to the toilet. Then we can go.”
“No, please,” Lars begged quietly.
Anders smiled at Lars’s anxiety, picked up a newspaper from a sideboard, and padded off toward the bathroom. Anders took his time, whistling the theme from Bonanza .
Lars hid in the hall next to the kitchen door. No one would see him there from the outside. He stood next to a row of coats and jackets, taking deep breaths, then leaned his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to rediscover a sense of calm. He tried to take deep breaths, they were only reaching the top half of his chest. He tried breathing through his nose, the same thing there — just half breaths. He felt taut as a string on a violin. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears, his stomach felt tight, his hands were cold, his mouth dry … A sound outside, footsteps on the other side of the door … A key inserted into the lock. Lars turned around and stared at the door, frozen to the spot. Nothing in his body made any attempt to react and run away. He just stood there immobile, scared as a small child, incapable of action, and struck with such an overwhelming sense of panic that for a moment he seriously believed he was going to die just from the emotions raging inside him.
The lock clicked, the handle was pushed down, the door was pulled open. Lars shut his eyes, the door closed, he opened his eyes. In front of him was a short, unfamiliar woman in her sixties; she put a handbag down on the floor and started to unbutton her coat. He looked sideways at her; she met his gaze and jumped with fright, put a hand to her chest, muttered something in some Eastern European language, and her fear was replaced by something calmer. She laughed, then gabbled something in Swedish about not knowing that there was going to be anyone at home.
She held out her hand and introduced herself as Dorota. Lars, from the vacuum-filled universe of bewilderment, took her hand.
“Lars.”
He heard a thunderous burst of laughter behind him and turned around. Anders was shaking with laughter, one hand over his face. “You really do take the prize!”
Dorota looked at the two men with half a smile, suddenly unsure about who they were.
Anders went up to her, grabbed her arm, picked up her bag from the floor, pulled her into the kitchen, and sat her down on a chair. He turned and looked at Lars. “What now?”
Dorota was scared.
“We’ll just go. Come on,” he said.
Anders stared at Lars with a look of contempt on his face.
“Great idea. We’ll just go.” He turned to Dorota. “Who are you?”
She glanced between the men. “I’m the cleaner.”
“You’re the cleaner?”
Dorota nodded. He tossed her handbag into her lap.
“Give me your wallet.”
Dorota looked at Anders as if she hadn’t heard what he said, then fumbled nervously in her handbag until she found her wallet. Anders took it, pulled out an ID card, and glanced quickly at it.
“Where do you live?”
“Spånga,” she replied in a whisper. Her mouth was completely dry.
Lars looked at the woman, suddenly feeling very sorry for her. Anders put Dorota’s ID card in his pocket.
“We’ll keep this. You never saw us here.”
Dorota was staring at the floor.
Anders leaned closer to her.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded.
Anders turned toward Lars, a dark look on his face, then started to walk toward the terrace door. Lars didn’t move for a moment, looking at Dorota, who was still staring down at the floor.
Anders was striding toward the car, Lars jogged behind him to catch up.
They sat in silence as Lars drove out of the suburb, making sure he kept to the speed limit. Suddenly Anders grabbed Lars’s collar, slapping him across the face with the palm of his hand. Lars braked sharply and made an attempt to defend himself. Anders kept on slapping him.
“You fucking idiot. … Are you completely fucking useless?” Anders was shouting now. Then he stopped abruptly, sat back in his
“No, please,” Lars begged quietly.
Anders smiled at Lars’s anxiety, picked up a newspaper from a sideboard, and padded off toward the bathroom. Anders took his time, whistling the theme from Bonanza .
Lars hid in the hall next to the kitchen door. No one would see him there from the outside. He stood next to a row of coats and jackets, taking deep breaths, then leaned his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to rediscover a sense of calm. He tried to take deep breaths, they were only reaching the top half of his chest. He tried breathing through his nose, the same thing there — just half breaths. He felt taut as a string on a violin. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears, his stomach felt tight, his hands were cold, his mouth dry … A sound outside, footsteps on the other side of the door … A key inserted into the lock. Lars turned around and stared at the door, frozen to the spot. Nothing in his body made any attempt to react and run away. He just stood there immobile, scared as a small child, incapable of action, and struck with such an overwhelming sense of panic that for a moment he seriously believed he was going to die just from the emotions raging inside him.
The lock clicked, the handle was pushed down, the door was pulled open. Lars shut his eyes, the door closed, he opened his eyes. In front of him was a short, unfamiliar woman in her sixties; she put a handbag down on the floor and started to unbutton her coat. He looked sideways at her; she met his gaze and jumped with fright, put a hand to her chest, muttered something in some Eastern European language, and her fear was replaced by something calmer. She laughed, then gabbled something in Swedish about not knowing that there was going to be anyone at home.
She held out her hand and introduced herself as Dorota. Lars, from the vacuum-filled universe of bewilderment, took her hand.
“Lars.”
He heard a thunderous burst of laughter behind him and turned around. Anders was shaking with laughter, one hand over his face. “You really do take the prize!”
Dorota looked at the two men with half a smile, suddenly unsure about who they were.
Anders went up to her, grabbed her arm, picked up her bag from the floor, pulled her into the kitchen, and sat her down on a chair. He turned and looked at Lars. “What now?”
Dorota was scared.
“We’ll just go. Come on,” he said.
Anders stared at Lars with a look of contempt on his face.
“Great idea. We’ll just go.” He turned to Dorota. “Who are you?”
She glanced between the men. “I’m the cleaner.”
“You’re the cleaner?”
Dorota nodded. He tossed her handbag into her lap.
“Give me your wallet.”
Dorota looked at Anders as if she hadn’t heard what he said, then fumbled nervously in her handbag until she found her wallet. Anders took it, pulled out an ID card, and glanced quickly at it.
“Where do you live?”
“Spånga,” she replied in a whisper. Her mouth was completely dry.
Lars looked at the woman, suddenly feeling very sorry for her. Anders put Dorota’s ID card in his pocket.
“We’ll keep this. You never saw us here.”
Dorota was staring at the floor.
Anders leaned closer to her.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded.
Anders turned toward Lars, a dark look on his face, then started to walk toward the terrace door. Lars didn’t move for a moment, looking at Dorota, who was still staring down at the floor.
Anders was striding toward the car, Lars jogged behind him to catch up.
They sat in silence as Lars drove out of the suburb, making sure he kept to the speed limit. Suddenly Anders grabbed Lars’s collar, slapping him across the face with the palm of his hand. Lars braked sharply and made an attempt to defend himself. Anders kept on slapping him.
“You fucking idiot. … Are you completely fucking useless?” Anders was shouting now. Then he stopped abruptly, sat back in his
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