Some Kind of Peace (20 page)

“Yes, sure, I can do that. I see no immediate problems.”

I am grateful, but I’m not sure how best to express it. It is also a little awkward to be alone with Sven for the first time since his unwelcome advances in my kitchen during the crayfish party.

“Something else.”

I try to focus, to carefully formulate what I’m going to say. I want to address what happened at the party, to get it out of the way, but I am not sure how to begin.

“The crayfish party?” He waits for me to confirm.

I nod. “The crayfish party.”

“Yes, it was really unfortunate that Birgitta had to see that.”

I am shocked. Perhaps I had expected an apology. Or an excuse. But not a comment on his bad luck because his wife caught him while he was groping me. He makes it sound like his assault had been something we had both enjoyed. I wonder whether this really is how he remembers the encounter. If it justifies his behavior by making me an active participant.

“I see. So what did Birgitta have to say?” I ask sarcastically.

“Yes, yes, wouldn’t you like to know, huh? You’re all the same.”

“What do you mean the same? Who?”

“Women. Are. The. Same. All women. Curious. Gossipy.”

There is something dark in his eyes now. He blows a puff of smoke between us and reaches for his cell phone, signaling that our conversation is over.

I stand up, surprised at how uncomfortable I suddenly feel, surprised at how he has humiliated me. Has he?

I stand in the doorway for a moment, but he twirls a half turn, and with his back to me, enters a number on his phone.

Her house was like an aquarium at night. It lit up the whole bay from where it lay, nestled between the rocks. I looked at the house and the house looked back at me with its shining yellow, always indifferent eyes
.

From my place on the ledge—still warm after the sunny day—I could follow every step she took, but she could not see me as she wandered from room to room with a large flashlight gripped firmly in one hand and a glass of wine in the other
.

A few steps behind her came the other woman, her shaggy blond hair pulled back in a loose bun. One of her breasts almost slipped out of the tiny tank top she was wearing, and my stomach clenched. She turned slowly to face the window, and for a second I could see her straight on. She ran her tongue luxuriously over her upper lip and smiled, as if she could read my mind
.

Now I was close, maybe two yards from the window. They were standing in the kitchen, scooping cat food into a bowl. Soon she would set the bowl out on the steps, hoping the cat would return. The next morning, she will bring the bowl back inside, with just as much food in it
.

I slowly backed away and retreated to my simple campsite beyond the large, round rock. I lay quietly in my thin sleeping bag without falling asleep until the sun painted warm yellow streaks on the bare cliffs
.

And suddenly she was with me again: Her glistening hair was present in the dew-covered leaves of the forest in the light of dawn
.

Like reflections of the sun
.

I caressed it with my gaze
.

Her skin was present in the trunks of the slender chalk-white birch trees, shamelessly bent over by the autumn storms. And her blood was mine. At one time, we were one and the same, two incarnations of the same being, of the longing for life in itself
.

Now there’s only absence
.

Everything I do, I do for Her. To bring justice where no justice exists, to give meaning to what is meaningless. This is all I can do. I know no other way. I never had a choice. This insight grants me consolation. It frees me from any guilt
.

Aina and I are lying on Lasse’s Ass, listening to the waves lapping against the big rock. The September sun is pleasantly warm, even if it takes two sweaters to sit outside and not feel cold. We are hungover and stuffed with aspirin. We had a late night. It’s as if all the horrible things that have been afflicting me are compelling me to cling to superficial things. A safe, predictable place of refuge in my own chaotic life. That’s why I spent the whole day yesterday flipping through old fashion magazines and reading endless features on hair removal, protein diets, and other meaningless articles. Aina and I ate an irresponsible amount of chips and, as usual, drank far too much wine.

We are slowly starting to get on each other’s nerves. Even though she is my closest friend, I know that it’ll soon be time for her to go home. My little house is starting to feel cramped and claustrophobic. So we decided that Aina will go back to her place today. Maybe my solitude isn’t always self-imposed, but I appreciate it anyway. In the corner of my eye I notice Aina close her eyes and smirk.

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’m thinking about… Massoud.” She laughs and continues slowly. “And… he has no clothes on!” She laughs again, louder this time.

“You
are
a slut,” I answer primly.

“Nah, I’ve just taken on the sexual initiative.”

Aina laughs as only she can, chortles, and stretches out on the rock like a cat.

She always has a new boyfriend. It’s pointless for me to get to know them, since they are all quickly and mercilessly replaced by a new candidate within a week or two.

“Go for it, girl,” I say, amused.

“What are you thinking about?” Aina wants to know, a more serious tone slipping into her voice.

“Have you ever wished you were someone else?”

“No, not really.” Aina shrugs. “Have you?
Do you?
”

I hesitate. “Sometimes I wish I was a little more like you.”

