Red Wolf: A Novel (32 page)

Suddenly he was overcome with an unexpected feeling of complete and utter shame. It made him feel sick. He backed out of the room, leaving her there, lying across the bed without a cover.

She knows
, he thought.
Someone’s told her
.

He sat at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on his knees, and ran his fingers through his hair.

Impossible
, he thought.
She wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly if she knew
.

He sighed deeply, unable to escape.

He knew he would have to lie next to her, unable to sleep, listening to her breathing and longing for hair that smelled of apples and the traces of menthol cigarettes.

He stood up in the dark, confused, knocking his hip against the sink. Surely he wasn’t longing to get away?

Or was he?

A sticky little hand patted Annika on the cheek.

‘Mummy? Bye bye, Mummy.’

She blinked at the light, not sure for a moment where she was. She realized a second or so later that she had fallen asleep with half her clothes on. She looked up and saw Ellen leaning over her with limp pigtails and peanut butter round her mouth.

A broad grin broke out inside her.

‘Hello, darling.’

‘I’m going to stay at home today.’

Annika stroked her daughter’s cheek, cleared her throat and smiled. ‘I don’t think so. I’ll pick you up after lunch,’ she said, struggling up by straining her stomach muscles and kissing the girl on the mouth, licking at the peanut butter.

‘Before lunch.’

‘It’s Friday, so there’ll be ice-cream today.’

The girl pondered this. ‘After,’ she said finally, and ran out.

Thomas looked in through the door, his usual, normal face with its tired morning eyes and hair sticking out.

‘How are you feeling?’

She smiled at him, shut her eyes and stretched like a cat.

‘Okay, I think.’

‘We’re off now.’

When she opened her eyes he was gone.

Today she didn’t wait for the silence. She was in the shower before the front door had closed behind them. She washed her hair, put on a facepack, trimmed her split ends and massaged her legs with cream. She put on mascara and filed her nails smooth, and picked out a clean bra. She made coffee and a sandwich that she knew she would have trouble eating.

Then she sat at the kitchen table and felt the anxiety rush towards her, rolling out of the corners like dark clouds of smoke and poison gas, and she fled, leaving the coffee and sandwich and an unopened yogurt on the table.

Outside the snow had stopped, but the sky was still solid grey. Hard shards of ice were being blown about in the wind, along the streets and pavements, catching on her face and hair. She couldn’t make out any colours; the world had turned black and white, the sharp stone twisting in her chest.

Sophia Grenborg. Grev Turegatan.

She knew where that was. Christina Furhage used to live there. Without thinking, she started walking.

The façade was honey yellow and heavy with plaster embellishments, icicles hanging from the extremities, the glass of the bay windows shimmering unevenly, the door carved and dark brown.

Her feet and ears were freezing. She stamped the ground and adjusted her scarf better.

Wealthy middle-class
, she thought, going up to the door.

The intercom was the modern sort that didn’t give away where in the building people lived. She stepped back and looked up at the façade, as though she’d be able to work out where Sophia Grenborg’s flat was. The snow blew into her eyes, making them water.

She crossed the street and stood in the doorway opposite, pulled out her mobile and dialled directory inquiries, then asked for Sophia Grenborg’s number, Grev Turegatan, and was put through. If Sophia had a caller-display phone then her number wouldn’t show, only the number for directory inquiries.

The phone rang. Annika stared at the building. Somewhere in there it was ringing and ringing, a telephone beside a bed where her husband had been last night.

After the fifth ring an answerphone clicked in. Annika held her breath, listening to the woman’s happy, breezy voice. ‘Hello, you’ve reached Sophia, I can’t take your call right now, but—’

Annika hung up, the breezy voice ringing in her ears, the stone in her chest starting to glow and spit.

She went back to the door, pressed one name after the other until an old lady finally answered.

‘Electricity,’ Annika said. ‘We need to read the meter in the basement, can you let us in?’

The lock buzzed and she pushed the door open on well-oiled hinges.

