The Cruel Stars of the Night (7 page)

Laura came to linger under a tree, the branches of which hung all the way to the ground. Someone had thrown a piece of paper on the ground and Laura picked up the dirty note. “Milk, horseradish, ricotta, soup-in-a-cup, chips” written in a handwriting that was barely legible,and at the very bottom a string of digits, perhaps a telephone number. The piece of paper, a list composed in haste, disturbed her. Not because it littered this area—it was insignificant and would soon crumble away—but the painful aspect was the quotidian message from a world where you bought horseradish and chips.

Laura crumpled it up, but then folded it flat just as quickly with an impulse to dial the phone number. It was a sign, it hit her, perhaps a coded message for help.

She stared at the note, had to steady herself against the tree trunk, and tried to imagine another person, one with soup-in-a-cup in front of her, sitting at the kitchen table. Or else she had, because surely it was a woman, lost this list before she went shopping and was standing in the grocery store right now trying to remember the items she needed to buy.

Laura tossed the scrap of paper, pushed her way through the branches, and stepped out onto the gravel path. It was as if her legs no longer had the strength to carry her farther into the garden. She remained rooted to the spot, indecisive. An older man was strolling around the alpine section. He cast a quick glance in her direction and smiled.

Laura hesitantly followed the path and after a couple of meters turned toward the scrubby remains of some tall perennials. Her feet sank into the lawn that was soggy after the rain of the past few days.

She didn’t really find things as she remembered them. The organization of the flower sections had been changed. She had run around here as a girl, chasing butterflies, stood absolutely still behind bushes and spied on her mother.

Now it was different. It was like visiting the neighborhood of your childhood where the buildings had been torn down and the streets repaved. Laura looked around. Everything had withered away except a few asters that were clinging to the remaining autumn warmth.

She heard voices from the entrance of the tropical greenhouse. Several women in work clothes stood on the steps, smoking. One of them laughed. Laura turned away.

“What am I doing here?” she asked herself. She looked at the asters. Maybe they had stood there twenty-five years ago. Laura couldn’t remember. Her mother would have known. At different times she took her daughter to the most colorful areas, told her about the flowers. Sometimes she used names other than those printed on the metal signs. “My names,” she explained, “the ones I learned when I was a little girl.”

Laura knew that her grandmother had been known for her flower beds. They had never met. Her grandmother had died a few years before Laura was born. Her grandfather, who shortly thereafter moved to Tierp, she rarely saw. Perhaps sometimes in conjunction with a birthday. He did not come when she graduated from grammar school and did not even send a greeting when she graduated from the university. Then he died as abruptly as her grandmother. Laura attended his funeral alone. Her father did not have the time, he said, but Laura knew he had never liked his reserved father-in-law. There had been many people in Örbyhus Church. She recognized a few faces. She spoke to Mårten Jonsson, who had been married to Alice’s sister Agnes, and his three sons. It looked as if Lars-Erik, one of the cousins, wanted to say something to her but the others’ disapproving attitude held him back.

After Agnes had died, only thirty-one years old, contact between the Hindersten and Jonsson families had become much less frequent.

Laura knew who a couple of the other funeral guests were, but most of them were unknown, men as taciturn as her grandfather, buttoned into suits that were too tight, women who spoke quietly but without ceasing in her mother’s dialect, with turns of phrase that Laura had not heard in years.

She cried at his graveside. The people from Örbyhus, from Skyttorp and Tierp, shot glances at her but did not say a kind or comforting word. Many speeches were given in her grandfather’s honor but they did not say anything to the woman from the city, the grandchild who only turned up to the funeral.

Laura was ashamed of her tears. She wanted to scream out over the churchyard that, in fact, she had liked her grandfather and she grieved for him, but she knew they wouldn’t believe her. Her words were meaningless in Örbyhus.

She was starting to get cold but could not make herself go on. The unwelcoming and damp garden, that at this time of the year only breathed death, was her church. She was struck by the thought that she wanted to be buried here. Without ceremony and speeches, simply lowered into the ground and shoveled over.

Suddenly her thoughts turned to warmth, mild winds, and a life far from Uppsala. They sometimes turned up, these thoughts. She had never visited a country other than Italy and then always with her father but nonetheless she had a vision of a little hotel by the sea. A place where it was always warm, that had a sun-drenched harbor with a little restaurant that she was in the habit of patronizing, where she was known and welcome.

