“My High-Wire-Artist!” she yelled.
The salesman explained that it was called turbo-power. He had a special kind of voice which he used just for women. She noticed he was married, imagined him throwing himself on his wife, driving his turbo in.
“Power,” he said and opened the hood. Everything was new and clean in there. He stroked the motor; his hand was pink and common.
When he handed over the keys, he took her wrist and held tight.
“Here’s my business card,” he said. “If you need anything, just call.”
The woman beside her had bowed her head, as if she was sleeping. A weak odor was streaming from her pores, melting into the new car smell.
“How fast do you think we can go?” yelled Justine.
The speedometer was trembling at 180 now, zigzagging. It was before noon; there was a great deal of traffic. Exit signs, fields. She stayed in the left lane, no one was ahead of her any longer. But someone was behind her. The police? No. A white Mercedes, driven by one lone man. He hugged her tail, wasn’t letting go. She hit the gas pedal again, noticed his round mouth in her rearview mirror.
He was tough, swung to the right, ready to pass. No way. The High-Wire-Artist could not be passed. She sped up, he gave her the finger. Then she saw his car careen off the road right into a barbed-wire fence.
She loosened her grip on the wheel.
She moved into the right lane, and stayed there until they got to Enköping; turned into an OK gas station. Parked. She heard Nathan’s wild laugh behind her: my dearest, my Amazon.
I’d cut off my breasts for your sake, you know that.
She lifted Flora’s head, stroked her cheeks with her sleeve. The deep holes of her eyes, as if they had flooded.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s just the speed and the wind.”
When she let go, Flora’s head fell back to her chest.
“Do you want anything? Coffee or something? We are on a day out. Think about what you want, Flora. I’m going in to use the bathroom for a minute.”
As soon as she entered the gas station, her legs started trembling.
No! Nathan was not supposed to see that!
She found the restroom and went in, locking the door. Someone had scrawled graffiti over the walls, threatening words.
She took some headache medicine, drank water straight from the tap. She stood there for a minute and pulled herself together.
She saw her own eyes in the mirror, her face rigid and terse. She looked like herself, but then again not.
“You bitch,” she said, and the woman in the mirror began to laugh.
Chapter TWELVE
Berit filled the tub and took a long warm bath. She was freezing from the inside out. She lay in the bathtub and thought that every small bone in her body had turned completely to ice.
They had eaten supper, she and Tor, one small take-out pizza per person. She was not hungry, ate just a bit from the center. He noticed her plate when she cleared the table, but he didn’t say anything.
She said, “We should have gotten a dog, don’t you think?” He shrugged his shoulders.
Then he went to his little room on the second floor which he liked to call his office; the room had been the boys’ playroom. A car track had run from one side of the room to the other, and the boys and their playmates had sat in there and built Lego sets. They managed to build an entire city. Now everything was packed into boxes and stored in the garage or in the basement. She couldn’t remember. One of these days they’d be taken out again, she surmised, when the grandchildren started coming.
Tor had made the room into his own and she had nothing against it. There were always papers he had to deal with, or phone calls he had to make. They had driven out to IKEA and gotten the Kavaljer desk, the Kristofer desk chair, and the computer table Jerker. They spent one Easter vacation painting the room white and nailing plasterboard to the ceiling. Berit found a remnant of cloth that was just big enough to serve as a length of curtain. Then it was finished, the little home office.
After dinner, he usually went there. He was able to ignore all kinds of discussions that way. He couldn’t deal with problems; she’d learned that during all their years together. Everything was supposed to flow easily and smoothly, and if it didn’t, he made a face and complained that a migraine was coming on.
Berit’s mother insisted that she had noticed this trait early on.
“I don’t want to make you upset, sweetheart, but I think you have to get used to the idea that you will be the strong partner in this marriage.”
“But Mamma, how can you say that?”
“Mothers see these things,” she answered cryptically.
Mothers see these things. Berit was also a mother, and what did she see in Jörgen and Jens and their girlfriends? Who was weakest there?
In many respects, Berit’s mother was right. Like the time that she was in labor with the boys. Tor had come with her to the hospital, but couldn’t stand sitting and waiting; the hospital smells went into his sinuses and made him pale and nauseous. So she had to lie there by herself and fight through the long painful hours and, once it was over, the midwife couldn’t reach him at home.
Afterwards he said that he had wandered about the whole night and thought of her. He had sent strong and intensive thoughts her way, in order to give her strength. She must have felt them, right?
And later, when the kids got chicken pox and all those other childhood illnesses- Jörgen kept getting ear infections-who had to take the blows? Of course, Berit was home those first few years, but she still could have used a bit of a break. But no. He hated illness of any kind and probably would have rather moved to a hotel for the duration, if it wasn’t for the fact that it would look bad.
“Those analytical types,” her mother used to say with a special look in her eyes.
Berit’s father raised cucumbers.
She got out of the bathtub and dried herself off carefully. It was nine at night. Might as well get into a nightgown right away and get to bed. She was a bit warmer now, and it was best to go straight under the covers before she chilled off again.
“Tor, I’m going to bed now,” she called. “You’re going to be up for a while, I take it?”
“Yes, the evening has just begun!”
He stood in the doorway; she pulled the towel up to her chin, shyly.
“Are you coming down with something?”
“No, not at all,” she said. “Just tired. Today was a hell of a day.”
He surprised her by going into the bathroom and slowly and carefully loosening the towel. He looked at her, took off his glasses.
“What’s up?” she asked peevishly.
“Well, after some thought, I decided that I should go to bed, too.”
Was he intending to make love? She couldn’t deal with that either. She realized that she didn’t remember the last time that they had made love.
She lay on her back in the bed while he went around the house turning off all the lights. The dishwasher started. Yes of course, it was totally full. She was wearing her knitted pajamas and thick gray socks. Then he came in and she closed her eyes and pretended that she was sleeping.
First he lay down in his own bed, but after a while, he lifted her blanket and got in.
“Tor… I don’t want to,” she said.
“Not that,” he said.
He appeared hurt. Was she supposed to make it up to him now, make everything all right?
“Sorry,” she said, and turned toward him.
A few seconds later, she said, “Tor?”
“Yes?”
“Can you imagine moving to Luleå?”
He chuckled dryly.
“I’m serious. Can you see yourself moving?”
“To Luleå of all places? No way.”