Ann saw that he was becoming more and more uncomfortable. She worried that he would start to cry and she couldn’t handle that. She had to think of sensible things to say, even if they weren’t so sensible. She was afraid of the emotionality, a trap she would willingly fall into. She would become a victim, no doubt about it. Not because she loved him but because her longing for intimacy gnawed at her like hunger, so strongly that she thought her carefully constructed life would collapse altogether. She hadn’t been close to a man since last summer. I’m drying up, she thought from time to time. Occasionally she stroked herself but it never satisfied her. She thought about Edvard on his island, Gräsö, a thousand miles away. She would have given anything to feel his hand on her body. He was gone for good, had slipped out of her life after one night of drunken sex. Her longing and self-disgust went hand in hand.
Haver took her hand and she let him hold it. The silence was painful, but they couldn’t bear to break it with words.
“Maybe I should go,” Haver said in an unsteady voice. He cleared his throat and looked at her unhappily.
“What about you?” he continued, and that was a question she absolutely didn’t want to hear or answer.
“One day at a time,” she said. “Sure it’s hard sometimes, but I have Erik, and he’s a doll.”
That was what was expected of her, and sure, sometimes the baby was enough. But more and more she felt the need for another kind of life.
“It’s hard sometimes,” she repeated.
“Do you still miss Edvard?”
Stop it, she thought and was suddenly angry at his intrusive questions, but then she forced herself to calm down. He wasn’t trying to make her angry.
“Sometimes. I feel like we threw away our chance. We never really managed to get in sync.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I’m sure you’ll meet a great guy,” he said and stood.
Stay, she wanted to say, but stopped herself. They walked out into the hall. Haver stretched an arm out for his coat but then it was as if his arm changed direction on its own and found its way around her shoulders and drew her close. She sighed, or was it a sob? Slowly, she put her arms around his back and hugged him gently. One minute went by. Then she loosened herself from his grip, but remained close. She felt his breath and was enjoying standing so close to him. He stroked her cheek, brushed her ear with the tips of his fingers. She shivered. He leaned over. They looked at each other for a tenth of a second before they kissed. What did Ola Haver taste like? she asked herself after he had left.
They didn’t look at each other again, gliding apart as in a play, mumbling good-bye. He closed the door behind him with care. Ann put one hand on the door while the other touched her lips. That was bad, she thought, but then changed her mind. There had been nothing bad in their short meeting. A kiss, filled with longing and searching, friendship but also lust that threatened to erupt in a flow of lava and lead who knows where.
She went back into the kitchen. The dough was swelling over the sides of the bowl. She removed the kitchen towel and studied the mass. Suddenly she started to cry and she wished Ola had stayed for a while, just a short while. She imagined he would have liked to see her make the bread. She would have liked that. Her sleeves rolled up, the warm sticky mass of the dough, and his gaze. She would have formed and baked the golden loaves. But instead the dough lay in front of her, a shapeless lump she did not want to touch.
Ola Haver walked slowly down the steps, then quickened his pace. His stomach was churning, his brain was in chaos, and a burning feeling of regret followed him out into the snow. When would it ever stop snowing?
He thought of Rebecka and the children and hurried on. Once he was out in the parking lot he looked up at the building and tried to find Ann’s window, but he wasn’t sure which one it was. He overcame the impulse to run back. Instead he got into the car but didn’t turn on the engine immediately. He shivered with cold and realized that their short meeting would forever change their working relationship. Would they even be able to continue working together? Their kiss had been innocent, but potentially explosive. He had never kissed another woman since he’d met Rebecka. Would she notice anything different? He ran his tongue over his teeth. The outer traces linger for only a moment while the inner ones remain. In a vague way he felt pleased with himself. He had conquered Ann, an attractive woman who wasn’t known for being easily wooed. He knew it was a ridiculous thought, but the coldness at home had created a psychological space for this feeling of triumph he clung to like a piece of candy. He toyed with the idea of starting a relationship with Ann. Would she want to? It was doubtful. Would he be able to do it? Even more doubtful.
“What’s that white stuff on your clothes?”
Haver looked down at his chest and blushed.
“Ann was baking,” he said sheepishly. “I must have brushed against something.”
“Oh, she was baking,” Rebecka said and disappeared into the bedroom.
He looked around. The kitchen was sparkling clean and everything had been put in its place. The counter gleamed. The only thing that marred the picture was a candle that had burned halfway, and a glass of wine with some dregs left in the bottom. Candle wax had run down in a striking pattern over the verdigris-coated candlestick, an object Haver had inherited from his grandmother. He still remembered how she would light it on family celebrations and special holidays. The wineglass was green and he recalled buying it with Rebecka in Gotland during their first trip together. The wine was a red wine that Haver had bought for New Year’s Eve, which they had been planning to celebrate with Sammy Nilsson and his wife.
He heard her moving around in the bedroom. The roller blind was pulled down, a dresser drawer was shut, and the bedside lamp was turned on. He could imagine what she looked like, the tight-lipped attitude and slightly abrupt movements she made when she was upset.
He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer, then sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the storm to break.
Twenty-six
Lennart gave a short laugh and got out of bed. The alarm clock had woken him brutally. He laughed when he imagined how everyone around him would react to seeing the alcoholic, good-for-nothing Lennart Jonsson get dressed, sober, with the coffeemaker going and the Thermos set out, all at a quarter to six in the morning. No beer gripped by shaking hands and no fumbling search for a half-smoked cigarette under piles of dirty dishes. A scene flashed through his mind: a morning he had woken up to see Klasse Nordin drinking from the plastic bags he had earlier vomited wine into. Fuck those morning-afters, he thought.
At least he wouldn’t be cold. His father would have envied him his Helly Hansen gear. Albin had often complained about the cold when he came back from work. In the summer he had complained about the heat. The temperature was rarely perfect, but on the other hand Albin almost never complained about anything else. Not even during the worst of Lennart’s teenage years, when he was the most messed up.
“T-t-try t-to act l-l-l-like a human being,” he had sometimes managed to get out. But he had rarely said anything stronger than that.
Lennart wasn’t used to it, but it felt good to be getting up at half past five. He was almost able to convince himself that he was a hardworking man going about his daily business on an early December morning, with the snow coming down even heavier than before. The fact that he was setting out to work with something that fell into his father’s sphere reinforced the sense of importance. He was going to accomplish something today, point to a sign and say, We’re clearing snow away here, please walk on the other side of the street. Maybe even add a please if it was a civilized-looking person. Most of all he wanted some of his drinking buddies to walk by. Or, on second thought, no. They would just start shooting the breeze and distract him from his work.