She had once told Stig about her daydream. At first he laughed but then he became serious, looked at her, and said something about there being other lives. One only had to take the opportunity, and he said those possibilities were open to Laura, free as she was.

Sometimes Stig figured in this daydream, in that idyllic hotel where it seemed so easy to live, but she never talked about it. She thought that if she told him about her fantasy she could get him to dream in similar ways.

“I’m tired of hotels,” was all he said.

As the director of marketing he traveled a great deal and complained loudly about the boredom when he was forced to travel to promote the company abroad.

Laura was awakened from her thoughts by the women who had apparently finished smoking and were on their way back into the greenhouse again. She walked back and got into the chilled car. She could leave the country, drive out on the E-4 and go south. She was free, as Stig had pointed out, now more than ever before. Instead she took the Norby Road to the Castle, turned right toward the Academic Hospital, down the hill next to the hospital, and passed the swan pond. Since she had bought her car this was her new route to work. She looked at the clock on the wall of the toll house, as she had started doing. From here it was eight minutes to the office.

Seven

She walked in the door with a smile, nodded to Ann-Charlotte, entered in the code, and took the elevator to her division. Barbro looked up from her desk in surprise.

“Oh my, Laura, how is everything?”

Barbro loved tragedies, which is why she smiled a little more widely when she discovered who the visitor was.

“How are things?”

“Fine, thank you,” Laura said.

She heard Stig and Lennart’s voices from the conference room. They were bickering as usual.

“Nothing new about your father?”

Laura shook her head.

“How awful for you,” Barbro said sympathetically. She had stood up, walked over to Laura, and placed a hand on her arm.

Let go of me, Laura thought. Barbro’s breath settled like a sticky membrane over Laura’s face.

“How awful,” Barbro repeated and her grip on Laura’s arm hardened.

“I just want to talk a little with Stig,” she said and smiled, disengaging herself.

“Of course, Stickan has been wondering . . .”

Laura left Barbro without listening to the rest, heading toward the open door of the conference room. She hated it when people called Stig “Stickan.”

She stopped outside the door and listened. They were talking about the German affair. Lennart was dissatisfied with their approach, which Laura already knew. Stig’s voice was calm as usual.

She opened the door completely and stepped into the room. Her colleagues looked up.

“But Laura, there you are! I have sent you three thousand e-mails.”

“I’ve been having some problems with e-mail,” Laura said.

“And you haven’t been answering the phone. We were getting worried. But I’m glad you came by,” Stig Franklin said and got to his feet.

He was wearing the sweater vest. It didn’t suit him, looking—like most of his clothes—out of place, but that was Stig. His scent and his hand gripped her. Lennart remained seated and stared at Laura with a vacant expression.

“We’re talking about our plans in Essen,” he said.

He dropped her hand.

“I took the revised offer with me. I have added some of the missing information,” Laura said. “It makes sense to attach a copy of a calculation for the second year. It will give them a better overview, and Hausmann likes that.”

“Marvellous,” Stig said enthusiastically.

She looked at him. Every day she thought she saw something new in Stig. His beard was freshly trimmed, which she liked. She had an urge to caress his cheek. The messy hair made him look boyish.

“Jessica ran a calculation on the second year,” Lennart said, “and she thought the figures for education and training were on the low side.”

Laura shot him a quick glance.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” she said.

At that moment a woman walked into the room.

“Laura!”

“We were just talking about you,” Lennart said.

“How are you? I’ve been thinking so much about you.”

Laura didn’t answer, just sat down and started digging around in her purse.

“Here is the new one,” she said and threw a folder on the table.

“Have you been working while you’ve been at home?” Jessica Franklin said. “You certainly didn’t need to.”

Lennart snorted.

“But do tell, have the police said anything else about your father?”

Jessica’s voice was pleasant, not at all as shrill as Barbro’s, but it nonetheless made Laura shiver. She saw how Jessica’s red lips moved and how her tongue ran over her lower lip. Her speech was well-groomed, just as her appearance. She was wearing a red dress that Laura would never have worn to work but on Jessica it looked completely natural and it fit her perfectly. She had a little ornament on a thin silver chain around her neck. Laura knew it depicted the love goddess from Bali, a woman who had given birth to twelve children.

