The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [34]
“You come here often?”
“I found this place last summer and keep coming back.”
“Why did you move here?”
“Same old story,” Morgansson said, but made no further attempt to explain what the story was, and Ann didn’t ask.
They each took a beer. Ann looked around. Morgansson took a couple of deep sips.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“You mean about the murder?”
He nodded.
“To be perfectly honest, I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong, I mean . . .”
“Are you prejudiced against forensic technicians?”
“No, not at all,” she said and laughed.
“You’re beautiful,” he said suddenly.
Ann gave him a quick look as if to assure herself she had heard him correctly His gaze was resting on her, did not turn away, and he smiled.
“Beautiful,” she said and looked down into her beer glass.
“If you don’t want to talk about work then why don’t you tell me about yourself?” he said.
“It’s just the same old story.”
He accepted this answer, turned to the bartender, and asked if it was allright to order a bite of food.
She got up and went to the bathroom. Inside there was a poster by Botero: a voluptuous woman in the process of taking off her bra. In front of her is a man resting on a bed. He appears to be asleep, looks innocent, kind, with a thin tango moustache that hints at vanity. The man is miniscule, the woman so much bigger; robust buttocks and thighs dominate the picture. Ann had the impression that the Amazon was about to devour the man with ease and at any moment.
She sat down on the toilet seat and studied the scene. It appealed to her. The self-possessed and proud woman in the process of seduction, of spreading herself out across this lilliputian and taking her pleasure with the same sense of entitlement with which she allowed her breasts to burst forth. This woman doesn’t make any excuses, that was how Ann read the picture, she acted from her own desires.
The pantyhose—that were supposed to give her derriere a lift—were difficult to pull back up. Now go out to the bar and vanquish this man, she thought and smiled, tugging at her skirt and scrutinizing herself in the mirror.
She pushed her hand against her crotch as if to get in touch with herself, her body, and her desires.
Nine
Two words. No more. She sat up in bed. The blanket slid down and bared her shoulders and breasts. She looked around the dark room, for a few moments unusure of where she was.
Two words had been whispered by a familiar voice.
She listened but the house was completely quiet.
“You must.” The words uttered with determination, sternly commanding, but also in some way quite mild. She recalled that she, just before the rude awakening, had responded to the gentle, almost sensual undertone and that she had smiled in her dream. Had she not stretched out after him, been happy for his visit, whoever he was?
For a split second she had felt a great satisfaction. It was a promise. She let out a sob in bed. Sure, it was a promise of something, she sensed, was almost completely convinced of, something that would grant her the greatest happiness.
Thereafter came the threat for her. Behind the illusory tender atmosphere conjured by the voice there was the hard, on the verge of physically painful. “You must.” The voice contained no mercy.
Laura Hindersten pulled the blanket to her, slid out of the bed, and snuck over to the window, pulling the thick curtain to the side. It was still dark out there. The garden brooding as sorrowfully as ever.
Was he still in the house? The uncertainty made her take a couple of cautious steps, lean her ear toward the closed door, and breathlessly listen for the nighttime intruder.
Who was he? She tried to remember the details but the image of his face fluttered away like a veil of mist, dissolved, and disappeared. A warm smell came toward her, not at all unpleasant. It was the breath of the person who had stood leaning over her and who had pronounced the words with