The Widows’ Cafe: A Short Story (2 page)

‘Strange coincidences happen all the time.’ Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she added: ‘Maybe it was my delicious buns that made their arteries clog up.’

‘I can assure you that I don’t find this the least bit funny.’

‘No. Of course not,’ said Marianne, in a serious tone of voice. But the sparkle in her eyes was still there.

‘I don’t know what you want me to say,’ she went on, again throwing out her hands. ‘The men came here to have coffee with their wives, and then had the misfortune to die of a heart attack. There’s not much I can do about that.’

‘That’s not the only thing these men had in common.’ Not for a second did Eva Wärn take her eyes off Marianne. ‘They were all known to beat their wives.’

‘Oh, that’s awful. There are some very unpleasant men out there.’

Marianne reached for a bun from the platter on the counter and, with a look of contentment, she took a big bite.

‘Are you sure you won’t have one? It’s on the house.’

‘No, thanks,’ said the inspector curtly, looking as if the mere idea was repulsive. Then she abruptly stood up. ‘It appears we’re not going to get anywhere with this.’

‘Feel free to come back,’ said Marianne cheerfully as she too stood up, brushing the sugar from her fingertips.

Eva Wärn didn’t reply. The shop bell rang as she slammed the door behind her.

‘Where have you been? It can’t take an hour to shop for groceries!’

His voice is shrill.

‘There were a lot of people in the shop. Tomorrow is Midsummer’s Eve, you know. Everybody wanted to …’ She can hear the panic in her voice. The queues were so long. She had shifted from one foot to another, looking at her watch every minute, knowing that she would be in trouble when she got home.

Wham! His arm connects with her cheekbone. For a moment she wonders how hard a blow a cheekbone can withstand before it shatters like a hollow stick. But this time it holds. She feels only the mute, burning sting on her skin.

‘Who were you meeting? You might as well tell me! Who have you been meeting behind my back? Answer me!’

He’s shouting so loudly that the neighbours will soon start to complain. And she knows what will happen then. The police will arrive and knock on the door. He will go to open it. Courteous, well-mannered. He’ll explain that his wife is temperamental and occasionally raises her voice more than necessary. It’s nothing – a minor disagreement, that’s all. But thanks for coming over, officers. And then they will leave. And she will have to bear the brunt of his rage at being humiliated.

She surrenders. As she invariably does. Offers no protests. Does not defend herself. Simply accepts whatever he doles out.

The hot summer air struck Eva like a wall. Her uniform was always too heavy for the summer weather. She could feel drops of sweat rolling down her back. What a strange encounter that was at the Widows’ Café. Such a calm and peaceful setting. The café’s owner, with her grey hair, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and her gentle smile – the woman reminded her of her beloved grandmother. There was something so maternal about her, so warm, that Eva had struggled to resist the urge to lean her head against the woman’s voluminous bosom and breathe in the scent of flour and cinnamon.

A tear spilled down her cheek, and she wiped it away with annoyance. So undignified. So pathetic. Why was she allowing this interview to have such an effect on her? Yet she’d known in advance that it would do just that. It was sheer chance that she’d stumbled upon the connection to the Widows’ Café after reading through the reports, but she had realized immediately that this was a turning point. Before she even set foot in the café the whispers had reached her. Like a muted murmuring, the rumours had come and gone over the years. No one had wanted to say anything to her; they saw her as an outsider, an enemy. What they didn’t know was that she was one of them. That was a secret nobody knew.

She got in the police car and tried to pull herself together. It was time to go back to the station. None of her colleagues had any idea what she was working on. She’d told no one about the link that she’d discovered. No one knew about the Widows’ Café. And that was exactly the way she wanted it. Now she just needed time to think.

By the end of summer Marianne had almost forgotten about the inspector’s visit to her café. Occasionally their conversation would pop up in her mind though. Not because it had been unpleasant – she’d been through too much in her life to find anything particularly unpleasant any more. No, it was because of the vulnerability she’d seen emanating from the police officer beneath that tough facade. That was what continued to nag at her thoughts.

The moment she saw the couple come through the door, that memory rose to the surface again. She’d never seen them before. They were not among her steady customers. She happened to have a photographic memory for faces, and she could recall everyone who had ever entered the café. Yet she knew at once. She felt an immediate sisterhood. A connection, like an invisible bond, between her and the woman. There was something in their eyes that always gave them away. A hunted look. Panic hovering just out of sight.

She watched the couple as they sat down at a table in the corner. The man looked deceptively meek. Short, grey, insignificant. All the same, there was something in his eyes that she recognized all too well. He had Ruben’s eyes. Part hatred, part unreasonable anger, part aggression, and part malice. She knew the recipe by heart.

The woman looked in her direction and their eyes locked. Marianne’s heart ached. She could feel the woman’s pain as clearly as if it were her own. In fact, it was almost worse to sense another person’s troubles. Marianne’s pain was over. She had confronted it. Confronted the fear. At last.

The woman came over to her.

It had taken almost half an hour to get home. Kjell could feel the anger smouldering and sputtering inside him. An hour wasted on going out for a fucking cup of coffee. Beata had been going on about it for weeks, until he’d eventually given in and agreed to go with her. Although afterwards he couldn’t understand why. The café was nothing special. It was in a good location, of course, but there was nothing to set it apart from all the other coffee shops in the city. They could have gone somewhere local and been home in five minutes. Still, the coffee was excellent; that much he had to admit. Strong, hot, and with a slight taste of something … different. Some sort of spice. Maybe cardamom.