“Ach, cut it out. And what is it
exactly
that you would want to be? Dyslexic or slutty?”

“I wish I didn’t take everything so seriously. That I was”—I search for the right words—“more easygoing, I guess.”

Aina sits up on the rock and observes me in silence.

“Siri, dear Siri, I know that you don’t like it when I say this, but because I’m your friend, and friends should speak the truth, I’ll tell you anyway. You
really
ought to go to a therapist and talk about this!”

I sigh. My head feels too heavy to start a fight, so I answer, tired, “It’s really not that bad. These days it gets dark by the time I come home from work and I get by anyway.”

“I’m not referring to your fear of the dark, and I’m not talking about Sara Matteus. I’m talking about Stefan’s death. You need to come to terms with it.”

I tense up involuntarily and answer much too fast. “I’m over his death,
you’re
the one who always brings it up.”

“Only because you refuse to acknowledge what happened, which makes it impossible for you to move on.”

“Acknowledge what? What in the hell do you
mean
? It was an accident. An
accident
.” Somehow my voice sounds both shrill and feeble. I continue.

“A stupid, senseless accident. And you, more than anyone, ought to be able to respect that I don’t want to… talk about this… anymore.”

My body is shaking with rage as I turn around and climb down from the rock. Aina does not follow me. I hate her for it. She stays up there because she knows she’s right.

Just biding her time.

Waiting for my confession.

It’s eight o’clock on Sunday evening. I am standing alone in front of the French windows, looking out over the sea, which is still visible in the fading daylight. The temperature is in the upper forties and hard rain drums against the roof. I’ve taken my evening dip, been to the bathroom, and turned on all the lights in the house. Calm has settled over my little bay, but concern grows inside me. Is Sara’s murderer—who knows the way to my house, where I swim each evening—out there in the darkness? I sit on the couch and take out my laptop. Might as well get a little work done. As soon as I’ve settled in, my cell phone starts ringing. Had I turned it on? It’s my work cell, the number I give to my patients. Usually, I have it on only until 6:00 p.m. on weekdays, but for some reason it’s on. I go to the hallway and retrieve it from my bag. Should I answer? Curiosity gets the better of me and I press the little green button.

“Yes, this is Siri Bergman.”

“Siri?”

“Yes, this is Siri.”

“Hi, this is Charlotte Mimer. Excuse me for calling so late on a Sunday, but I was at a sales conference in Helsinki and only just got home.”

Charlotte sounds out of breath, as if there isn’t enough air for all the words she wants to get out. But I hear something else in her voice, too. Something I don’t recognize. Is it anger, is it fear?

“What happened, Charlotte?”

“Siri, I’m really sorry, I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll just come out with it. When I got home awhile ago I found a letter. I mean, I read a letter that arrived while I was away,” she corrects herself, anxious as always to get the details exactly right.

“And?” I ask.

“It was about you. The letter was about you. It says that I should
watch out for you, that your patients commit suicide and that you are… umm…”—Charlotte clears her throat—“unfit to be a therapist.”

Her voice sounds distraught. She seems to be on the verge of tears.

Her voice becomes shrill. “Is that true?”

“Is
what
true, Charlotte?”

“Is it true that one of your patients took her life in your backyard? It says that you forced her into it. Is that… true?”

“Charlotte, can you get the letter and read it to me?”

I hear her sniffling on the other end of the line and I summon all my authority as Charlotte’s therapist.

“Read me the letter,” I say, more harshly than I intended.

“I have it right here.”

“Read it!”

“Okay. Uh. ‘I am writing to you in light of the fact that you are a patient of Siri Bergman. You don’t know me, but nonetheless I feel that it is my duty to warn you about Siri. She is not only egocentric and incompetent, but she also constitutes a danger to her patients. Several of her patients have taken their lives per her direct orders. Sara Matteus was only twenty-five years old. Less than a month ago she drowned herself on Siri Bergman’s property. For your own sake I hope you can find a new therapist, one you can trust and who has empathy and interest in your problems. A friend.’”

Silence.

“Is it true?”

“Is
what
true?”

“That your patients kill themselves.”

Her voice suddenly sounds thin and fragile.

“Charlotte, listen very carefully now. First of all you must
not
throw that letter away, no matter what, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“There is a sick individual who is stalking me and trying to destroy both my life and my career.”

“So it’s
not
true.” She sounds relieved.

“Actually, one of my patients has died, yes.”

“On your property?”

I hesitate before I answer. How did I end up in this situation? Why must I sit here and defend myself against false accusations? I sigh.

“She did die on my property, yes. But I had
absolutely
nothing to do with her death. She did not commit suicide, she was murdered.”