A Darker Shade of Sweden by John-Henri Holmberg Page A

13 a holiday. On the whole, the Lucia tradition is viewed as a pre-Christmas celebration and is beloved not least by teenagers, who take the opportunity to stay awake all night, drinking and celebrating, and ending their revelries by dressing up to wake their parents and teachers.
    DOCTOR ROSBERG WAS AN OLD MAN, SO OLD THAT HE REALLY SHOULDN’T be practicing medicine any longer, Inga-Lisa had told her.
    â€œBut who cares,” she had laughed, loudly enough for the makeup on her face almost to crack. “That’s why I see him. He gives me anything I want to get, just a short lecture and then he pulls out his prescription book.”
    Inga-Lisa was her newest acquaintance. She had met her out in Hovsjö. A woman of around fifty, fresh and loud. But with a heart of gold. They had met coming home from the mall, same suburban bus, same apartment house entrance.
    â€œWhat the hell, do you live here, too?”
    She cussed constantly. And she knew people everywhere. Jannike did neither. One evening, while they were sitting in Inga-Lisa’s cosy kitchen playing the two-player version of whist, she told her about Doctor Rosberg.
    â€œI’ve seen him for years. He prescribes for me. Whatever I need. He knows I can hardly fucking sleep. It’s my arthritis and my fibromyalgia. Stuff you get when you’re an old hag. He’s one of the few doctors who’ll go to bat for a woman. Last time he gave me pills that would kill an ox . . . if you’re not careful.”
    She kept thinking about that. Kill an ox. Nothing was clear to her as yet, no plans or anything of that kind. But perhaps that was how they began taking shape.
    Now she was standing outside the door of his office and had to press the bell hard and long, so long that she was at the verge of giving up. But finally she heard stumping from inside and the door opened. A lined, wrinkled male face appeared.
    â€œMiss Linder? Is it you?”
    â€œYes,” she mumbled.
    â€œWelcome, Miss Linder. Please step inside.”
    His hands were long and so thin that they looked as if the veins lay on top of his skin. She didn’t like the idea of having to feel those hands on her body. But she would have to. She had to play along.
    â€œHow do you do,” she said and put on an expression of suffering while she made her breaths heavier and strained.
    â€œPlease sit down and wait. I will call you in a moment.” He made a gesture towards a group of chairs and disappeared down the hallway.
    His office was part of a huge apartment in the Östermalm part of town. Heavy, plush furniture, stained cushions. Inga-Lisa had said that as far as she knew, he lived alone in the apartment. She had never heard of any Mrs. Rosberg, nor had she ever seen any nurse. On the couch was a small stuffed dog, its fur made from crocheted silk strings. Its nose was almost entirely worn away, only loose remnants of black, torn yarn. She imagined a child hugging it, holding it up to ward off the smell of ether and the metallic clattering and the tiny screams now and then penetrating from the examination room.
    She put her fake fur coat on a hanger and unwound the long, striped scarf that had covered her head and warmed her ears. Cold had arrived already in late November along with several inches of snow that for once hadn’t melted but remained as on a Christmas card. She supposed they were talking about that snow right now at work as they sat around the coffee table. The highlight of the day, when they were all gathered in the tiny canteen. Two candles would be lit, for next Sunday was the second in Advent. She supposed Sylvia as usual would have gotten hold of some bog moss for the Advent wreath and bought candles. She would have been down in the cellar to get all the electric candles and the red tablecloth with Santas that usually covered the table for all of December and part of January until someone, mostly Evy, brought it home and washed it. Surely