Jessica’s hair was bobbed, very blond, and rested on her shoulders. Sometimes she threw her head back and ran her hands through her hair, gathering it into a ponytail, especially when she was excited, and it was a gesture that Laura understood that men liked. She probably did not do it consciously, but the sensual movement revealed her beautiful throat. Laura glanced at Stig. He smiled.

Barbro had once called Jessica a slut. Laura had asked what she meant and Barbro had explained that the gesture with her hair was an invitation. She didn’t say anything else. An invitation. Laura looked at Jessica’s throat. It was shapely.

Jessica kept talking but Laura only looked at her with confusion and Jessica broke off.

“But here I am going on,” she said.

Stig put his arm around Jessica.

“You believe in Essen, don’t you?”

He smiled even more widely and squeezed her shoulders.

“If we get this, then the Dutch will come on board, too,” Jessica said. “Won’t they, Lennart?”

He shrugged.

“I don’t believe in your model for B-One,” Laura said.

Stig’s smile froze.

“But my dear, we’ve talked about that,” he said.

B1 was Jessica’s part of the project. Stig had also been critical in the beginning but had changed his mind. Now B1 was included in the offer, with exactly the presentation that Jessica had suggested.

“We talked it through while you were on sick leave,” Jessica said. “They’ll lap it up, you’ll see.”

And then came the head toss. Laura wanted to stab her pencil into Jessica’s throat, drive it in deep, and twist it.

“Maybe,” she said.

“Which we should celebrate,” Jessica continued with unperturbed enthusiasm, adding, “Torbjörnsson certainly won’t be.”

Torbjörnsson & Son Inc. were their greatest competitors. Jessica had worked there for four years before she joined the company. Most of them assumed there was a desire for revenge in her eagerness to land the Essen account. Apparently something had happened at her old workplace. No one knew what but there was talk of Jessica having had an affair with Torbjörnsson junior.

When you die we will celebrate even more, Laura thought and smiled at her colleague. She looked at the pencil in her hand. It was freshly sharpened. She looked at Jessica’s throat. Right there, in that hollow, is where I want to put it and let out all the poisoned blood.

“How are you, Laura?”

Stig bent down and looked at her.

“Everything is fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”

She tested the point of the pencil against her index finger.

Stig put his hand on her knee. She gave him a searching gaze as if to ensnare him in her sphere. He smiled unsurely and tried to take the pencil out of her hand.

“You might cut yourself,” he said.

“Perhaps you want a glass of water?” Jessica said and leaned over Laura. “You look pale.”

Laura held up the pencil with the point vibrating only a few centimeters from Jessica’s neck.

“You can hurt yourself,” she said and smiled. “Wouldn’t it be a pity to get blood on your pretty dress.”

Jessica straightened up and looked anxiously at Lennart. Stig’s smile had become a grimace.

“Would you like a ride home?”

Laura nodded. Stig got up, glanced swiftly at Jessica, and made a dismissive gesture with his head.

“I’m going home soon,” Jessica said, and turned to Stig. “The tile layer is coming at three. Dinner’s at six thirty.”

“Okay,” said Stig, and helped Laura to her feet.

“Do you have your car?”

Laura nodded again. She wanted to stay close to him, feel his hand under her arm, almost so it nudged her left breast.

“We can take two cars, but I want you to come home with me.”

Lennart stood up, gathered some papers together, and left.

Laura placed her hand on Stig’s shoulder. For a split second they stood there like a dance couple. Laura moistened her cracked lips with her tongue. Slowly, as if she was on the verge of losing consciousness, she leaned in toward Stig and rested her chin against his bristly beard.

“Help me, Stig,” she whispered into his ear.

The last time Stig Franklin had visited Laura Hindersten was a cold and clear morning, after several days of heavy snow. It was in February, they were on their way to a conference in Linköping and Stig was going to pick up Laura.

The sun had just risen over the City Forest and shone through the trees with a strong yet mild light. The branches of the snow-laden trees and bushes sagged, conceded defeat, and bowed deeply. Hare tracks ran diagonally across the otherwise undisturbed property.

Now none of that beauty remained. He noted with consternation the garbage that had accumulated in the parking space. She clung to his arm, did not say anything, pulled him up through the bushes to the front door.

“That’s coming loose,” he said and pointed to the place where the front steps met the wall.

Laura looked at him.

“Help me,” she said softly without looking at the stairs.

