it is unreal, thought Karin. What’s going to happen without Viktor?
Viktor, who refused to cut his hair or wear a suit. Who turned down a pay raise and made Thomas give the money to Médecins Sans Frontières instead. She remembered seven years ago, when she’d gone to a conference in Stockholm. How surprised she’d been when she saw so many young men who looked exactly like Viktor. On the underground and in cafés. Ugly knitted or crocheted hats. Soft shoulder bags. Jeans slung low on narrow hips. Suede jackets from the sixties. The slow, nonchalant walk. A kind of anti-fashion reserved for the good-looking and the confident.
Viktor had belonged to the court surrounding Thomas Söderberg, but he had never become a copy of Thomas. More his opposite. Without possessions, without ambition. Abstemious. Although the latter was perhaps because Rebecka Martinsson had crushed him in her madness. It was hard to know.
Maja leaned toward her. Hot breath hissing in her ear.
“Aha, here comes Astrid. But where’s Vesa?”
P astor Vesa Larsson’s wife, Astrid, pushed her way in through the door of the Crystal Church. On the stage, Thomas Söderberg was leading the gospel choir in prayer before the evening service.
The trek up the hill from the car park had made her blouse wet and sticky under her arms. Just as well she had a cardigan over the top. She hastily wiped under her eyes with her index finger just in case her mascara had run. She’d once seen herself on one of the church video recordings. It had been snowing when she’d walked to the church, and on the film she had been going around with the collection bag like a trained panda. Since then she always checked in the mirror. But now the cloakroom was full of people and she was so stressed.
A pile of flowers and cards lay in the central circle.
Viktor is dead, she thought.
Tried to make it seem real.
Viktor is actually dead.
She caught sight of Karin and Maja. Maja was waving eagerly. No chance of escape. The only thing to do was to go over to them. They were wearing dark suits. She had rummaged in her wardrobe and tried things on for an hour. All her suits were red, pink or yellow. She had one dark suit. Navy blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.
“Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.
Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.
“Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”
She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.
Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.
So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.
She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.
Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.
“If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.
She shook her head obediently.
“Worried.” She tried out the word.
No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.
It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.
They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the
Viktor, who refused to cut his hair or wear a suit. Who turned down a pay raise and made Thomas give the money to Médecins Sans Frontières instead. She remembered seven years ago, when she’d gone to a conference in Stockholm. How surprised she’d been when she saw so many young men who looked exactly like Viktor. On the underground and in cafés. Ugly knitted or crocheted hats. Soft shoulder bags. Jeans slung low on narrow hips. Suede jackets from the sixties. The slow, nonchalant walk. A kind of anti-fashion reserved for the good-looking and the confident.
Viktor had belonged to the court surrounding Thomas Söderberg, but he had never become a copy of Thomas. More his opposite. Without possessions, without ambition. Abstemious. Although the latter was perhaps because Rebecka Martinsson had crushed him in her madness. It was hard to know.
Maja leaned toward her. Hot breath hissing in her ear.
“Aha, here comes Astrid. But where’s Vesa?”
P astor Vesa Larsson’s wife, Astrid, pushed her way in through the door of the Crystal Church. On the stage, Thomas Söderberg was leading the gospel choir in prayer before the evening service.
The trek up the hill from the car park had made her blouse wet and sticky under her arms. Just as well she had a cardigan over the top. She hastily wiped under her eyes with her index finger just in case her mascara had run. She’d once seen herself on one of the church video recordings. It had been snowing when she’d walked to the church, and on the film she had been going around with the collection bag like a trained panda. Since then she always checked in the mirror. But now the cloakroom was full of people and she was so stressed.
A pile of flowers and cards lay in the central circle.
Viktor is dead, she thought.
Tried to make it seem real.
Viktor is actually dead.
She caught sight of Karin and Maja. Maja was waving eagerly. No chance of escape. The only thing to do was to go over to them. They were wearing dark suits. She had rummaged in her wardrobe and tried things on for an hour. All her suits were red, pink or yellow. She had one dark suit. Navy blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.
“Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.
Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.
“Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”
She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.
Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.
So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.
She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.
Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.
“If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.
She shook her head obediently.
“Worried.” She tried out the word.
No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.
It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.
They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the
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