“Help me, Stig,” she whispered into his ear.
The last time Stig Franklin had visited Laura Hindersten was a cold and clear morning, after several days of heavy snow. It was in February, they were on their way to a conference in Linköping and Stig was going to pick up Laura.
The sun had just risen over the City Forest and shone through the trees with a strong yet mild light. The branches of the snow-laden trees and bushes sagged, conceded defeat, and bowed deeply. Hare tracks ran diagonally across the otherwise undisturbed property.
Now none of that beauty remained. He noted with consternation the garbage that had accumulated in the parking space. She clung to his arm, did not say anything, pulled him up through the bushes to the front door.
“That’s coming loose,” he said and pointed to the place where the front steps met the wall.
Laura looked at him.
“Help me,” she said softly without looking at the stairs.
There was a pedestal leaning halfway into a gigantic rhododendron. He stopped and gently squeezed a dormant bud. It glistened with moisture. Laura looked at his hand fingering the fleshy bud. She pulled him close and leaned her head against his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked around as if to assure himself they were not being observed. Laura sighed.
“Everything is fine,” she whispered. “It’s fine when you are here.”
“You should rest a little,” Stig said.
She nodded and he led her up the stairs, took the keys out of her purse, unlocked the door, and shoved it open as he put his arm around her shoulders. A stale burst of air hit them in the face.
In the hall there was a pile of old bed linens and a stained mattress was leaning up against the wall.
“Is that your father’s?”
She didn’t answer, pulled off her coat, and dropped it on the ground.
“Would you like anything?”
He shook his head, picked up her coat, and hung it up.
“Have you talked to anyone? I was thinking if you…”
He stopped abruptly when he realized that Laura had slipped out of her skirt, let it slide down her legs, and now with a rapid movement pulled off her blouse. Everything went very fast. Suddenly she stood there in front of him. Her breaths were warm.
“I have to go,” he said and cleared his throat.
She shook her head.
“Rest with me for a while,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“I know that you want to,” she said and stamped her foot to free herself from her skirt.
She was wearing black pantyhose and a light-colored lace bra. Her skin glowed with unnatural whiteness in the dim hall.
“My father isn’t home,” she continued.
“I know.”
“No one will disturb us.”
He tried to avoid looking at her. She was beautiful in a frail way and Stig had to fight against an impulse to pull her toward him. He was very warm but did not unzip his jacket.
“You know I can’t,” he repeated, much less convincing than he had intended.
“Admit that you want to,” she said. “You can have me here in the hall if you like.”
Without meaning to he looked at the mattress. She pulled off her pantyhose, took his hand and put it on one of her breasts. It just filled his hand. She let go and he stood there passively with his hand on her breast. It was getting dark outside and he could hardly make out her face. Her chest rose and sank.
He was sweating, felt a drop run down his face and it was as if he couldn’t get enough air. He drew a deep breath.
“You want to,” she filled in with the self-confidence in her voice that he knew so well from the office, but that now stood out in such contrast to her delicate body that he had to look closely at her. She is two people in one, he thought.
“Maybe,” he said.
“There is no one here to disturb us anymore,” she said and leaned against the wall.
He quickly pulled his hand back, turned around, tripped slightly on the sheets on the floor, and flew out of the door, ran down the stairs, and was greeted by the chill of the October night. He stopped and swore.
A cat ran off and disappeared between the bushes. He heard her call his name. He hesitated, stared into the thick vegetation, saw something between the bushes. He heard light steps and a voice calling him.
Then she stood there, a fairy-tale creature appearing out of the rose brambles, half naked, panting from her dash out of the house.
They looked at each other. They had known each other for eight years. She had never been more beautiful. The dark hair that framed the pale cheeks, the skin that glowed like ivory, the minimal panty, a little slip of cotton that made him think of whipped cream, the slender legs that were trembling with cold and arousal.
“I’m a virgin,” she whispered.
Stig Franklin came home right when Aktuellt, the news broadcast, started.
“I’m home,” he yelled.
His face in the hall mirror betrayed nothing of the events of the early evening. The worry he had felt in the car on the way home was gone. He had driven with the window down, letting the fresh air blow through the tension and slight nausea.
Now he was both hungry and thirsty and walked into the kitchen. A plate had been left out on the dining room table, also a dish with boiled potatoes and a pork chop with a congealed sauce. He opened the refrigerator and took out a Ruddles County, took a few sips, and sat down on a chair, smiled, and felt now for the first time how tired he was.
He heard the prime minister speaking on the television upstairs but could not tell what it was about. The voice of the reporter was heard from time to time. It was that woman he had never been able to stand.
“You’re drinking strong beer?”
Jessica had come downstairs without him noticing.
“I was thirsty,” he said, and smiled and gripped the bottle as if he was afraid she would take it away from him.
“How was it? It took a long time.”
“She wanted to talk.”
“About B-One, of course. I knew it. What did she say?”
“It wasn’t that. She’s not doing so well.”
“No, anyone can see that. She didn’t talk about the deal then?”
“No, I said.”
“Then what did she want?”
“Nothing in particular. She just wanted to talk. She’s lonely.”
“Living with her father in that haunted house all those years would have broken anyone down. Has she never gotten herself a man?”
“I don’t know,” he said and drank the last of the bottle. “She doesn’t reveal much.”
“If she didn’t talk about work, and doesn’t reveal anything, then what did you talk about?”
“All kinds of things. Her house, that it’s a lot of work. She’s apparently cleaning up after her father. There was junk everywhere.”
Jessica sat down across from her husband. He wanted to have another beer but hesitated. Jessica was a teetotaler.
“She has a crush on you,” she said.
“On me! Never. I’m not her type.”
“Then you’re blind,” Jessica said and stood up. “She hates me at any rate.”
“Now I think you’re exaggerating. She’s just a little jealous of you when you do well.”
Jessica let out a harrumph, left the kitchen, and went to the bathroom. Stig immediately got up and took out another bottle of beer.
The beer did him good. On an empty stomach the rush came quickly. He snapped up a potato and ate it with the skin still on, picked up the pork chop and took a bite. He felt strong in an unfamiliar way. Jessica was bustling in the bathroom. He assumed she was preparing herself for the night and getting ready to spend a few hours in bed with a book. As for him, he wanted to stay at the kitchen table and feel strong, in some way outside his normal life, together with a beer, potato, and a pork chop that tasted heavenly.
“Is there anything on TV?” he yelled, mostly to have something to say.