‘Well, are you satisfied now?’

Kjell slammed the car door, gleefully noting how Beata flinched.

‘Finally you can stop nagging me about taking you to that place, right? I can’t for the life of me understand why we had to go there. And now Sunday’s almost over. Do you realize how much I could have got done in the time we spent on this? Do you?’

He pushed Beata through the door ahead of him. The anger inside him was growing with every word, and he could hardly wait to let it loose. The sense of relief afterwards was always so enormous, so liberating. All the tension evaporated, and for a while he could breathe easier. Sometimes he’d be filled with a vague sense of regret, but over the years he’d taught himself to repress that feeling.

‘How could you dream up something so stupid! Don’t you think I have better things to do than sit around and guzzle coffee on the weekend?’

He grabbed her hair and pulled her head backwards. But much to his surprise he didn’t see the usual look of submission and resignation. Instead he saw something that resembled … no, how could that be possible? Was that triumph in her eyes?

Kjell raised his hand to strike, determined to pound that sudden, disrespectful look out of Beata’s eyes. But an acute twinge of pain forced him to drop his hand. He pressed it to his chest. The pain seemed to rip and claw at the area around his heart. Unaware of what he was doing, his other hand let go of Beata’s hair, and she collapsed in a heap at his feet. There she stayed. Watching, observing. And as the pain intensified and he felt the floor rise up to meet him, he once again saw that look of triumph on her face.

Ruben hadn’t been like that in the beginning. He had been a quiet man, considerate, almost shy. That was what had attracted her. Having grown up with four rowdy brothers, she had truly appreciated Ruben’s gentleness when he was courting her.

It didn’t take more than two days after their wedding for his anger to come pouring out. The anger that seemed to boil and seethe inside him, always on the alert for mistakes, an excuse to spew out its hateful lava. She no longer remembered what had caused the first explosion, which was far from the last of his outbursts. Maybe it was something important. Maybe it was something minor. That had ceased to matter.

For twenty years she put up with it. Twenty years that had marked her body, her soul, her heart for all eternity. When at last she put a stop to it, she was surprised to discover how easy it was. How weak Ruben actually was. Her experience as a nurse had provided the answer. Sometimes she cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she decided sooner to do what had to be done? It turned out to be so easy.

The only way she could forgive herself for not putting her foot down earlier was by passing her experience on. She knew how to do it. How easy it was. Rumours had quickly spread in the covert network that existed. The secret network that protected those women who had no other way out.

And so they came to her. Not many, but a few. More than that police detective knew.

They had all come to the Widows’ Café.

Autumn leaves swirled past the windows. Business had been extraordinarily good all summer, with a steady stream of new customers. Now, on the verge of autumn, only the regular customers were left. Those who always chose the same tables, always ordered the same type of coffee and pastry. Those who thrived on familiar routines and settings, and who saw Marianne and her café as a refuge from their daily chores. This was the time of year that Marianne liked best. When the café was quiet and calm, and her guests had to speak in low voices unless they wanted everyone else to hear their conversations. When the sound of a teaspoon striking a china platter sounded like a gunshot and made all the other customers jump. The summer season was essential if the café was going to stay in business, but this was the time when she found peace of mind.

Pling.
The bell over the door announced a new customer. Marianne was squatting down behind the counter taking inventory of the coffee on hand, so she had to stand up to see who had come in.

‘Hello.’

With a stern nod, Detective Inspector Eva Wärn greeted Marianne.

‘Hello,’ replied Marianne, regarding the inspector and her companion with interest.

This time she saw two police officers. Eva Wärn and a male colleague. Both were in uniform, both wore expressions that were equally grim.

‘How can I help the city authorities today?’ said Marianne with a smile.

Eva Wärn cast a fleeting glance at her colleague.

‘You know what I want,’ he said brusquely. Then he went over to the table next to the window and sat down with his back to Marianne.

The female inspector hesitantly approached the counter. She avoided looking Marianne in the eye. Instead, she studied the selection of cakes in the display case.

‘Are you on duty today?’ asked Marianne, but the officer didn’t answer. Eva Wärn continued to study the baked goods as if her life depended on choosing the right bun or pastry.

‘Two cinnamon rolls,’ she said at last, raising her eyes.

‘Cinnamon rolls it is,’ Marianne jovially replied as she placed two big buns sprinkled with sugar on two separate plates.

‘My husband would prefer the kind without the powdered sugar,’ said Eva Wärn, casting a hasty look over her shoulder at the man sitting near the window.

Marianne didn’t say a word, merely raised an eyebrow as tiny scraps of information began whirling through her head. After exchanging the buns for ones with sliced almonds on top, she studied the woman more closely than she had before. That tired, worn-out look that she’d noticed the first time they met was still there. Along with something else. And now she couldn’t understand how she’d missed it before. What she saw in Eva Wärn’s face was … herself.

Marianne placed her hand on the inspector’s and said in a gentle voice, ‘And what would you like to drink?’

For a moment Eva Wärn didn’t speak as she stared at the hand resting on top of her own. Then she raised her eyes and said in a firm voice:

‘A caffe latte for me. And a Widow’s Special for my husband.’

Marianne looked her in the eye for a long moment. Then she turned and began preparing the order.

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Camilla Lackberg is a worldwide bestseller renowned for her brilliant contemporary psychological thrillers. Her novels have sold over 12 million copies in 55 countries with translations into 37 languages.

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