‘We never do anything together, we don’t even talk to each other. It’s as if Ellen and I were living here alone. You’re never home. And when you are, then… We…’
She broke off. Looked down at the table and held her hands up to hide her face. She got up and went to get the kitchen roll. She blew her nose and ran a finger under her eyes. She had always been particular about her appearance, but right now she was dissolved, exposed, and he saw that she was suffering.
He was used to her anger; the sudden outbursts of wrath that justified him in keeping his distance and holding his armour intact. Now she had stepped straight through it. She had stopped fighting and acknowledged her weakness, begging for comfort and understanding.
He preferred her anger.
She came back to the table. Her tears had stopped flowing but her face was swollen. White streaks ran down her cheeks and mascara had smeared under her eyes.
‘We never touch each other.’
Her voice was shy and he saw that she was blushing. Her throat was flecked with crimson and she lowered her eyes, fiddling with a well-manicured fingernail at the wet heap of crumbs that he cursed himself for ever noticing. He could feel his heart pounding. Everything he had avoided talking about for years suddenly took shape as a terrible bonfire between them. In his confusion he raised his arm and glanced at his wristwatch, and although her eyes were focused on the tabletop she noticed the gesture.
‘Are you in a hurry or something?’
‘No, no, not at all.’
He picked up his coffee cup and noticed his hand was trembling.
Across the table, she took a deep breath as if to take a running start.
‘I’m prepared to fight for Ellen’s sake, but I haven’t the strength to do it alone.’
A few seconds passed in silence. The revulsion he felt was so intense it made him feel sick.
‘I have a suggestion,’ she said.
Now came the fear. To be forced into the bedroom and be expected to have sex with her.
‘I want you to start going to therapy.’
‘What?’
The phrase came so unexpectedly that his fear temporarily vanished.
‘Therapy? What sort of therapy? Why should I do that?’
She didn’t reply. Just looked at him for a moment too long, then released him and went back to her pile of crumbs.
‘I’ve been going for six months, and it’s helped me. Maybe it would be good for you too.’
The astonishment he felt was genuine.
‘You’ve been going to therapy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested. We don’t usually tell each other things in this family. We’re seldom even in the same room, and you never answer your phone.’
The caustic dig moved them quickly to familiar ground, where he at once found his footing. These endless reproaches. He worked his arse off to make ends meet, and yet she was never satisfied. Their spacious five-room flat, for which the seller had accepted a considerably lower price because their name was Ragnerfeldt. She seemed to have forgotten the difference between rights and privileges. He had pulled off the trick of putting food on the table by spreading memorable words through his lectures and starting up organisations to improve the world. He was useful. Both to the world and to his family. It was thanks to him that Axel Ragnerfeldt’s unique prose was now associated with humanitarian aid efforts. What his father had written about had been transformed in his hands into something concrete; it was on his initiative that all these aid projects had been started. He had become someone that people listened to, and he was treated with respect. He had proven that he was somebody to be reckoned with. And yet all he encountered here at home were these constant accusations and sour looks.
‘Another option is for us to go to therapy together, to a marriage counsellor. If you’d prefer that.’
No, he certainly would not. He didn’t want to go to any therapy whatsoever and sit there gazing at his navel and digging through his childhood potty.
‘And what if I don’t want to?’
She seemed to sense his repressed anger and started at his new tone, yet her voice remained calm and composed.
‘Well, then I don’t know. Then it seems like you don’t think this is worth fighting for. I really don’t know.’
He was trapped. Chained hand and foot. His anger took over completely, at this woman who could sit there with her ultimatums without even realising what sort of leverage she held. The fact that he didn’t have a choice, although she tried to make it sound as if he did. His rage purged his conscience clean, and he got up from the table. With all the self-control he could muster he pushed in the chair.
‘Okay. I suppose I’ll have to think about therapy then. But that doesn’t mean I want to go or think I need it.’
She reached for her handbag hanging from the back of a chair. She took out her wallet and handed him a business card.
‘I got this from my therapist. We can’t go to the same one, but this is somebody she recommended who’s a specialist in-’
She broke off and looked away.
‘In what?’
She looked at him timidly and put the card on the table.
‘In the sort of problems that you, or rather we, may have.’
He stopped short and stared at the card. He slowly reached out, picked it up, and lowered his eyes to read it. Robert Rasmusson. Licensed psychotherapist and sexologist. And then in smaller type below: couples therapy, separations, sexual guidance and erectile dysfunction.
He clenched his teeth.
Without a word he left the kitchen and went into the bathroom. He locked the door and just stood there. His emotions raged between flaming anger and something else he didn’t recognise. The need to go back to the kitchen and scream the truth in her face was so strong that he had to go to the sink and cool off his face with cold water. I sure as hell don’t have any problems with my erection! You’re the one who’s the problem! I can get it up with anyone I choose, as long as it’s not you!
He looked at himself in the mirror then splashed his face one more time.
The business card in her wallet. So clever, on the very morning she could no longer hold back her tears. She had fooled him once more. She had used the oldest female trick in the book to force him to listen to her. He read the card again, his wet fingers leaving dark spots on it. He resisted the urge to flush it down the toilet. Everything was suddenly a huge mess. It was five past nine. He would have to take care of all this later, try to work out a strategy.
He was due at his mother’s flat in twenty-five minutes.
He was in a foul mood by the time he was walking up the two flights to Alice Ragnerfeldt’s flat. Marianne Folkesson wouldn’t be arriving for half an hour. He had made a point of getting there in good time to ensure that his mother was not drunk before he let a stranger into the flat. After two short rings he fumbled for his keys, but then she opened the door. That was a good sign. She was dressed, her hair combed, and she was apparently sober.
‘Hi, Mamma.’
He stepped into the hall and hung up his coat. Everything seemed to be in order. He held out the bag of cinnamon buns he’d bought on the way over.
‘Come here, I have to show you something.’
Without taking the pastry bag she vanished into the kitchen. He bent down, pulled off his shoes and followed her. She was sitting on one of the chairs when he entered the room.
‘Look at this.’
She pulled up the legs of her trousers and looked at him urgently. He peered at her feet and calves.
‘Do you see it?’
‘See what?’
‘Don’t tell me you can’t see it.’
He leaned forward and looked more closely.
‘What am I supposed to see?’