The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [31]
He had worked together with Laura for many years but had never really gotten to know her. She had always been an isolated and complicated person but it was only this evening that he had seen the extent of her problems. There was little to find fault with regarding her work, of course, quite the opposite, in fact. During their low period a few years ago Laura was the one who had contributed the enthusiasm and creativity.
He regretted the fact that he had followed her in, but at the same time it pleased him that he had seen and experienced something beyond the everyday, as if he had taken a step into the land of insanity and returned. The dark side was frightening but also tempting. He was making a guest appearance. Now he was back in his clean and well-ordered kitchen, lit up by an attractive lamp, cherry cabinets, and gleaming white appliances.
Laura’s kitchen was the complete opposite: an interior from the fifties, as he remembered the kitchen from his childhood, dirty and dark, with a smell that was reminiscent of corruption and stagnation.
He thought about her body. Above all it was the delicate whiteness that he remembered, as if Laura was made of the finest china, light in his hands, pleasing to drink from but nothing to take out every day. She would shatter like a fragile, translucent cup if used too often.
He chuckled and took a sip of beer.
“What’s so funny?” Jessica asked from the bedroom.
“Nothing,” he said.
He felt found out, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t said anything. He felt as if Jessica had seen through him and his thoughts, and it put him in a bad mood. She bothered him. Because what he had gone through was something extraordinary that required thought. He wanted to linger in the feeling of unreality and exclusivity. Laura was no casual hotel-room conquest, but rather a rare experience of a mysterious and original liquid that dissipated in his hands. At the same time as he touched Laura she moved, gliding away with a smile he had never before seen in a woman. He had for a few hours been transported to a human sanctuary of intimacy, a moment of magic.
Now he was going to shower and crawl into bed with his wife.
Eight
“I can’t,” Ann Lindell said. “It’s impossible. Another day we might be able to . . .”
Fear shot up into her mouth like sour porridge and silenced her abruptly. Erik was screaming, or rather, singing. In recent months he had started to sing more and more, long strings of unconnected words. Sometimes Ann could identify the sounds, songs she herself sang in a distant childhood.
In September a new preschool teacher had started in Erik’s group and had made serious efforts to bring song and rhymes into the curriculum. Now songs were a constant feature.
“Wait a minute, I’m going to switch phones,” she said, mostly in order to win time. She took the handheld phone, left the kitchen, and went to the bedroom.
“A concert,” Charles Morgansson said.
“Yes, that’s Erik. I have a lot to do right now.”
“Petrus Blomgren is dead and we can’t do much about that. Not tonight.”
“I was thinking . . .”
Her objection stopped here. She knew he was right.
“What were you planning to see?”
“A crime film,” he said and chuckled into the receiver.
It was the first time she heard his laugh.
“Mystic River. Clint Eastwood is the director. I’ve read the book and it’s damn good.”
She knew nothing about the film or the book.
“A detective story,” she said doubtfully.
Charles Morgansson waited for her objection, but Ann knew she wasn’t going to be able to think of another suggestion due to the simple reason that she didn’t know what else was showing right now. The last movie she had seen had been a French production that she saw with Beatrice, probably a year ago.
She looked out the window. All snow had melted on the parking lot. The wet asphalt reflected the light from the streetlamps. She wiggled the