"Sun and Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Edwardson Åke)

10

Angela closed the door behind her and tried to take off her raincoat without dripping water onto the parquet floor in the hall. Her face was wet, and despite sprinting from the tram to the front door, her hair had gotten wet as well.

What a day! Patients lying on gurneys in the corridors. No time for anybody. One visitor had called her “mysterious,” as he’d been trying to contact her for two days, or was it three? I’ve been here all the time, working, she told him, but he seemed skeptical. She had been furious, but hadn’t shown it. Of course. She was tired, and felt sick again.

She kicked off her boots and went to the kitchen. Rain pattered on the windows. The scarcely audible swish of trams in the square down below. Her new home. The big apartment building in Vasaplatsen.

It hadn’t been completely straightforward. She still had her apartment at Kungshöjd. She smiled. Erik would come home and she’d tell him she wanted to keep her apartment. He might well believe her. At times she felt he was prepared to agree to anything. But at others nothing escaped his critical attention, not the slightest detail.

No. They would be better off here, to start with, at least, when the baby… She stopped her train of thought for a moment, didn’t want to think about it too much until… until they’d had a bit more time. Until I’ve settled in, she thought. Until we’re living together. I don’t really live here yet. I just come back here after work because it feels better. In order to get used to living here.

She made a cup of tea, sat at the kitchen table, and listened to the rain outside. She stood up, went to the living room, and came back when Springsteen had already been singing for half a minute about the price you pay for what you do. Angela stroked her stomach. The price for what you do. She smiled again. You make up your mind, you choose the chance you take. Springsteen was carrying the whole of human vulnerability on his shoulders. Erik had started listening to Springsteen. Only the melancholy songs, of course. But even so. It wasn’t only for her sake. Things were always happening to people who accepted that they kept on growing. Coltrane was still there, but he’d had to give way. Erik now knew two names from the history of modern music. The Clash and Bruce Springsteen. That should keep him going for a while. They had acquired something else in common, she thought, stroking her stomach again.

Am I afraid? No. Is he afraid? Perhaps. Will he admit it? He’s saying more and more. He’ll be forty in a few months, and he’s learning to talk. That’s early for most men.

The refrigerator was humming, but was almost empty. She stood in the light it cast with the door open. The twilight in the room had thickened into darkness. She had thought there was some cheese left, but there wasn’t even enough margarine to last until morning. She had a sudden craving for anchovies. She’d read and heard about such cravings, but never experienced them herself. Anchovies had nothing to do with foul weather, but they could have something to do with her pregnancy. Just like veal headcheese coated with chocolate and other old wives’ tales. Spaghetti with cola sauce.

Anchovies. Cheese. Margarine. Maybe the latest Femina. She’d canceled her postal subscription before moving, but now she missed not finding it in the mailbox, neither here nor at ho-No, not at home. She’d have her furniture there for a few more weeks, but that was all.

Clean break.

But what a pain, she was now longing for Femina almost as much as for a tin of anchovies, all yummy and caramelized by the grains of salt. She looked out of the window with rain streaming down it. The streetlights were on but had difficulty in piercing the darkness. She sighed, could hear herself doing it. Closed the refrigerator door, went into the hall, put on her boots and raincoat. The umbrella was just as elusive now as it had been this morning.

The elevator was down below, so she took the stairs. Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell, a deeper sound than the ones she’d been used to every day at ho-At Kungshöjd.

She walked along Vasagatan to the little supermarket. The rain had eased off, with just a little moisture dripping from gutters. She moved closer to the curb and heard an engine behind her, one of several. But after a minute the same vehicle was still there, and she turned around and saw a police car driving slowly a few paces behind her. She resumed walking, but the car continued crawling along at the same speed. She turned to look again and tried to see who was driving, but she could only make out a dark silhouette behind the wheel.

Were they on the lookout for somebody or something? Why was the car going so slowly, following her? Suddenly the driver flashed his headlights, turned left, and drove back toward Vasaplatsen. She looked around to see if there were any more police cars in the vicinity, but couldn’t see any.

She went into the shop and bought the items on her list. Then paused at the tobacco counter, bought her magazine, and took the opportunity to snap up a packet of cola sweets, while she was there.

Spaghetti tasting of cola. The myth was about to become reality.

It had started raining again, so it didn’t matter which part of the pavement she walked on. The shopping bag was heavier than she’d expected, especially when she changed hands to punch in the door code for the main entrance. She could see a police car again in the corner of her left eye. It was coming up from Aschebergsgatan now; it passed over the crossroads and slowed down as it approached her. She kept her hand on the keypad. The car drove slowly past but she still couldn’t see the driver’s face, as he had lowered the sun visor. She watched the car drive away and noticed the taillights blink like two red eyes. At the end of the block, it turned and disappeared.

She got in the elevator.There were evidently a lot of police cars out this evening. Or was it the same car? A raid on some shady premises in Vasastan. Where the dregs of Gothenburg live. Social dropouts. Desperadoes. Chief inspectors. Doctors. Mad widows with fortunes acquired in mysterious circumstances. There was one of those on the same floor as Erik. Very old, but she doesn’t fool me, Erik had once said when they’d greeted her as she got out of the elevator. Sometimes you can hear noises from her apartment that sound like some kind of mass. Did you see her nails? No? Not surprising because she doesn’t have any. But what she does have is lots of strange visitors.

She’d actually shuddered at the time. She thought about that as she stepped out of the elevator and saw Mrs. Malmer’s dark-painted door.

