The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [133]
“How is it going?” Jessica asked through the door.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he said.
“Would you like some tea?”
“No thank you,” he replied and stepped into the shower stall.
When he stepped out of the shower a quarter of an hour later there was a suitcase in the hall.
Jessica was sitting in the living room with a cup of tea and a few rusks.
“Have you packed?”
“Only the essentials,” she said, picking up a rusk. She spread marmalade on it, looked at him, and smiled.
Stig had only slipped on a bathrobe and regretted that he had not dressed properly. Now it seemed like she was the one who was leaving him and not the other way around. First she was going to drink a cup of tea, then stand up, take her bag with “the essentials”—whatever that was—and leave the house.
He walked to the bedroom and quickly pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt. When he returned she had finished her tea.
“I want you to unpack,” he said.
The silence in the room was deafening. They looked at one another. There was no triumph in her voice when she finally answered.
“Allright, I’ll stay.”
She didn’t ask him why he had changed his mind, made no attempt to get up and throw herself in his lap or venture any words of reconciliation, simply a dry observation that they were still a couple. What he was grateful for was her passivity. It was as if she could tell that if she made a big deal of the whole thing then Stig would have fled.
He poured himself a cognac. They sat quietly, Jessica on the couch and he in an armchair. He knew that the silence could only be broken slowly and with great care. For a long time they would have to walk across new ice.
He thought about Laura, about her suitcase and the decision to leave the country for Italy. She had shown him the airline ticket to Palermo, told him which hotel she was going to check into, and that he could come later.
She was going to leave on Saturday morning and then wait for him there. An old song about longing came back to him. It was about Italy, wasn’t it? He only knew the fragment of a stanza:“. . . where small lemons grow . . .”
Then, a couple of hours ago, the thought of spending days and nights with Laura at a romantic hotel by the sea had seemed fabulous. Granted it is not particularly warm in Sicily in November but the air in the mountains is fantastic, there are few tourists, and the wine is excellent, Laura had explained.
Can I ever trust myself again? he wondered and glanced at Jessica. Can she trust me? He was unable to feel real joy. Not yet, maybe it would come. It felt as if he had completed a terrible training session, run a marathon, or wandered thousands of miles through the desert under the burning sun. The exhaustion was total, both physical and emotional.
He felt as if he could go on now that he was cleansed. Of course he had heard friends talk about similar conflicts, emotional and mental cleansing rituals, but he had not understood how arduous they could be.
Jessica was lost in thought. He knew she was keeping tabs on him and that she would continue to do so for a long time.
What he was dreading most was the conversation he would have to have with Laura. Was that what Jessica was waiting for? He suddenly stood up and left the room without a word, closed the door to the study, and walked over to the phone.
When Stig was gone Jessica made two calls from her cell phone. One was to the lawyer who took care of the firm’s business. They only exchanged a few words, as if speaking in code. The second call went to Lennart Öhman. He was still at the office.
“It’s me,” Jessica said in a strained voice. “Whatever Stig may tell you, it’s not true. If he talks about any changes, wants to sell, or talks shit about Hausmann, then don’t pay any attention. Listen but don’t talk back too much.”
“But—”
“Don’t interrupt me! Stig is going through a crisis but everything’s going to be fine. First we’ll finish with the Germans and then continue on with