The Cruel Stars of the Night by Kjell Eriksson

anything. There was only this moment, with these thoughts, this body, this life. She put in a period, wrote a line, turned the page,sprayed deodorant under her arms, dressed in the clothes she had laid out: the completely new and expensive thong from Wolford, bought at Kastrup Airport, the just as new bra, the silky-smooth pantyhose from H&M that promised “to give your derriere a lift.”
    She laughed. That’s what I want, she thought: to give my derriere a lift. She put on a black skirt, a red top, clasped the silver necklace and threaded the earrings through her ears, brushed her hair, applied makeup discreetly but with noticeable deliberation, and then went out to Erik who, when he saw her, immediately stopped singing and got stumbling to his feet. At that moment Görel rang the doorbell.
    Ann Lindell was ready.
    He was only ten or so meters in front of her. She recognized the worn, dark leather coat that he often wore at work. She continued scrutinizing him. He had solid legs, maybe he had been a soccer player, and he walked with a swagger. That’s how her mother would have put it. Strong steps that echoed against the wooden bridge. His hands shoved into his pockets.
    Ann glanced at the water, the Fyris River. She could still extricate herself from this. She could blame it on Erik, say that he had suddenly come down with something. She slowed down, hesitated, but knew it was theatrics for her own benefit. Or not? Was there a streak of masochism inside her, that would make her back out simply so she could later wallow in self-pity?
    What she most of all wanted was to accompany Charles Morgansson into the darkness of the movie theatre, into Mystic River. She wanted to speed it up, run up to him, so that she wouldn’t have a last chance to pull out of this.
    Now he turned right, up toward West Ågatan, kept walking determinedly to the Filmstaden cineplex. She stayed several paces behind him. Yes, he did indeed have nice buns.
    Ann smiled, suddenly extremely self-satisified. She felt light as a feather, if a little warm.

    The theater was packed and Ann was happy about that. So far they hadn’t said much.
    “It’s great you managed to get away,” he said and held the popcorn container while she sat down.
    “Remind me. What kind of movie is it?”
    He started to tell her but was interrupted by the previews. The light was dimmed, the sound of people talking died away, and everyone’s attention was directed forward.
    Ann snuck a peek at her colleague. He smelled faintly of cologne. The light from the screen was reflected in his face. The whole thing felt otherwordly as if she had been thrown into a new reality. Was it really her, Ann Lindell, sitting here? She who never, or very rarely, went out for entertainment.
    The previews ended and Mystic River started. At first Ann had trouble following the film but was swept up. The grief in the actor’s face when he realized his daughter had been killed was almost unbearable.
    Charles changed position, sagged down, and straightened up, shifting his weight here and there. Ann thought about how restless Edvard had been the few times they had gone to the movies.
    They stepped out into a light rain. Morgansson guided her along the sidewalk, put out an arm to lead her right, helped make their way through the crowd of people.
    “This is our Mystic River, ” she said as they walked over the New Bridge.
    He stopped and looked at the river in silence. He had turned up the collar of his coat. His hands were again shoved down into his pockets. Ann thought for a moment that he looked like a very unhappy man.
    “What’s the name of the actor who plays the father of the girl?”
    “Sean Penn,” said Morgansson without lifting his gaze from the dark waters.
    “We had a murder last spring,” she said, “and he reminded me of the mother of the murder victim. She simply sank down, disappeared from us, from life.”
    “She drowned herself,” Morgansson said.
    “So you know about