Red Wolf_ A Novel - Liza Marklund [40]
‘The kitchen closes at ten, but the bar is open till one, so just say if you’d like anything else.’
He vanished silently up the thickly carpeted staircase.
‘Who knew that this was here!’ Sophia smiled, throwing her arms out.
Thomas couldn’t help laughing. The atmosphere in the cellar of the bar was almost surreally oriental; the walls and floor covered in layer upon layer of thick, dusty carpets, gleaming bronze dishes piled in the corners, oil-lamps on low stone tables. They were alone, facing one another across a large oak table on heavy leather chairs. The ceiling consisted of vaulted brickwork that appeared to be seventeenth century.
‘These old brick buildings hold a lot of secrets,’ Thomas said, embarrassed that he was slurring his words.
‘You live on Kungsholmen?’ Sophia asked, looking at him over the rim of the gin glass.
He nodded, sipping his drink.
‘Old stove,’ he said, ‘lots of ornate plasterwork, creaking parquet floors, the lot.’
‘Your own?’
‘These days. We bought out the tenancy a year ago. What about you?’
Sophia lit a menthol cigarette, sucking in the nicotine, and blew the smoke out in small rings.
‘Östermalm,’ she said. ‘My family own a building there.’
He raised his eyebrows, impressed. She lowered her eyes and smiled.
‘We’ve had it for generations,’ she said. ‘Mine’s small, only three rooms, there are other members of the family who need the fancy rooms more than me.’
He took a handful of the peanuts that had been on the table since they started.
‘You live alone?’
‘With Socks, my cat. Named after the Clintons’ cat, if you remember . . .’
He laughed loudly. ‘Of course, Socks in the White House.’
‘And you’ve got a family?’ she said, putting her cigarette out.
Thomas pushed his chair back a bit.
‘Yep,’ he said happily, crossing his hands on his stomach. ‘Wife, two kids. No cat, though . . .’
They laughed.
‘Does your wife work?’ Sophia asked, sipping her drink.
He let out a deep sigh. ‘Far too much.’
She smiled, and lit another cigarette. The silence between them grew like a soft deciduous tree full of promise, trembling leaves and sunlight. Everything was sweetness and light in their oriental cellar.
‘She spent a while at home last winter,’ he said, more sombre now. ‘That was great. It suited the children, it suited me. It suited the apartment too; we renovated the kitchen and even managed to keep it clean.’
Sophia had leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. He could see the look in her eyes, and realized the effect his words had had.
‘I mean,’ he said, swallowing more gin, ‘I don’t mean women should be housewives and just stand by the stove and have babies, nothing like that. Of course women should have the same opportunities for education and careers as men, but there are loads of nice jobs in journalism. I don’t see why she insists on writing about violence and death for a tabloid.’
All of a sudden he could hear his mother’s voice in his head, words she had never said but he knew she was thinking: Because that’s what she is. A tabloid person who attracts trouble. You’re too good for her, Thomas; you could have found a good woman.
‘She’s a good woman,’ he said out loud. ‘Intelligent, but not very intellectual.’
Sophia looked at him, her head on one side. ‘The two don’t have to go together,’ she said. ‘You can be talented without being well-read.’
‘Exactly.’ Thomas took a large gulp of gin. ‘That’s exactly it. Annika’s incredibly smart. The problem is that she’s so bloody unpolished. Sometimes she goes about things like a bulldozer.’
Sophia covered her mouth with her hands and giggled. He looked at her in surprise, then started laughing as well.
‘But it’s true!’ he said, then got serious again. ‘She’s pretty unusual, in all sorts of ways. Never lets go once she’s decided to do something.’
Sophia had stopped laughing and was looking at him sympathetically.
‘It must be hard to live with that sort of stubbornness,’ she said.
Thomas shook his head slowly, emptying