?”

I laugh, dismissing her concern. “Not a minute past nine, but unfortunately the patient files don’t write themselves.”

“I thought you had assistants for stuff like that.”

I laugh again, louder this time. The thought of elf-like—presumably female—assistants flitting around the office with patient files ready for signature makes me laugh. Of course we do have Elin, but she can hardly keep track of the appointments. I don’t even want to think about what would happen if she tried to transcribe my notes. Words like
malpractice
and
disciplinary board
pop into my head.

“Yes, please, one male assistant, maybe in his twenties. You know, before they get bitter and start refusing to go buy lattes and pick up my dry cleaning.”

I can tell she has a big smile on her face, even though I can’t see her.

*   *   *

Naturally I stay until after nine. I scurry down the stairs. I don’t like to spend any more time in dark stairwells than necessary, and I’m in a hurry to get home.

The wind that greets me when I open the door is, if possible, even icier than before. The constant hum of traffic on Götgatan is like a blanket of noise on the cobblestones, always in the background but never really disruptive. I can make out the silhouettes of people moving aimlessly across Medborgarplatsen in the dense darkness, leaning into the cold wind.

To my right I see the Thai restaurant. Its purple neon sign flickers in the darkness, a lone bright spot in the night. A group of alcoholics are sitting on the steps in front of the Forsgrénska pool building, sharing a bottle.

I slowly walk toward the ATM, wrapping my gray scarf around my neck one more time in an attempt to stop the harsh autumn air from sneaking in under my thin coat.

I notice him almost immediately. His gait is unsteady and he’s not wearing a jacket; he must be really cold. His hands are jammed down into the pockets of his worn jeans and he has a red knit hat on.

Discreetly, I try to steer clear of this guy—who is obviously high—and head toward the Thai restaurant. I stare down at the wet pavement as if transfixed by it, clutching my purse.

But it seems like he wants something from me. He stumbles over toward me, stands in my way before I can escape him in the dark.

In the end, I’m forced to look at him. His eyes are just as vacant as the black sky above us. He sways slowly back and forth and suddenly I’m worried he’s going to keel over.

“C’you spare ten kronor for a hamburger?”

Suddenly I feel depressed. Junkies are getting younger and younger. I’m guessing this boy in the T-shirt isn’t any older than fifteen. But however much it upsets me to see a kid on drugs, I’m equally scared of the dark, and of everything I know an addict in need of money is capable of, even if he’s just a teenager.

I quickly dig around in my coat pockets. The left one is ripped. There’s a hole in the cheap, flimsy material, in the bottom. No spare change. I start fumbling with the zipper on my purse. My fingers feel stiff and don’t want to obey.

“Is this guy bothering you?”

I glance up, looking away from the skinny, shivering boy. At first I see only his silhouette in front of the lights on the front of Söderhallarna Shopping Center, then he gradually emerges from the background. He’s tall and strong with a shaved head, a black down jacket, jeans, a tattoo that is visible through his shirt, some sort of gym bag in his hand. He must be some kind of mechanic
or gym teacher or security guard. Despite his size and his appearance, he seems nice, sympathetic.

“No . . . He just wants a little money for a hamburger.”

“For a hamburger?” The man chuckles softly, as if he’s heard the hamburger story several times before. He stuffs his hand into his jacket and pulls out a worn leather wallet. Takes out a wrinkly fifty-kronor note and hands it to the astonished kid, who looks like he can’t believe his eyes. He snatches the bill, glances up at the man, and mumbles thanks. Something lights up in the kid’s eyes—a feeling, a thought—but then his face becomes blank and expressionless again. I get the impression that they must know each other somehow. There’s something about the quick look they exchange, something about the way the boy snatches the bill.

He stumbles off toward Björn’s Trädgård Park. The wind grabs at his T-shirt and blows it up over his stomach, but he doesn’t react.

“Wait,” I call after him. “Wait! Aren’t you cold? Here, do you want my scarf?”

He turns around to look at me. Our eyes meet; a smile flashes over his pale lips.

“Thanks, but no way. It’s butt-ugly.”

The man laughs, throws up his hands in a gesture of resignation, and then turns toward me.

“Are you Siri?” he asks.

I’m so surprised that I just nod. How could he know who I am?

“I’m Henrik.” He holds his hand out to me and I take it automatically. I note that his hand is warm and feels strong. I still don’t understand who he is; his name doesn’t ring any bells; I don’t recognize him. He’s a stranger.

“You don’t know who I am, I assume?” he says.

I still can’t talk. I shake my head and shiver as a cold gust of wind blows through my thin coat.

“I think my ex-girlfriend is in some kind of group with you, a group for women who have been the victims of domestic violence.”

Suddenly I feel very alone in the big, dark square. Nothing Vijay said about the group or leading it prepared me for this.

“I can’t comment on that, you’ll have to understand. Confidentiality, you know.”

I try to look resolute. Project some sort of authority that I actually lack. The truth is I’m so scared, my legs can hardly hold me upright. The man who
abused Kattis, the man she calls a psychopath, is standing in front of me in the dark at Medborgarplatsen.

“Sorry, I understand,” Henrik says. “Obviously I understand. But if it should happen that Kattis, purely hypothetically, should be in some sort of treatment with you, then . . . I would want to talk to you.” He looks down at the ground, looks almost embarrassed. “And I get it that you can’t respond to that either. And that you can’t talk to me, am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ambush you like this, but I figured you wouldn’t talk to me if I called. I just wanted to . . .” He hesitates, looking for the right words. “I think I want to explain. I want you to understand. Things aren’t as straightforward as they may seem. I want you to hear my side too. Couldn’t you just listen to me?”

“I . . . That’s not possible. I can’t talk to you, you have to understand,” I reply.

He laughs quietly, as if he thinks what I’m saying is funny, and looks out across the deserted square.

“I should have known,” he mumbles.

“What?”

He sighs deeply, scrapes his shoe in the brownish-black mud on the ground. “Forget it, I won’t bother you anymore.” Then he slowly turns his massive back to me.

“Wait, how do you know who I am? How do you know where I work?” I ask.

He looks at me over his shoulder, seems surprised. As if he doesn’t understand why I’m asking the question, doesn’t think it’s important. He slowly turns around to face me again.

“I checked your website after I talked to Kattis. There’s a picture of you there. And your address is there. It was that easy. It’s not that hard to find someone.”

He shrugs and takes a couple of steps toward me. He looks tired. His eyes are glossy and red around the edges.