Some Kind of Peace (11 page)

“Sure,” I say, perhaps a little absentmindedly.

I’m finding it hard to concentrate and be attentive after the events of last night. I didn’t get much sleep. After I fixed the power outage, I lay in bed in a sweaty, sleepless daze, twisting and turning until morning came. Not even a couple glasses of wine helped with the anxiety. When the alarm clock rang, I forced myself out of bed and had a painkiller for breakfast.

“It’s about this guy… or man. Same difference…”

Sara pauses, gathers up her courage.

“He seems to like me, we talk about
everything
, we have
fun
, but… he doesn’t want to have sex with me.”

Sara switches to drumming her sunglasses against the Kleenex box on my little coffee table, as if to underscore the significance of her words. She looks distressed, and I guess that this is probably the first time she has run into this particular problem. In psychology-speak, Sara is what we call “sexually acting out.” Others might call her loose, but for Sara this is not about sexual satisfaction. In reality, it’s the insecure little girl inside her that is struggling to be acknowledged and appreciated.

“Has it been like that all along?” I ask in a friendly but neutral tone.

“At first I thought he wanted to wait until we knew each other better or something. I mean… I was almost, like… flattered. As if I were a
fine wine
or something, that should be saved.”

Sara laughs for a moment and looks at me with an expression of feigned surprise.

“Then I slowly started to wonder if maybe he’s impotent or something. It’s not really all that unusual at his age,” Sara says, as if she knows everything about the sexual problems of middle-aged men.

“But I think he wants to, though something is holding him back. I mean, I can tell he wants to, but he pulls back when it’s about to happen. He gets almost… he gets almost
angry
. How can that make him angry?” she asks quietly, looking closely at me.

“I don’t know,” I reply tentatively. “There are so many reasons and I don’t know your friend, of course. It could be anything from fear of not measuring up sexually—I mean, you’re attractive and young and so on—to physical ailments or emotional blocks. What do you think? After all, you’re the one who knows him best.”

“I don’t think anything.” Sara shrugs, but I can tell from her facial expression, from her entire posture, in fact, that she is tormented by something. She shrugs again and looks me intently in the eyes.

“Okay, it’s like this… it’s like he’s carrying a lot of… anger. As if he’s really angry… inside, and it comes out when we start getting close,
physically close
, that is.”

Sara’s voice fades and she lets her head hang down toward her chest. She suddenly appears indescribably fragile. She curls up in the leather armchair like a little bird and wraps her arms around her knees.

She sits like that, silently, for a long time, and I let her be.

“Sara,” I begin hesitantly, “have you thought about why it is so important to you that the two of you have sex?”

“Oh, my God!”

She lifts her head and looks at me as if I’m crazy. “My God,” she repeats. “We’ve been seeing each other almost every day for at least a
month. He sleeps at my place and he says he wants to live with me.
Hello!
Don’t you think it’s strange that he doesn’t want to sleep with me?”

I don’t answer, but I know she’s right.

In the city, people don’t look at each other when they walk by. You look down at the ground. That’s just how it is. Maybe that was why she never saw me? But still, it was really strange. During the early summer, several times I came so close to her in line in Söderhallarna market that I could have easily put my hands around her little bird neck and squeezed. It would have been over in no time
.

Once I touched her bony arm in line at the ATM. It was downy and warm from the sun. I pulled back my hand as if I had been burned and shivered with disgust. But she didn’t see me, she only scratched her arm a little absentmindedly with her short, unpolished nails
.

I started to feel invisible, like those pitiful down-and-out bastards who make their home in Medborgarplatsen. The ones no one looks at
.

Drunks, crazies, young guys with swollen muscles and big tattoos are invisible. The whores, too, with their tormented, demanding stares, stick-thin thighs, worn-out veins, and hungry sex. I saw them looking and heard their voices inside me: “Wanna FUCK? I can help you: I see your pain. I see YOU.”

When the invisible people show up in the subway or on the streets, ordinary people discreetly look away. The invisible people populate the parks of Stockholm, the underground labyrinths where the subway trains rush forth through the night, and the homeless shelters. They are the ones who ride the night bus from one end station to the other in an endless loop, never getting anywhere. They are the ones who beg for a meal at lunchtime among the customers at McDonald’s
.

And to her I was invisible, just like them. I was on the same level as any old alcoholic. Me, of all people!

One day, right before Midsummer, I nonchalantly stood in front of her on Götgatan, my stance wide, blocking her path
.

But she only stared down at the street and made a determined half circle around me without even lifting her gaze
.

It was then that I decided. She’d had her chance, her chance for atonement, and she blew it
.

For that reason, I had to punish her
.

It is late afternoon and I feel tired and listless. I know I was more distracted during my hour with Sara than is appropriate, by my standards, anyway, but the alternative would have been to cancel today’s session, and I think that would have been worse for her.

