Stockholm Noir Page 11

  —I have to tell you something, he said, staring straight at me. Maybe I should have told you right away when we started talking, but I was afraid you wouldn’t give me a chance if you knew.

  —What? I said.

  —For the past several years I’ve only had sex I’ve paid for.

  —What?

  —It’s been a long time since someone wanted to be with me out of her own free will. You know what I look like. It’s not just the weight. It’s everything.

  He brushed his hand over his body, and at once he looked small, despite all the kilos. Small and, somehow, impotent.

  —I’ve forgotten how to do it with someone who actually wants to be with me, he said, and gave me an apologetic look.

  I wished he hadn’t said anything about this. I didn’t know him well enough to feel pity for him, and what we were about to do called for an easy mood that was impossible to achieve after this type of intimacy. But Calisto didn’t seem to have a problem with these barriers, because now he was approaching the rug and lying down beside me. I could smell his scent. It was foreign, but I didn’t dislike it.

  —Can we just lie here, he said, and get used to the situation?

  We laid there on our stomachs with our feet toward the fire. The heat licked my legs and crotch; it was a nice contrast to the hail that was now pelting the large windows. I asked him what he did for a living.

  —I’m a literary critic, he said.

  —Ah.

  I had been hoping he wouldn’t be too much of an intellectual. I don’t like to talk about literature before having sex; that was not the experience I was looking for. I wanted to make that clear to him, but Calisto had already started telling me about something that had happened to him not long ago. Since he was young, he said, he had admired one author greatly. This author had been the driving force of almost everything Calisto had done, in his life as well as within the field. But now Calisto was over forty and had for some time felt like he was nearing the end of his relationship with this author. He wasn’t discovering anything new, didn’t feel anything anymore, didn’t tread into any new dimensions. And Calisto wanted to discover new things; he was, he said, the kind of person who thinks life without evolvement is an unbearable stagnation. He wanted to be young in his discoveries, so to speak. Young, naïve.

  —Get it? he said

  —Yes.

  He kept talking about this naivety; how someone who walked into a forest for the first time saw the pine trees, felt the air. He wanted, to make a long story short, a new author to look up to. He read lots of things but grew tired of everything after just a few pages. It all seemed so sloppy and stupid. Then he had been invited to an event a few weeks ago, and there, at this event, was the author. This was someone you rarely saw anywhere, and Calisto had never had the chance to get to know him personally. But there he was, in the middle of everything, with a glass in his hand, conversing lightly and openly, as if he was a well-adjusted person, and as if the knots and the darkness that were so evident in his books were all just fake. And suddenly, unexpectedly, the author had approached Calisto, put a hand on his shoulder, and said: You’re Calisto, right? I really admire the work you do. You, unlike many others, actually have something to say. At the time, Calisto couldn’t think of a single article he had written. All he could remember was this piece about burned-down buildings, and when he told me about this, he looked completely confused, as if he himself couldn’t remember what burned-down houses had to do with anything, but this was the only thing he had been able to recall. Blushing and stuttering, Calisto had told the author about his admiration for him. The author stood there with his glass in his hand and looked at him compassionately. Five minutes later they were friends. Ten minutes later the author had told Calisto that he would greatly appreciate if Calisto would read a manuscript that he had just finished—a manuscript no one had yet read.

  —Sometimes you end up in the middle of a mystery just by chance, Calisto said as we laid there on the rug. Sometimes everything just opens up.

  —Have you read it? I asked.

  —Half, he replied.

  His voice quivered.

  —I’ll show you, he said. Come.

  We stood up, Calisto lit a candle, and I walked behind him through the dark house until we got to his study. It was clean and tidy, just like the rest of the house. The desk stood in front of another open fireplace, and there was a strange sound coming from the chimney.

  —It’s the wind, said Calisto.

  —Yes, I said.

  On the near-empty desk there were two neat piles of paper.

  —There it is, Calisto said.

  He placed the candle on the desktop.

  —I’m not sure I should keep reading, he said, and put his hand on one of the piles. I’m afraid the spell will go away. Sometimes, he continued while stroking the top sheet on one of the piles, I don’t want to read because then I have to touch it with something so mundane as my hands.

  —I see.