Rosemary’s Baby. The thought came from nowhere. She was Rosemary, and had moved in, for good. Erik started making late-night visits to old Mrs. Malmer and she would start hearing rhythmic murmuring through the wall. One morning Erik would have a Band-Aid on his shoulder. Somebody would die a tragic death at his workplace. The chief of police. Erik would be promoted into his job. She would be introduced to Mrs. Malmer’s eccentric but very gentlemanly old friend and he would introduce her in turn to a new gynecologist, which could lead…

She’d opened the door to the apartment and the phone was ringing. She put down the shopping bag, kicked off her boots and took a couple of paces to the bureau in the hall where the telephone was.

“Hello?” She could hear her heavy breathing.

“Have you been running up the stairs?”

“Hi, Erik!”

“Is it good for you to run up the stairs? Or have you started doing gymnastics?”

“I took the elevator.”

“That can be strenuous.”

“Yes. I start imagining all the horrible things that might be going on in this building.”

“Old Mrs. Malmer?”

“Why mention her by name?” she asked, noting the tone of suspicion in her own voice. Good Lord!

“That was silly of me. I don’t want to scare you-”

“Stop now and tell me about your father. It sounds as if you’ve been able to relax a bit.”

“Maybe. He was critical again for a while and they did something new to his blood vessels, adjusted something. He’s resting now in the recovery ward.”

“Have you managed to talk to the doctors yet?”

“Are you kidding? You ought to know better than anybody how impossible that is. The world over.”

She thought about the complaints that had been directed at her earlier that day. About her never being there.

“Don’t be too hard on us,” she said.

“Dad isn’t complaining, and that’s the main thing,” he said. “How are things otherwise?”

“I had the classic longing for anchovies and rushed out into the rain and was shadowed by your colleagues.”

“Shadowed? By the crime unit? They can’t have been all that discreet, then.”

“What are you saying? Is it something that you’re behind?”

“Eh? I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Being shadowed. By the crime unit.”

“Do you really feel you’re being shadowed by the crime unit?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said precisely that just now.”

“I said I was being shadowed by your colleagues. I meant the police.”

She could hear the sigh all the way from the Costa del Sol.

“Let’s start again from the beginning,” he said. “Tell me again. I’ll listen and I won’t say a word.”

“I went out shopping and a police car followed me. Slowly. All the way. When I stopped to see if that really was what it was doing it flashed its headlights and turned off down a side street.”

Winter said nothing.

“When I came back and was about to go through the main door a police car appeared again and drove slowly past, in the same way,” Angela went on. ‘And after it had passed, it flashed its lights again. The taillights this time.“

“Was that all?”

“Yes. For God’s sake, I expect they were keeping somewhere under observation, or whatever you say. It must have been a coincidence. I said it mainly as a joke.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Yes, funny, wasn’t it?”

“Did you get the license plate number? Or numbers if there were two cars?”

“Of course. I noted everything down right away on the inside of my eyelid.” She laughed. “I’m afraid not. I didn’t go to police academy.”

“Well… I don’t know what to say.”

“Forget it. It was a coincidence, of course. Always assuming that you haven’t… haven’t put somebody on to keeping a discreet watch on me, to make sure I’m all right while you’re away.”

“It doesn’t seem to be all that discreet.”

“Well, have you?”

“Are you joking?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I don’t have the power to do anything like that. Not yet, at least.”

“But soon, perhaps?”

“What do you mean?”

“If something happens to your boss? The chief of police. What’s his name?”

“Birgersson. What are you talking about, Angela?”

“Nothing.” She laughed again. “I’m just talking in my sleep, as it were. Or in my daydreams.” Not a sound from the Costa del Sol. “Hello? Are you still there, Erik?”

“This is a very odd conversation.”

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I still feel an outsider in this building, even though I’ve been here so often for so many years. But it’s different now. And I suppose it’s really to do with me wanting you back at home again. As quickly as possible. As soon as your dad’s better.”

“We must keep hoping.”

“It might take time.”

“If he has any time left.”

“It sounds as if he has.”

“Now you’d better fix those anchovies.”

“I suppose you get a lot of that kind of thing down there.”

“I haven’t tried any yet.”

“No tapas?”

“There hasn’t been any… time. I stayed at the hospital last night.”

“What was it like?”

“Better than being somewhere else. Anyway, make sure you get some salt down you, so that you don’t think so much about ghosts.”

“Mrs. Malmer?”

“Police cars.”

“I’ve bought some cola sweets as well.”

“Eat them with mashed anchovies and Parmesan cheese.”

“I’ve made a note of that,” Angela said.

The car drove around the town center, then returned to Vasaplatsen. The driver was listening to the emergency call-outs. A traffic jam near the Tingstad Tunnel. A mugging in Kortedala. Somebody who ran away from a tram in Majorna without paying.

He parked at the newspaper stand and bought a paper, any paper. Maybe he’d read it, or just leave it on one of the seats. Maybe he’d just drop it in the trash bin.

Lights were on in most of the apartments. He knew which block, but not which apartment. It would be easy to check the names on the intercom on the front door, but what would be the point of that? He asked himself that question as he got back into the car and fastened his seat belt. What-would-be-the-point-of-that? He had a question but no answer. When he knew why he was going to go up to that door and check the address and the floor, he would also know the answer to several other questions. Things that had happened. That were going to happen. Going-to-happen.

Had he flashed his lights? If he had, there would have been a point. It would have been a start. He looked down at the newspaper on his knee. He didn’t know which one it was: Göteborgs Tidningen or Ex pressen or Aftonbladet, only that there would be things in it, and in the others, that he could have told them about himself, but they hadn’t asked and it was the same as it always was because nobody ever asked him anything, anything with a POINT to it, but that was all over now, ALL OVER NOW He squeezed his hand around the newspaper and tugged at it, and afterward, after a minute, or a year, while he was still sitting in front of the newspaper stand, he looked down again and saw that he had torn the paper in two.