Unspoken (2 page)

Henry stuffed the package back in the closet and stood up. Thousands of stars danced before his eyes.

The need for a drink became more urgent. The beer cans were empty, as were the liquor bottles. He lit one of the longer cigarette butts from the ashtray, swearing as he burned his finger.

Then he discovered a bottle of vodka under the table, and it turned out to have a decent slug left in the bottom. He greedily gulped it down, and the merry-go-round in his head eased up a bit. He went out to the patio and breathed in the cold, raw November air.

On the lawn lay an unopened can of strongbeer, of all things. He picked it up and definitely started feeling better. In the fridge he found a piece of sausage and a saucepan of dried mashed potatoes.

It was Monday evening. It was past six o’clock, and the state liquor store was closed. He had to go out and find some booze.

Henry took the bus downtown. The driver was nice enough to let him ride free, even though he could now afford to pay the fare. By the time he got out at Östercentrum, he was the only passenger. Rain was in the air, and it was dark and desolate on the streets. Most of the stores were closed at this time of night.

On one of the benches near the Allis hot dog stand sat Bengan with that new guy Örjan from the mainland. An unpleasant type, pale with dark, slicked-back hair and a sharp look in his eye. The muscles of his arms testified to how he had spent his time in the slammer, from which he had recently been released. He had apparently been sent up for aggravated assault and battery. Tattoos covered his arms and chest; part of one was visible inside the dirty collar of his shirt. Henry felt anything but comfortable with him, and things were made only worse by the fact that he always had that growling attack dog in tow. The animal was white with red eyes and a square snout. Ugly as sin. The guy bragged that his dog had bitten a toy poodle to death in Östermalm in the middle of downtown Stockholm. The fucking upper-class dame who owned the poodle went nuts and starting hitting Örjan with her umbrella until the police showed up and took charge. He had gotten off with a warning to buy a stronger leash. The incident was even reported on TV.

As Henry approached, a muted rumble issued from the dog’s throat; the animal was lying at Örjan’s feet. Bengan greeted him with a wobbly wave of his hand. It was apparent from far away that Henry’s friend was quite inebriated.

“Hi, how are things? Congratulations again. It’s so fucking great.” Bengan gave his friend a befuddled look.

“Thanks.”

Örjan pulled out a plastic bottle containing a colorless, unidentified liquid.

“Want some?”

“Sure.”

The liquor had a pungent smell. After several sizable gulps, Henry’s hands stopped shaking.

“That went down nice, didn’t it?” Örjan asked the question without smiling.

“Absolutely,” said Henry, and he sat down on the bench next to the other two men.

“How’s it going for you?”

“Well, I’ve got my head up and my feet down.”

Bengan leaned closer to Henry and breathed loudly in his ear.

“Shit, what about all that dough?” he muttered. “It’s amazing. What are you thinking of doing with it?”

Henry cast a quick glance over at Örjan, who had lit a cigarette. He was staring out toward Östergravar and seemed to have stopped listening.

“We’ll talk about it later,” whispered Henry. “I want you to keep your mouth shut about the money. Don’t tell anyone else about it. Okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” promised Bengan. “Of course, buddy.” He patted Henry on the shoulder and turned back to Örjan. “Give me a swig.” He grabbed the bottle.

“Take it easy, damn it. Pianissimo.”

Typical Örjan
, thought Henry.
He always has to sound so odd. Pianissimo
—
what the hell is that?
The dog bared his teeth.

All Henry wanted right now was to buy some booze and get out of there.

“Have you got anything to sell?”

Örjan dug through a worn bag made of imitation leather. He pulled out a plastic bottle containing home-brewed liquor.

“Fifty kronor. But maybe you can afford to cough up more than that?”

“Naw. I’ve only got a fifty.”

Henry handed over the banknote and reached for the bottle. Örjan kept his grip on it.

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“What if I don’t believe you? What if I think that you’ve got more and you just don’t want to pay more than that?”

