happened in the dark. In silence.
And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.
She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.
“Astrid,” was all he said.
Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.
She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.
Thomas Söderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.
“Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.
Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.
“Ask Curt Bäckström,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”
The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.
Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.
“Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Söderberg.
Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:
“No.”
He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.
Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.
Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching. As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.
Thomas Söderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.
"I just want to know that she’s all right," he said. "Nothing must happen to her."
Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.
“I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”
Thomas Söderberg nodded.
“If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.
Astrid looked at Thomas Söderberg.
And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.
M åns Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious book-keeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.
After Sophie’s had closed Måns had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.
When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt, well, however it was he felt when the
And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.
She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.
“Astrid,” was all he said.
Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.
She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.
Thomas Söderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.
“Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.
Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.
“Ask Curt Bäckström,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”
The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.
Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.
“Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Söderberg.
Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:
“No.”
He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.
Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.
Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching. As if Thomas might suddenly shout “Away” and hit him on the muzzle.
Thomas Söderberg looked disturbed. He twisted his body as if he were trying to shake off the pastors’ wives.
"I just want to know that she’s all right," he said. "Nothing must happen to her."
Curt nodded, and his gaze slid over the seats, which were beginning to fill up. He held up the Bible in his hands and pressed it to his chest.
“I want to bear witness,” he said quietly. “God has something to say.”
Thomas Söderberg nodded.
“If you hear anything from Sanna, tell her I was asking about her,” he said.
Astrid looked at Thomas Söderberg.
And if you hear anything from God, she thought, tell Him I’m asking about Him all the time.
M åns Wenngren, Rebecka Martinsson’s boss, got home late going on early. He’d spent the evening at Sophie’s, treating two young ladies to drinks, along with a representative for one of the law firm’s clients, a computer company specializing in industrial IT that had recently floated on the stock exchange. It was pleasant to deal with that kind of client. Grateful for every cent you managed to keep away from the tax collector. The clients who’d been accused of tax evasion or dubious book-keeping weren’t usually that keen on sitting in a bar with their lawyer. They sat and drank at home instead.
After Sophie’s had closed Måns had shown one of the young ladies, Marika, his nice office, then he had put little Marika in a cab with some money in her hand, and himself in another cab.
When he walked into the dark apartment on Floragatan he thought as usual that he ought to move to something smaller. It was hardly surprising that every time he came home he felt, well, however it was he felt when the
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