Her boyfriend worries me. Who is he, and what does he really want with Sara? I know that her love life should not be at the center of our therapy, but still, I can’t help being worried. At the same time, I’m starting to doubt my own intuition. How can I really assess anything rationally right now? I’m so shaken up and afraid that I see danger everywhere.

Threats.

I sigh heavily and try to think about other things. I can’t let fear win.

I open the window in my office. Voices drift up from the market below. I toy with the idea of talking to Aina. Maybe I should accompany her to the art opening she’s going to and stay the night in her little studio on Blekingegatan. We both have the day off tomorrow.

The thought of waking up in her tiny apartment is appealing. A little hungover, wake Aina up, and then go down to the 7-Eleven to get breakfast. An old routine. We’ve done it many times before. I get up and cross the small hallway, into Aina’s office.

I find Aina sitting in the lotus position on the floor, talking on her cell phone. She sparkles and laughs loudly, which means there is a man on the other end. Although it’s unclear which one. She looks up and sees me. As I start to back out of her office, she signals that I should stay put. With a couple short sentences she concludes the call and looks at me.

“Siri! Tell me about it!”

I am confused. I don’t know what she wants to hear. “Tell you what?”

Aina simply smiles.

“You looked like you… well, like you wanted to share something,” she says, and perhaps she is right. Sure, I would like to tell her what happened last night, but I can’t. I can’t bear to.

“I wanted to talk about the exhibition,” I say instead.

“You’re coming!”

Aina’s smile is almost more radiant than the one she had on her lips during the phone conversation with the unknown man.

“Hot damn, that’s great! Do you know how long it’s been since we went out together? You have to stay over too, and then we can have breakfast in Helgalunden if the sun is out.”

Aina’s enthusiasm knows no bounds and it just sweeps me away. Wonderful Aina, with her ability to make other people feel chosen and special.

“By the way, that was Robert on the phone.”

“Which Robert?”

“Ha ha, that’s a good one,” Aina says, giggling. “You know. Robert from the crayfish party. The one who plays guitar.”

“I see, you’re still together?”

Aina squirms as if my question had teeth.

“No, not exactly. But he wanted your number,” she says with a broad smile.

“My number, why?”

Aina laughs at my confusion and puts her head to one side. “Why shouldn’t he want your number? I guess you’ll have to ask him when he calls.”

Then she notices my expression and raises her accented eyebrows. With a certain worry in her voice she says, “But you look tired, how are you sleeping, my darling? You really ought to think about talking to someone. Or medication. Whichever you think is best.”

“Aina,” I interrupt her. “I didn’t come to discuss… my mental health. I just came because I wanted to thank you for the invitation to that party you’ve been trying to convince me to go to for the last two weeks. You know…
the party
.”

“Sorry.”

An apologetic smile.

“
The party
, right, cool! Are you done for the day?” She looks at me inquisitively. “Because then we can go buy a bottle of wine now.”

We walk down Götgatan. Countless people are on the streets, many are in a hurry, carrying bags and packages. After a brief stop at the liquor
store and the H&M at Ringen, we have a quick dinner at Aina’s place consisting of Thai takeout with red wine. The combination is unorthodox, but it works.

We get changed, throw on something dressier, a little makeup, some product in our hair. For the first time in a long while I think I look good. Aina is radiantly beautiful in jeans and a blue silk camisole. Her long hair has been bleached by the sun and hangs like a light silk veil over her shoulders.

Siri and Aina. Aina who is tall and blond. Curvaceous. Happy. Always on the verge of laughing. Siri. Short and dark. Slender. A tomboy. Earnest. But of course, once you scratch the surface a little, the reality is not so simple. Aina is an amazingly capable therapist and serious through and through. Behind the sparkling smile and the blond hair lies a sharp intellect. She is easily misjudged, but anyone who tries to outshine Aina in academic discussions is not likely to attempt again.

The party is in a gallery in Östermalm. One of Aina’s artist friends has finally been given the chance to show her work. There are whispers of breakthrough, and Malena, the artist, is making the rounds with bright red cheeks and eyes wide open. It looks like the whole situation seems unreal to her. Aina and I quickly lose sight of each other. She notices some acquaintances and I prefer to head over to the little bar where white wine is served in plastic cups and Japanese rice crackers in separate cups. Not too classy but efficient if you want to get drunk. And I want to.

I look around at the guests. It’s the usual mix of acquaintances Aina likes to hang out with: artists, musicians, and unclassifiable cultural types. I don’t really feel at home among these people. The whole thing is pretty pretentious; everyone is beautiful, confident, and just so. And yet I feel stimulated by being out among people. My lonely house feels far away and I’m distracted from my panic and fear.

•  •  •

The following morning is just as we had planned it. Hungover, we sit on a blanket in Helgalunden, drink Diet Coke, and watch the people around
us: dog owners walking through the park, sunbathers lying spread out on the grass, a couple in love making out without embarrassment on the blanket beside us. I feel calmer than I have in a long time. The thought of going home is not frightening at all. We sit in the park and chat for several hours before I pack up my things and walk toward Slussen and the buses to Värmdö.