The stairwell was all gold and black marble, wooden panels of heavily polished oak reflecting the light from bronze lamps. A thick dark-blue carpet swallowed all sound.

Annika ran a finger along the beautiful grain of the dado rail as she walked towards the list of occupants beside the lift.

Sophia Grenborg’s name was listed in splendid isolation for the sixth floor.

Slowly she started to climb the stairs all the way up to the attic floor, soundlessly, slightly giddy.

Sophia’s front door was more modern than the others in the building – white and minimalistic.

Annika stared at the brushed bronze nameplate, her feet wide apart, anchored to the marble. Her chest rose and sank, the stone tore and pulled. Then she took out her mobile again and dialled directory inquiries again, this time asking for the number of the Federation of County Councils.

‘Sophia Grenborg, please,’ she said.

The voice that answered sounded just as breezy as it had on the answer machine.

‘My name’s Sara, and I’m calling from the journal
County Council World
,’ Annika said, staring at the nameplate. ‘I’m calling a few people before Christmas to see if I could just ask one quick question.’

Sophia Grenborg laughed, a light, tinkling sound. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose so . . .’

‘What would you like for Christmas?’ Annika said, running the palm of her hand over Sophia’s front door.

The woman at the other end laughed again. ‘A kiss
from my beloved,’ she said, ‘although some bath salts would be good, too.’

Everything went black before Annika’s eyes, a dark sheet drifting past through her brain.

‘Beloved?’ she said in a flat voice. ‘Would that be your husband?’

More laughter. ‘He’s a bit of a secret at the moment.
County Council World
, you said? That’s a decent magazine, you cover the things that matter in our field really well. Which issue will this be in?’

Annika closed her eyes and ran a hand over her forehead, the stairwell was starting to tilt, a sucking wave shifting from wall to wall.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘The questionnaire! Will it be out before Christmas?’

She was forced to crouch down, leaning her back against the door.

‘We don’t quite know how much space we’ve got, it depends on adverts.’ Did
County Council World
have adverts? She had no idea.

The line fell silent. Annika could hear Sophia Grenborg breathing, listened to the other woman’s rhythmic intake of air.

‘Well,’ Sophia said, ‘if there wasn’t anything else . . .’

‘My surname’s Grenborg too,’ Annika said. ‘Do you think we could be related?’

The laughter was less hearty this time. ‘Hmm, what did you say your name was?’

‘Sara,’ Annika said. ‘Sara Grenborg.’

‘Which branch of the family?’

Was she imagining things, or had Sophia’s accent got a bit posher?

‘Södermanland,’ Annika said.

‘We’re from Österbotten, from the Väse manor-house. Are you descended from Carl-Johan?’

‘No,’ Annika said. ‘From Sofia Katarina.’

All of a sudden she could no longer be bothered to listen to Sophia La-di-da bloody Grenborg, and she hung up in the middle of a word.

She sat in silence and waited for her pulse to stop racing, resting a hand against Sophia Grenborg’s front door, gradually absorbing the woman into her bloodstream.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the cold staircase, listened to her voice, saw her sitting doing her lovely work in her lovely Federation, just loving the articles in
County Council World
. A woman so cold and well-behaved and appreciated that her own husband had chosen to kiss her outside NK, a woman who was everything she would never be.

She left the building without looking back.

The man woke up with the pink duvet cover tickling his nose. He snorted, then groaned as the pain from his stomach reached his head. The wooden panels in the ceiling swayed slowly to and fro, he looked away and stared into the boarded walls, shocked at how bad his breath smelled. The smell was taking him over.

La mort est dans cette ville
, he thought, panting for breath.

He could see the doctor’s face floating above him, as it had the day he woke up from the anaesthetic, his friend’s clenched jaw and evasive gaze; he had already been informed about the consequences and alternatives and understood immediately.

Inoperable, untreatable. Three to six months from the diagnosis. The remaining time would entail a lot of pain, sickness, digestive trouble, weight loss, severe nausea, extreme tiredness, low blood pressure. Treatment consisted of anti-sickness medicine, painkillers and nutritional supplements.