“What the hell—let go!”

He yanked the bottle away from Örjan. At the same time he stood up. Örjan laughed and jeered, “Can’t you take a joke?”

“I’ve got to go. See you. I’ll be in touch.”

He headed for the bus stop without looking back. He could feel Örjan’s eyes fixed on his back like needles.

He was sitting in the living room, comfortably leaning back in the only armchair. On his way home he had passed a kiosk that was open at night, and he had bought some Grape Tonic, which he mixed with the booze to make himself a nice, tasty highball. He studied the glow from his cigarette in the dim light of the room, enjoying his solitude.

It didn’t bother him that the apartment was still a mess from the party the night before.

He put an old Johnny Cash record on the stereo. The neighbor woman protested by pounding on the wall, presumably because the music was interfering with the Swedish soap opera on TV. He pretended not to notice because he despised everything that had to do with normal Swedish life.

During his professional days he had also avoided routines. As the foremost photographer at
Gotlands Tidningar
he’d had plenty of opportunities to plan his own work hours. When he eventually started his own business, of course, he did precisely as he pleased.

In moments of clarity he surmised that it was this freedom that had spelled the beginning of the end. It created space for his drinking, which slowly but surely nibbled away at his work, his family life, his free time, and finally took precedence over everything else. His marriage fell apart, his clients disappeared, and contact with his daughter became increasingly sporadic and then ceased altogether after a few years. In the end he had neither money nor a job. The only friends who remained were his drinking buddies.

He was roused from his reflections by a clattering sound on the patio. He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.

Was it one of those damn kids in the area who was going around stealing bicycles and then painting and selling them? His own bicycle stood outside unlocked. They had tried to swipe it before.

Another clatter. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. Someone was out there—there was no doubt about that.

Might be an animal, of course, maybe a cat.

He opened the patio door and peered into the darkness. The little patch of grass that belonged to his corner property was lit up in the cold glow of the streetlight. Over by the pathway a shadow disappeared among the trees. Presumably just somebody out walking his dog. Henry pulled the door shut and locked it, just to be safe.

The interruption annoyed him. He switched on the ceiling light and looked around the apartment with distaste. He couldn’t stand seeing all the clutter, so he stuck his feet into a pair of slippers and went down to his darkroom in the basement to check on the pictures he had taken during his evening at the harness races. He had taken a whole roll of Ginger Star, and a couple of shots just as she crossed the finish line. Her head thrust forward, her mane flying, and her nose ahead of all the others. What a feeling.

The building superintendent had been kind enough to let him use an old bicycle storage room. He had furnished it with an enlarger, trays for developer and fixer, and a rack for drying the pictures. The basement window was covered with pieces of black cardboard to keep out the daylight.

The only light source was a red bulb on the wall. In the faint glow of this lamp the work could be done without difficulty. He enjoyed spending time in his darkroom. Focusing one hundred percent of his attention on a task in silence and darkness. He had experienced this same feeling of calm only once before, during his honeymoon to Israel. One day he and Ann-Sofie had gone on a snorkeling expedition. As they moved below the surface of the silent sea, it was like being in another dimension. Undisturbed, untouched by the constant noise of the rest of the world. That was the only time he had gone snorkeling, but the experience had stayed with him as a pleasant memory.

He had been working for quite a while when he was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Instinctively he froze and listened carefully. Who could it be? It had to be close to midnight.

The knocking came again, slower and longer. He lifted the photo he was working on from the rinse bath and hung it up to dry as thoughts whirled through his mind.

Should he open the door? Common sense told him that it would be best not to. This might have something to do with his winnings. Someone who wanted the money. The news about his win certainly must have spread by now. The sound coming from the other side of the door signified danger. His mouth went dry. Although it could just as well be Bengan.

“Who is it?” he shouted.

