The sense of relief when the applause came, the kick that pulsed through his veins. The sound of all the enthusiastic hands surrounding him like a loving embrace.
He was fantastic! Everyone admired him.
And then the longing for the relaxation that only the minibar in his hotel room could provide.
He gave her a long look before he left the stage.
Come to
my dressing-room afterwards.
There were three messages on his answer machine. The first was from his daughter Ellen. He knew that he’d forgotten to ring as he had promised. The second from his wife Louise, who sounded angry because he’d forgotten to ring Ellen.
And then the third, from a Marianne Folkesson who wanted to speak to him regarding Gerda Persson. The housekeeper from his childhood who was always there. It was years since he’d had any contact with her, but the Ragnerfeldt Corporation was still paying out a sum of money to her each month, a sort of pension after long and faithful service – on direct orders from his father. He jotted down Marianne Folkesson’s number and was just about to punch in the numbers to his daughter’s mobile.
A discreet knock at the door.
He flipped shut the phone and opened the door.
All those prize-winning words were finally superfluous. In the arena that remained he was the one who was the star.
He would not have to suffer through the night alone.
E
xcellent.
The word was the first to cross her mind when she woke up and opened her eyes; she couldn’t for the life of her understand why. If the word had been
exhausted
, or
corrode
or some other unpleasant-sounding one she would have been less surprised, but it had been
excellent
, and that was a word she had not felt the occasion to use in a long time.
Louise Ragnerfeldt sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast and listening to the sound of her daughter getting ready for school.
At close range, gradual change looked like a standstill. Only with the sharpness of distance did the successive disintegration become clear. Because that’s what it was, a disintegration; there was no closing her eyes to it any longer.
Time passes. It was probably all right. Could be worse. But this assessment no longer applied. Not when she was about to turn forty-three, half her life already spent and now fully aware of how fast it had gone. Her twelve-year-old daughter was living proof of how fast the rest would go. So the word ‘excellent’ was needed regularly, but in order for the word to apply it had to come from the heart.
She sighed when once again she got his voicemail and hung up without leaving a message. Sometimes she would imagine it was her father-in-law she heard on the other end; their voices had become so similar. Every time she was appalled. It reminded her that her husband was as much a stranger to her as her father-in-law was, and would always
remain. Maybe it had been partly her own fault that she never got to know him before the stroke. If so, it had not been intentional. She could normally talk with anyone, but had shrivelled in Axel Ragnerfeldt’s presence and become silent and dull. She had chosen her words so carefully that in the end none of them was worth saying. On the occasions when she mustered her courage, her sentences would be hopelessly stilted, full of ‘sort of ’s and ‘maybe’s, most of them sounding like questions rather than statements. In the end his scrutinising stares had made her mute.
Her reaction had surprised her. Maybe she thought that the sheer physical departure from her childhood home in Hudiksvall would have taken her farther. She was the first in her family to go to university. Her parents had supported her even though she sensed their vacillation when they had to defend her against those who thought she’d turned uppity. In her parents’ house, they only spoke about concrete things, and words were not to be wasted. Thoughts were something you kept to yourself, and the general view was that everything got better if you didn’t talk about it. Books were something that educated people read, of a different class of society more elegant than their own – teachers, doctors and managers. Respect for the powers that be had been passed down for generations and was a natural part of life. It was thought best to keep to their own sort, which seldom required any expansion of their horizons. There was no bitterness; a great sense of solidarity with the other families in the area prevailed, and even when times were hard, people helped each other out in any way they could. And had a booze-up on the weekend to recharge the batteries. But they were always at a dis advantage to those allied with words. Lowered heads and caps in hand at PTA meetings and visits to the doctor. And anyone who tried to make his way beyond his circle, as though it wasn’t good enough, was regarded as a traitor. Writers were something mysterious and other, with a distant, elevated mystique. Like magicians, they knew about things that were
impossible for other people to grasp; they could capture the unattainable and describe what nobody else could see.
