— Are you Miriam? he asked.
— Yes, I said.
— I’m Calisto.
— Hi, I said.
Calisto was overweight, had greasy hair, and was clearly intoxicated.
— Perhaps you didn’t expect me to be this fat, he said a moment later.
— No, I said.
— Are you disappointed?
— Obesity has never been something that’s bothered me, I replied.
— Good, Calisto said, and ordered a beer from the bartender.
We sat in silence while he drank the beer.
— Will you come home with me now, was the next thing he said.
We walked silently through the narrow streets and eventually emerged on a wide street where Calisto hailed a cab. Then we rode for a long while — through the city, out onto a road that ran along the coast, eventually arriving in an area with large houses perched on cliffs overlooking the water.
— Wow, I said. Is this where you live? What’s it called?
— Saltsjöbaden, Calisto replied curtly.
— Are you rich? I asked.
— Rich? he said, as if he didn’t understand what the word meant.
— I mean it looks really swanky.
— Swanky? Calisto said, looking out the window. I don’t think anyone uses that word anymore.
His voice was different, it sounded like his throat had tightened somehow. I peered out the window again: at the houses we passed, standing there grand and sort of obstinate, with their giant windows magnificently staring out over the water. Then the taxi turned onto a smaller road that continued into the woods. The taxi had slowed down, and we sat beside each other in the backseat in silence. I thought about what he had written before and that there had been confidence in his words, something I couldn’t sense now. Had he just been acting? I glanced at the meter but Calisto didn’t seem to care. When the cab stopped Calisto paid with his credit card. We exited the vehicle and he took a key out of his pocket and unlocked a large gate. Behind the gate was a wooden house. It was pitch black everywhere except for a dim light that shone from somewhere in the garden. A high, dark spruce forest surrounded the yard, and the sea suddenly felt far away even though it was probably just around the corner.
— Have you changed your mind? Calisto asked.
— No.
— And what if I’m a cold-blooded murderer? he said and laughed.
— The bartender saw us together.
— They see lots of people, he replied. If it really matters they don’t remember a thing.
I grinned at him, because Calisto was the type of person who at first glance you’d assume wouldn’t even hurt a fly. We got in, took our shoes off, and he showed me around. It was obviously difficult for him to move around with all those extra kilos. The house was sparsely furnished, the walls white. Every time we left a room he turned the light off after us. I wondered if he had a wife or if he had had one. Not that it mattered, and it shouldn’t have been a hard question to ask, and still it was a question that seemed off limits with Calisto, as if he and his home exuded a loneliness that demanded respect and distance; as if this was his outlying land, and he was the only one who could find his way here. When we got to the living room he said it felt a bit cold, so he started a fire in the open fireplace. He pulled out a sheepskin rug and held out his hand, gesturing toward the rug.
— You can take your clothes off and wait for me there, he said.
— Excuse me?
— Take your clothes off and lay down on the rug. I’ll be right back, Calisto said.
I laughed.
— You think I’m a whore?
— No, I don’t. But we both know what’s going to happen. And I’m not interested in lengthy foreplay, to say the least.
A gust of wind hit the window and we both turned to look at the same time. But the darkness was thick, and we only saw our own reflections. I couldn’t keep from laughing.
— We look so small, I said.
— Yes. Will you take your clothes off now?
I took my clothes off and lay down on the rug. Calisto stood there watching me with his arms folded over his chest. I thought he would lie down beside me but instead he turned and walked out into the hallway. I heard him lock the bathroom door and for a long while listened to water rushing through the pipes. For a minute or so it was completely quiet. I laid there, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly I realized what was funny about his name. Calisto is the name of a Swedish popsicle. I laid there thinking about the popsicle, and about Calisto. I wondered how old he’d been when the popsicle had appeared on the market, and if people with a better memory for names would smile when he introduced himself. The heat from the fire made me drowsy and I must have fallen asleep for a second because when I opened my eyes again Calisto was standing naked in front of me. Like a huge mountain he stood there before me with all of his bodily mass, arms hanging at his sides.
— I have to tell you something, he said, staring straight at me. Maybe I should have told you right away when we started talking, but I was afraid you wouldn’t give me a chance if you knew.
— What? I said.
— For the past several years I’ve only had sex I’ve paid for.
— What?
— It’s been a long time since someone wanted to be with me out of her own free will. You know what I look like. It’s not just the weight. It’s everything.
He brushed his hand over his body, and at once he looked small, despite all the kilos. Small and, somehow, impotent.
— I’ve forgotten how to do it with someone who actually wants to be with me, he said, and gave me an apologetic look.
I wished he hadn’t said anything about this. I didn’t know him well enough to feel pity for him, and what we were about to do called for an easy mood that was impossible to achieve after this type of intimacy. But Calisto didn’t seem to have a problem with these barriers, because now he was approaching the rug and lying down beside me. I could smell his scent. It was foreign, but I didn’t dislike it.
— Can we just lie here, he said, and get used to the situation?
We laid there on our stomachs with our feet toward the fire. The heat licked my legs and crotch; it was a nice contrast to the hail that was now pelting the large windows. I asked him what he did for a living.
— I’m a literary critic, he said.
— Ah.
I had been hoping he wouldn’t be too much of an intellectual. I don’t like to talk about literature before having sex; that was not the experience I was looking for. I wanted to make that clear to him, but Calisto had already started telling me about something that had happened to him not long ago. Since he was young, he said, he had admired one author greatly. This author had been the driving force of almost everything Calisto had done, in his life as well as within the field. But now Calisto was over forty and had for some time felt like he was nearing the end of his relationship with this author. He wasn’t discovering anything new, didn’t feel anything anymore, didn’t tread into any new dimensions. And Calisto wanted to discover new things; he was, he said, the kind of person who thinks life without evolvement is an unbearable stagnation. He wanted to be young in his discoveries, so to speak. Young, naïve.