The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [100]
He stared at the wall as if he could see through the plaster, the bricks, wood paneling, and the striped brown wallpaper. Laura lay in there, slumbering, whimpering like an animal, afflicted by dreams and a desire that never waned. She was like an animal, stripped of human checks and possessed by the resolution to live out life completely, as if in the last days of a destructive war.
Convention and the old loyalties had to make way for her will for a devouring physical intimacy She didn’t appear to care about anything. She threw everything into the trash.
He was sickened by the filth in her house, the bad-smelling piles of old clothes and soiled sheets, the stench of molding food scraps in the kitchen, and the dishwater that only drained reluctantly from the sink and left behind a film of grease and a ring of grayish dirt.
Water was dripping from the rusted gutters. A couple of cat eyes glimmered and were gone. The rope ties on the neighbor’s flagpole snapped weakly a few times. The faint burnt smell from the remains of Laura’s book-bonfire made Stig feel as if he was in a strange place in a foreign land.
He should be going home but he knew that before he did so he had to make a decision. Should he tell Jessica what he had really been doing at Laura’s or try to construct an even more advanced lie?
It was just before one o’clock. He took several decisive steps toward the terrace door but stopped abruptly. Did he want to return to his old life? That question was too big. The fatigue made his thoughts jump from one thing—running away with Laura—to another: leave her for good and try to puzzle his life with his wife back together. If she even wanted to. Stig realized that Jessica was going to find out what had happened, Laura would see to that if he betrayed her.
He stared at the outside of the house. It was probably worth a great deal and he knew it was paid off. What would Laura get if she sold it? Three million, maybe more. He could only come up with a couple hundred thousand at most. The house in Sunnersta was in Jessica’s name and his own shares in the company weren’t worth much.
Three million, he thought, and tasted it. Maybe Laura had money in the bank and other assets? He had the idea of riffling through her desk. He could probably find some ATM receipts.
Where would they go? How would they live? A life with Laura, he thought, and the thought was overwhelming.
He returned inside only to find that Laura was still sleeping. In the faint light from the lamp in the hallway he studied her features. So relaxed, the dark hair fanned out over her pillow, one leg pulled up, her right hand on her stomach and the left one straight out from her body as if she was waiting for him to lie down and rest on her arm. So beautiful, with the pale skin and the consummate beauty of a woman who has made love and thereafter fallen into a deep sleep.
Stig Franklin made up his mind, walked out into the kitchen, found a piece of paper and a pen, wrote a few lines, and left the note on the floor outside the bedroom door.
Thirty-one
Ann Lindell was awakened by the sound of the phone ringing. She reflexively threw herself over the phone and at the same time registered the time on the clock radio: 01:03.
Twice this angry signal had woken her up in the middle of the night. The first time it had been work related and on the other occasion, about a year ago, it was her mother calling at half past two in the morning to say that Ann’s father had been taken to the hospital because of heart problems.
This time it was about Ann herself. She answered sleepily and the first thing she heard was music.
“Hello?”
The dryness of her mouth made her wet her lips.
“Hi,” a voice said on the other end, and Ann immediately knew it was the voice of a drunk person, “it’s me, Challe.”
Challe, Ann thought, drawing a blank until she realized who it was. She sat up in bed. Her mouth was like a desert and she felt the throb of a headache.
“It’s one