She remembered how proud she was at first to bear the Ragnerfeldt name. Her friends would get a dreamy look in their eyes whenever he was mentioned, and they wanted to hear all about what he was like. But when they noticed her ambivalence and lack of enthusiasm, she was met with suspicion, as if her words had sprung from envy. No one wanted to hear anything negative about Axel Ragnerfeldt, the national treasure. With all his wisdom about good and evil he had chiselled such astonishing stories out of their Swedish language. She stopped saying what she felt and wholeheartedly joined his crowd of admirers, at least outwardly. It was easier that way. The tremendous awe she felt for her father-in-law had made her tongue-tied, and she had never got to know him. Now he was the one who was mute, and even though she would never in her life admit it openly, it sometimes felt like a liberation.
‘I’m off now.’
Louise got up from the kitchen table and tightened her dressing-gown belt. ‘Wait a second!’
‘But I have to be there in ten minutes.’
She rushed through the flat and caught up with her daughter in the hall. She hugged her quickly and zipped up her jacket.
‘Bye then. It was at seven o’clock, wasn’t it? Did Pappa ring you?’
‘No.’
Louise swallowed and struggled to smile. ‘He’ll show up, you’ll see.’
Ellen didn’t reply. The door closed and Louise was left standing there. She closed her eyes and cursed the fact that she’d become part of this. Her own suffering was nothing compared to what she saw in her daughter’s eyes. The appeal for attention. That just once he might notice her.
* * *
Thirteen years had passed since they first met. She was thirty then and Jan-Erik was thirty-seven. Two years earlier, after an eight-year relationship, she had been left by the man she had thought was the one. Her biological clock was not yet ticking, but the sadness and humiliation she felt at being dumped had made her wary. Then she had met Jan-Erik. His courtship had been the symbol that great true love arrives as suddenly as lightning. His determination had overwhelmed her. Nothing had been too expensive, no road too far to travel, no phone conversation too long. Eagerly, almost furiously, he had swept her up. Beyond all doubt and all suspicion, as if they were running a sprint. She interpreted his haste as a proof of genuine passion. The days were filled with surprises, and at night he slept close to her. As though he were a child afraid that she might disappear if she didn’t hold on to him. His glowing devotion made her dizzy, and after having been rejected and dumped she now felt restored, the centrepiece of Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt’s universe.
A little over a year after they met, Ellen was born.
With that result achieved, Louise realised that he had been courting her the same way an estate agent impatiently hurries a prospective buyer through the rooms of a dilapidated house.
She went into the bathroom. Stuck her hand in the shower, turned on the water, and stood on the pleasantly warm floor waiting for the water to heat up. The bathroom had recently been renovated. Jan-Erik had given her carte blanche to make it just the way she wanted. She would have preferred to discuss how
they
would like it, but Jan-Erik hadn’t had time, and she didn’t know him well enough to know what he liked. It was a vicious circle. Their outgoings demanded that he work a lot, but the more he worked, the greater their outgoings seemed to pile up. She looked at the three specially commissioned nameplates above the towel racks: Ellen, Jan- Erik and Louise. If she didn’t know better, she might think that those three names belonged together in one family.
She hung up her dressing gown and stepped into the shower.
Maybe Jan-Erik had seen her as an attractive prize. She had just had her fifteen minutes of fame when he whirled into her life. At least in the direct spotlight that prevailed in the world of high culture, the world to which the subsequent disintegration had shown it was so important for him to belong. After the wearisome separation from her by now ex-boyfriend, she had suddenly felt a need to write her story, even though she’d never before seriously concerned herself with words. In a moment of self-confidence she had sent off her efforts to a publisher. The poetry collection had attracted great attention, and the now yellowing clippings from the newspapers’ cultural pages were filled with words of praise. An exceptional debut, they had written. A promise for the future, she had been called. But during the thirteen years that had passed, both her existence and her writing skills had fallen into oblivion. If she had believed in her naïve stupidity that her new surname would help her literary ambitions, she soon realised that she was mistaken. Her creation had been sucked into the black hole that surrounded the name of Axel Ragnerfeldt; any attention that might compete was effectively shooed off into the wings.
She turned off the tap and reached for the towel. She dried herself and methodically rubbed in moisturising lotion.
With hindsight it was difficult to discern the various twists and turns. Or know which tiny steps had inevitably led them to where they found themselves now. She believed that Jan-Erik’s attention had faded at the same rate as her name had vanished from the newspapers. Maybe it was a trophy he sought, something to decorate the Ragnerfeldt family living room. But when the plain pine of her talent was revealed it turned out to clash with the elegant mahogany of the bookshelf. Once the centre of Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt’s universe, she had been relegated to the caretaker in his empire.