The question hung in the darkness. No reply, utter silence. He sank down onto a stool, fumbled for the liquor bottle, and took several quick swigs. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. He sat totally still and waited, though he didn’t know what he was waiting for.

Suddenly someone began pounding hard from a different direction, on the windowpane. He gave such a start that he nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. The last of his drunkenness vanished, and he stared up at the cardboard covering the window, hardly daring to breathe.

Then it came again. Hard, loud. As if the person out there wasn’t using his knuckles but some sort of tool. The ceiling and walls closed in. Terror seized him by the throat. Here he sat, trapped like a rat, while someone out there was toying with him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his guts turned over. He needed to go to the toilet.

The pounding changed into a rhythmic thudding, a monotonous banging against the basement window. No one in the building would hear his cries for help. Not in the middle of the night on an ordinary weekday. Could the person or persons out there break the window? It would still be impossible to get in because the window was much too small. He had locked the door—he was sure of that.

All of a sudden there was silence. Every muscle in his body was on edge. He listened for sounds that weren’t there.

For almost an hour he sat in the same frozen position before he dared to stand up. The hasty movement made him dizzy, and he staggered and saw flashing white stars in the dark. He had to go to the bathroom right now; he couldn’t hold it any longer. His legs could barely support him.

When he opened the door he realized instantly that he had made a mistake.

Fanny studied herself in the mirror as she ran a comb through her shiny hair. Her eyes were dark brown, and her complexion was also dark. A Swedish mother and West Indian father. Mulatto, without having a trace of typical African features. Her nose was small and straight and her lips narrow. Raven-black hair that reached all the way to her waist. Some people took her to be Indian or North African, while others guessed that she came from Morocco or Algeria.

She had just stepped out of the shower and put on underpants and a big T-shirt. Freshly scrubbed with the stiff brushes that she bought at Åhléns department store. They tore at her body and made her skin tender. Her mother had asked her what she needed brushes like that for.

“For scrubbing myself. They make you a lot cleaner. And it’s good for the skin,” she replied. She explained that the smell from the horses clung to her. The shower had become her best friend.

She turned sideways and studied her thin body in profile. Her shoulders drooped. If she straightened her back, her breasts stuck out and seemed even bigger. That’s why she always walked slightly bent over. She had developed early. By the seventh grade, she already had breasts. At first she had done everything she could to hide them. Big, baggy shirts helped.

The worst was in gym class. Even though she wore a sports bra that flattened out her breasts, they still were visible when she jumped or ran. The changes in her body made her feel sick. Why did everyone get so disgusting when they grew up? She shaved under her arms as soon as the slightest sign of hair appeared. Not to mention her crotch. And the blood that appeared every month, staining her panties and sheet when she bled through during the night. She despised her body.

The fact that she had dark skin didn’t make things any better. She wanted to look like all the others. In her class there were only two others who were dark. They were twins, so at least they had each other. Two boys who had been adopted from Brazil. They were the school’s best soccer players, and they were very popular because they looked like Roberto Carlos, the famous Brazilian wingback. For them the color of their skin was an advantage. But not for her. She didn’t want to stand out.

She longed to have friends, to have her very own best friend. Someone to confide in, to share her worries. In school no one paid any attention to her anymore. Both there and at home, she was always alone. At the same time she was fully aware that this was her own fault. When she started in the ninth grade, kids would sometimes ask her to join them after doing their homework. She always said no. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she had to rush home to walk Spot and take care of everything else that had to be done. Inviting a friend home was out of the question. The risk was too great that they would find a messy apartment reeking of smoke, with the blinds down and breakfast dishes still on the table. A depressed mother with a cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth and a wineglass in her hand. No thanks, that wasn’t something she wanted to put herself through, or a friend, either. It would just make everyone talk. How embarrassing that would be. The last thing she needed was more problems.

That was why Fanny was alone. The other kids got tired of asking her, and finally no one even bothered to talk to her. It was as though she didn’t even exist.