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

they had also bought gingerbread biscuits and a saffron ring. She could still hear the crackle from the small sugar granules when you crushed them under your feet in the canteen. However carefully you tried to cut the saffron ring and put the pieces on plates, there were always crumbs on the floor. Sometimes someone put up an angry sign by the sink. YOUR MOM DOESN ’ T WORK HERE . CLEAN UP YOUR MESS ! IT USUALLY HELPED FOR A WHILE .
    Jannike sank down in one of the armchairs and reached for a magazine. They were popular women’s or family weeklies, Allers and Husmodern , but at least fifteen years old and thumbed to shreds. She looked at the photos of celebrities with outmoded clothes and hairstyles. Mullets and shoulder pads. It looked weird. After a short while she heard the door of the examination room open. The old man cleared his throat.
    â€œYour turn, Miss Linder.”
    As if his waiting room had been full of patients!
    He had slid down in the chair behind his gigantic, worn desk. Papers and documents piled high almost hid him from view. He had to lean forward to be able to look at her. To his left, on a smaller table, stood a skeleton made of plastic or bone. Its naked teeth grinned at her. She shook herself.
    â€œWell, Miss Linder, so tell me why you’re here.”
    â€œWell . . . a friend recommended you, Inga-Lisa.” She was suddenly unable to remember Inga-Lisa’s last name, and it disturbed her.
    The man lifted a bunch of papers out of a suspension file lying on his table. She got a glimpse of notes written in a shaky, sprawling hand. She started to cry. She didn’t know why, the tears just came, like a strong swell of despair. Embarrassed, she covered her mouth with her hand.
    His eyes turned towards her. The skin beneath them was slack and baggy, as if his eyeballs might fall out at any moment. She fumbled for a handkerchief.
    â€œI’m in such awful pain,” she whispered.
    He regarded her sadly.
    â€œWhere does it hurt?”
    â€œHere and . . . here. All over.”
    â€œHmm.” Again he thumbed his papers. “Have you seen a doctor previously?”
    â€œNo-o.”
    â€œAnd why not?”
    â€œI just thought . . . That it’s part of it, sort of.”
    â€œPart of it?”
    â€œYes, my mother has it and my aunts and my grandmother as well. They’ve told me it’s part of it, it’s just something women get. Something with fibro . . . There’s no point, they’ve told me, doctors just don’t care. But then I met Inga-Lisa. We’re neighbors. She told me about you, Dr. Rosberg, how kind and considerate you are. That you hate to see people suffer.”
    He put his papers down and looked out the window. His nostrils twitched slightly.
    â€œI have to examine you, as I’m sure you understand.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI can’t just go writing prescriptions left and right without knowing what I’m doing.”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    â€œI’m an old man. I’ll very soon close down my office.”
    â€œOh,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    He snapped his bony fingers.
    â€œYes. It’s sad. But sooner or later everything in life comes to an end.”
    He asked her to undress down to her underwear and lie down on the examination table. The paper covering was wrinkled and torn. She saw that it was the last piece of the roll. She was freezing, but she undressed as he had told her and lay down. He had turned his back to her while she got ready, stood fingering the skeleton. Tapped its arms, which rattled.
    â€œAre you ready, Miss Linder?” he asked after a short while. She was lying on her back and felt goose pimples on her stomach.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThen I’ll be with you.”
    She turned her eyes up to the high ceiling. Far above a lamp dangled on its cord. She saw wafting thread and spiderwebs. The doctor was leaning over her. He