He knew he would fade, almost rot, away. The smell would become more intrusive, his friend the doctor had advised him not to try to hide it with scent or aftershave. It wouldn’t help.

He gazed around the room, looking over the kitchen
area in the corner and the panels on the walls and the colourful rugs on the plastic floor, trying to find something that wasn’t moving. He stopped at the window. Through the gap in the heavy curtains he could see blue daylight, cold, crisp. Gradually the world stopped swaying and he was able to breathe more easily, sliding into his dreamlike state where the limitations of reality were gradually wiped away.

‘I’m from Bojen Sailing Club; I’d like to book a seminar room from seven p.m. on Tuesday,’ he heard himself say with a peculiar echo in the background. In front of him the librarian had big books open on the desk. He knew she no longer believed him, because he couldn’t possibly be a sailor and a fly-fisherman, a butterfly collector and a genealogist.

Everyone who came to the meeting had a codename, regular names like Greger or Torsten or Mats. His choice of Ragnwald was met with frowns. You shouldn’t give yourself airs; but he was better than them and they knew that.

He laughed quietly in his in-between-world, returned to the old works that fever-hot night in early summer 1969 when the world was on the brink of the great revolution and they were ready. They had prepared for armed struggle and had guards patrolling the camp day and night. The company carved cudgels by the campfire, they discussed guerrilla warfare and practised self-defence.

In Norway the antagonism between left-wing activists and the others had been much greater than in Sweden. A radical bookshop had been bombed. They were convinced that it would soon be their turn, and they weren’t about to let themselves be led like lambs to the slaughter.

The fact that they were doing their training in
Melderstein was particularly amusing, because the regime at the old works was religious. But because he had booked it as a parish assistant in Luleå no one had questioned his motives, and they had held thundering Maoist meetings in the little works church.

He was filled with the complete sense of harmony he had experienced in those few days, reliving once again how his capacity to remember all the quotations had given him a central position in the leadership, even though the delegates had come from all over the country. They practised battle skills and survival through the night, and it was there that he met Red Wolf.

He smiled at the ceiling, drifting off on the waves, seeing before him her soft face and thin little body. She was so young and so wide-eyed and she saw him as a Master. No one else had his experience of the Rebel movement and the Student Union occupation. He was secure on his throne, and even though little Red Wolf had only come to keep her friend company at the summer camp without realizing what it was about, she was swept up in it. She became a Servant of the Revolution quicker than he had dared hope, and she did it for his sake.

For his sake
.

Karina who kissed him behind Melderstein church. He could still recall the taste of her chewing-gum.

He turned over in the bed.

In Bojen Sailing Club they had formed cells where they decided where people would live and work: a flat in Örnnäset and the nightshift at the ironworks; a small cottage in Svartöstaden and work with the local council. They had organized strikes, worked through tenants’ associations, unions, according to Mao’s political theory about the people’s front, the people’s movements, but it was all going too slowly. They spent too long discussing things; the Fly-fishing Club was full of false
authorities who loved the sound of their own voices. The movement’s popularity brought with it a load of pretend revolutionaries who only came for the girls and the beer. After Melderstein the mood became rancorous. Two comrades challenged him for the leadership, with the support of others, so he took his family and left. He left bourgeois, small-town communism to die its slow, natural death, and formed his own group to plan how to get hold of real power.

The knife in his stomach twisted again. Ventricular cancer, stomach cancer, apparently rare in Europe these days, strikes without warning. Operation to see if it’s treatable or not. Symptoms similar to those of a gastric ulcer, and a gastroscopy discovers an ugly running sore and a suspected tumour, later identified under a microscope. And the patient is opened up, the surrounding organs are found to be full of cancer, and they close up the stomach again. Tumours in the lungs, bones and brain, gradual death from general organ failure caused by too great a burden of tumours.

Three to six months.

Suddenly his father was standing beside his bed and he was panting hard, bouncing off the walls. I accuse you. I hold you responsible for the fall of Adam and Eve.