She looked at her breasts in the mirror. Round and just the right size, precisely as she had always wanted them to be. The scars were no longer visible. She had got a good
price because it was a friend’s husband who had operated on her, and Jan-Erik didn’t know a thing about it. Why should she tell him? Her breasts were about as interesting to him as the boy next door’s guinea pig. Perhaps even less.
She recalled how things had been in the beginning. Any occasion could lead to a passionate scene on the carpet in the living room, on the kitchen table, or anywhere else the mood took them. He had been a fantastic lover. His desire to give her pleasure, to put his own needs aside, to satisfy her at any cost, had astounded her. When she tried to reciprocate he quickly took back the initiative; sometimes it felt like he enjoyed her pleasure more than his own. He was like a ringmaster, skilfully performing his tricks, and she came to feel that her orgasms were proof that she really loved him. She abandoned herself to pleasure, almost ashamed of her own passion. But eventually it struck her that their conversations were becoming fewer and farther between; no matter how much sex they had she felt the distance between them growing. Finally she realised that all communication took place between their erogenous zones.
She tried to talk to him about it, but it was no use. If communication was difficult for them in general, words were hopeless when it came to sex. As if everything they had devoted themselves to without embarrassment lacked any sort of name. He took her tentative objections as a criticism of his ability, and the only way to prove the opposite was to let the conversation devolve into yet another act of intercourse. Then one evening – it was one of those evenings when she had wanted to talk – he couldn’t get an erection. She assured him that it didn’t matter, she just wanted to hold him close, but her words had no effect. Most of all she remembered the rage in his eyes when he pulled away like a beaten dog and locked himself in his office. The months that followed became silent in every respect. At first, she thought the words that might have helped them had simply gone missing, but soon she realised they had never been
present at all. She had mistaken the strong feeling of connection that arose when they had sex for love, when actually she hardly knew him. She had waited for ever for him to return. His reluctance became obvious, his surliness left her in despair. She tried everything. Romantic candlelit dinners, beautiful clothes, theatre tickets. Nothing had brought them closer together. Her failed attempts only intensified the problem, and the distance between them grew even greater. Then, after a dinner with her in-laws, long after she had given up hope, he had unexpectedly crawled over to her side of the bed. Wordlessly and with the bedside lamp turned off, his fingers fumbling from the wine, he had prepared the way, and with aggressive thrusts forced himself to climax.
That had been the last time. Eleven years had passed since then.
Her expectations had readjusted to their new way of living, in which physical closeness might extend at most to a pat on the shoulder when it couldn’t be avoided.
She looked at her naked body in the mirror. A little older, more mature, but well-kept after the surgery and hard workouts.
Desired by no one.
With each day that passed her longing became more unmanageable. A desire to once more experience the intensity of passion. A brief moment of balancing on the knife edge where life was at its most intimate.
She cupped her hands round her breasts and closed her eyes. To be able to give in. To be forced to acquiesce to the life force of passion and surrender. And then to rest in an embrace that assured her she was good enough.
At exactly ten o’clock, after a brisk walk, she put her key in the door of Boutique Louise on Nybrogatan. The Ragnerfeldt Corporation was the landlord of the shop. With Axel’s permission Jan-Erik had arranged it for her seven years ago, when her writing talent had ceased as suddenly as it
had begun. Exclusive designer clothing for rich customers, most of them living nearby. She had done her best to adopt the lifestyle that was expected of her, but at ever greater cost to her soul. She had trained as a civil engineer in information technology, but after her maternity leave she had never returned. With all the rapid developments in the computer field, she had never caught up. Besides, Jan-Erik thought that being the proprietor of a boutique was better, and perhaps she had even let herself be enticed for a while. The truth was that the boutique was a luxury hobby. Sales were few and did not contribute much to the household budget. But at least she had something to do, so that Jan-Erik could in good conscience devote himself to his own interests. And every time she pointed out that he was working too hard, she was told that it was necessary for the family finances. She was completely dependent on Jan-Erik and the Ragnerfeldt Corporation.