There was a pedestal leaning halfway into a gigantic rhododendron. He stopped and gently squeezed a dormant bud. It glistened with moisture. Laura looked at his hand fingering the fleshy bud. She pulled him close and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked around as if to assure himself they were not being observed. Laura sighed.

“Everything is fine,” she whispered. “It’s fine when you are here.”

“You should rest a little,” Stig said.

She nodded and he led her up the stairs, took the keys out of her purse, unlocked the door, and shoved it open as he put his arm around her shoulders. A stale burst of air hit them in the face.

In the hall there was a pile of old bed linens and a stained mattress was leaning up against the wall.

“Is that your father’s?”

She didn’t answer, pulled off her coat, and dropped it on the ground.

“Would you like anything?”

He shook his head, picked up her coat, and hung it up.

“Have you talked to anyone? I was thinking if you . . .”

He stopped abruptly when he realized that Laura had slipped out of her skirt, let it slide down her legs, and now with a rapid movement pulled off her blouse. Everything went very fast. Suddenly she stood there in front of him. Her breaths were warm.

“I have to go,” he said and cleared his throat.

She shook her head.

“Rest with me for a while,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“I know that you want to,” she said and stamped her foot to free herself from her skirt.

She was wearing black pantyhose and a light-colored lace bra. Her skin glowed with unnatural whiteness in the dim hall.

“My father isn’t home,” she continued.

“I know.”

“No one will disturb us.”

He tried to avoid looking at her. She was beautiful in a frail way and Stig had to fight against an impulse to pull her toward him. He was very warm but did not unzip his jacket.

“You know I can’t,” he repeated, much less convincing than he had intended.

“Admit that you want to,” she said. “You can have me here in the hall if you like.”

Without meaning to he looked at the mattress. She pulled off her pantyhose, took his hand and put it on one of her breasts. It just filled his hand. She let go and he stood there passively with his hand on her breast. It was getting dark outside and he could hardly make out her face. Her chest rose and sank.

He was sweating, felt a drop run down his face and it was as if he couldn’t get enough air. He drew a deep breath.

“You want to,” she filled in with the self-confidence in her voice that he knew so well from the office, but that now stood out in such contrast to her delicate body that he had to look closely at her. She is two people in one, he thought.

“Maybe,” he said.

“There is no one here to disturb us anymore,” she said and leaned against the wall.

He quickly pulled his hand back, turned around, tripped slightly on the sheets on the floor, and flew out of the door, ran down the stairs, and was greeted by the chill of the October night. He stopped and swore.

A cat ran off and disappeared between the bushes. He heard her call his name. He hesitated, stared into the thick vegetation, saw something between the bushes. He heard light steps and a voice calling him.

Then she stood there, a fairy-tale creature appearing out of the rose brambles, half naked, panting from her dash out of the house.

They looked at each other. They had known each other for eight years. She had never been more beautiful. The dark hair that framed the pale cheeks, the skin that glowed like ivory, the minimal panty, a little slip of cotton that made him think of whipped cream, the slender legs that were trembling with cold and arousal.

“I’m a virgin,” she whispered.

Stig Franklin came home right when
Aktuellt,
the news broadcast, started.

“I’m home,” he yelled.

His face in the hall mirror betrayed nothing of the events of the early evening. The worry he had felt in the car on the way home was gone. He had driven with the window down, letting the fresh air blow through the tension and slight nausea.

Now he was both hungry and thirsty and walked into the kitchen. A plate had been left out on the dining room table, also a dish with boiled potatoes and a pork chop with a congealed sauce. He opened the refrigerator and took out a Ruddles County, took a few sips, and sat down on a chair, smiled, and felt now for the first time how tired he was.

He heard the prime minister speaking on the television upstairs but could not tell what it was about. The voice of the reporter was heard from time to time. It was that woman he had never been able to stand.

“You’re drinking strong beer?”

Jessica had come downstairs without him noticing.

“I was thirsty,” he said, and smiled and gripped the bottle as if he was afraid she would take it away from him.

“How was it? It took a long time.”

“She wanted to talk.”

“About B-One, of course. I knew it. What did she say?”

“It wasn’t that. She’s not doing so well.”

“No, anyone can see that. She didn’t talk about the deal then?”

“No, I said.”

“Then what did she want?”

“Nothing in particular. She just wanted to talk. She’s lonely.”