Back in the house, the pain in her foot resumed. She took off her wet clothes and hung them in the drying cabinet.
In the shower, she discovered the marks on her arms, marks and wounds from fingernails. It smarted like venom when she spread lotion on them.
But it wasn’t until she went to the bedroom door that she noticed Berit’s bag. It was still standing next to the chair where she had been sitting.
Chapter THREE
The following morning, she awoke with a heaviness on her chest. She tried to scream, but her throat was like a rasp. She kicked at the blankets and felt the bird; he had never gone into her bed before.
She had hidden Berit’s bag in her wardrobe. When she came out in the upper hallway, she saw another bag, a dark blue tote with Lüdings Förlag on it, and a logo with a number of book spines. It had been thrown into a corner. She now remembered that Berit had brought flowers and a bottle of wine with her. She felt completely empty.
She folded the blue tote and put it in the wardrobe, too. She spent the rest of the day with Hans Peter. She was able to suppress all those other events. She had thought about him; he was working his way into her consciousness. She felt a kind of tenderness when she remembered his collar bone, his neck, his hands. They were not like Nathan’s; they were softer, milder. He gave her a happy contentment.
She had thought about taking care of Berit’s bag after he left, but she didn’t have the energy. Exhaustion knocked her out. She crept into bed; his aroma was in the sheets, his nearness.
Tor Assarsson called again on Monday morning.
“I just can’t deal with going to work,” he said. “I was hoping that you’d be home.”
“I’m home.”
“It is hellish. Everything is so damn hellish.”
“I understand. Have you heard anything new?” “No.”
“Wait until the mail comes. Maybe she wrote you, from Rome or Tobago. Maybe she just picked up and left in order to get some distance.”
“You think?”
“It’s not completely impossible.”
“Maybe you’re right. Let’s hope so.”
He said he had to come over and talk to her in person. She was able to hinder that. “Wait for the mail first,” she had said. “What time does it usually arrive?”
He said he didn’t know. He was normally not at home during the work week.
She promised to let him come over after lunch.
She thought about Hans Peter.
First she had to deal with the purse and the tote. In some strange way, she hoped that they had just disappeared by the time she opened the wardrobe door. Of course they were still there. Berit’s large leather purse stood on top of her gym shoes, just where she had placed it.
Her headache returned.
She sat on the floor with the scissors. She intended to cut the purse into small, small pieces, the purse and everything in it. When she took it in her hand, the way Berit had often held it, she realized that would be difficult. She didn’t want to open it, but she realized that she had to. The small metal clasps released, and the purse yawned open with its dark secret contents. The owner’s things, her life.
On the top was a cloth handkerchief with vague lipstick marks, then all the rest that she didn’t want to see, but had to, all those personal belongings that would bring the picture of Berit back into her house: a wallet, worn out at the seams, the pocket with the bank card, the white plastic card from the landsting, an American Express card, a book club card that had expired a while ago, a pharmacy card. Justine lifted a flap and three person’s eyes met hers: the husband, Tor, and the two boys, school age. There were almost a thousand crowns in the bill area. She began with those, clipped them to pieces; then the photos, the plastic cards, the small pieces of paper and receipts that were in the pocket behind the bills. Then she took the pocket calendar. She flipped through it and read sporadic notations: the dentist at one-thirty; don’t forget to pick up shoes. At the very bottom, Berit’s driver’s license, loose. She did not look like herself in the photo. It was an old picture; Berit had her hair in a bun. It made her seem older. Keys, comb, mirror and lipstick. She started collecting it in a bag, sat for a while and tried to break the comb in two. It was a light blue plastic comb with a handle. She tried with all her might, but the plastic refused to give. A small bottle of perfume, Nuits indiennes; she rolled it into a small plastic bag to dampen the smell. The lighter was on the table. The cigarette pack was also there, five or six cigarettes left; she crumbled them to bits right onto the pile. Clipped the cloth tote into small pieces; tried to do it with the leather purse, but now she had to give up. The scissors had lost their strength.
What was she supposed to do with this? She sat on the floor with her legs straight. Berit’s eye, cut loose from her driver’s license, stared right into her face. She took it between her fingers and stuffed it into the bottom of the pile.
The telephone rang; she hadn’t pulled the line from the jack. She was thinking of Tor Assarsson’s and Berit’s children. She had to be available, the happy and wonderful friend.
She spoke her entire name out loud, tensely.
“My dearest sweetheart!”
It was Hans Peter.
“I was afraid you’d disconnected the phone.”
“No…”
“I’m longing for you. My whole body longs for you; my palms miss the warmth of your skin. I want to hear your voice and embrace you.”
“Oh, Hans Peter…”
“What’s wrong? You sound so different. Has something happened?”
“No, nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m fine. Are you working today?”
“Certainly, but not until evening. May I come over right now? I want to!”
She froze from the sound of her own voice.
“I can’t. I’m busy.”
“When do you have time?”
She noticed the lessening of his enthusiasm.
“I’ll have to call you.”
“When?”
“Please, Hans Peter, there’s a few things I really need to take care of first, and I can’t talk about them now. But I will call you.”
“Maybe I won’t be in.”
“No, but I’ll try anyway. I have to go now. Sorry!”
She hung up the phone. This was not how she imagined things. She placed her hands on her eyes, and whimpered.
Should she burn up the purse? No. That would be too risky. She grumbled to herself and walked in circles. What to do? Then she remembered the transfer station Lövsta, on the other side of Riddersvik. Of course. Why didn’t she think of this before? She was very tired; she was dizzy when she went into the basement. She found the roll of black garbage bags. She stuffed the purse and its pile of remains into one of the bags and tied it up. She strode about, searching in all the rooms; no, no more traces. She put on her coat and drove away.
She was afraid that someone would ask what was in the garbage bag. A man in overalls looked at her without any interest. She asked anyway, “Where’s the container for combustibles?”
He pointed to one of the containers.
“Thanks,” she said.
When she returned to the car: “Have a nice day.” He muttered something unintelligible.
As soon as she returned home, she dialed Hans Peter’s number. Of course he didn’t answer. Worry gripped her, began to transform into despair. She went into the bathroom and put on a thick layer of make-up, thick Kohl eyeliner and eye shadow. She put on a skirt, a cardigan and thick woolen leggings. Her foot was better after a night of rest, but it was still a bit swollen.