  —There is only this one copy, he said. The author writes on a typewriter, and he hasn’t made a copy.

  —Why?

  —Because it’s too . . . valuable, Calisto said. If he had made a copy something mechanical would have impressed itself upon it.

  —Mechanical how? I asked.

  —I can’t explain, Calisto said. But it’s about respect.

  —Respect for what?

  —The inimitable.

  I walked over to the desk and looked at the sheet of paper Calisto had under his hand and read: Every afternoon he slept, and in his sleep he managed to let go of the reality that had become too tense, too worn out, that could only be released with a complete extinction of conscience.

  —This makes no sense, I said.

  —No, Calisto replied, I understand every word.

  We walked back to the living room. I was in front of Calisto and I knew he was watching me; that he was summoning up his courage for what was about to happen.

  —With all due deference to the manuscript, I said once we were back by the fire, I’m not here to talk about literature.

  —You are absolutely right, Calisto said, and laid down on his back on the rug. Now I want you to get on top of me.

  I did as he said and Calisto pulled me toward him and tried to penetrate me, but I was tense and the situation with the manuscript hadn’t exactly turned me on. It took time for him to enter me and it hurt. He put his hands over my hips and pulled me downward.

  —Tell me you’re my whore, he whispered. I need to hear it, tell me.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to say I was his whore. I don’t mind playing, but this was no game to Calisto. I leaned forward to kiss him and he stopped short. His lips were barely parted, but when I insisted with my tongue, his tongue started to find its way into my mouth as well. I could feel him grow bigger, harder, and then he started to touch me again, rougher than before. I sat up again and cried out when he pushed into me. They were shrill and rather silly shrieks, but it got him going, because soon he said he was almost there.

  —First I want to ask you to do something, he said.

  —What?

  —Crawl across a mirror.

  No one had ever asked me to crawl across a mirror before. I didn’t know how to reply, but Calisto didn’t wait for my response, and soon he looked ridiculous walking around with his erection bouncing up and down in front of him as he tried to decide which mirror was best for whatever it was we were going to do. Finally he found one that was long and rather narrow. He placed it on the rug.

  —There, he said, crawl over it.

  He stood beside me and grabbed his erection and started masturbating. What the hell? I thought, and started making my way over the mirror on all fours, trying to distribute my weight evenly so the glass wouldn’t break.

  —I have to do you now, Calisto whispered. Stay there.

  Then everything went fast—hard and raw. He grabbed me so my knees lifted from the mirror and my whole weight
was on my hands. I heard the glass crack, and then I felt the pain in my palms. I screamed out, which only seemed to turn on Calisto even more, because he pushed into me violently and said a bunch of vulgar things that I don’t feel like repeating. Eventually he yanked me back and forth a few times, and then let me go, dropping my body onto the glass.

  I don’t mind a slightly violent act. But when you start hurting each other for real it’s sacrilege, because there really is something holy about giving yourself completely to one another that way. You can approach the line, but you need to know when you cross it, and you need to take responsibility. And maybe all this was something Calisto used to do, but this time, with me, he had crossed the line, because I’m not one to take things lightly. I rarely attack first, but if someone harms me, I make sure I respond immediately and forcefully, so I can get closure and move on without carrying around a bunch of old baggage. I had shards of glass in my hands and legs. My whole body ached and when I touched the inside of my thigh I could feel that there was blood there too.

  —I didn’t do anything against your will, did I? Calisto asked.

  —Look, I said, and showed him my hands.

  Calisto seemed scared when he saw the glass and blood.

  —Shit, he said, then put his clothes on and hurried to the bathroom. Soon he came back with a toilet bag and took out a pair of tweezers. He started pulling the pieces of glass from my wounds, and then he disinfected them. I looked at him while he was working; his face was sweaty and puffy and red, and every once in a while he glanced up at me guiltily.

  —You have to let me pay you for this, he said.

  —You really think that’s how it works?

  Calisto let out a laugh.

  —What I think is that I have forgotten how to do this, he said. I should probably see someone about it.

  —You can pay my taxi back to town.

  —That goes without saying. But you’ll have to wait until they start driving again, until the roads are cleared.

  A little while later we were sitting in front of the fire. Calisto had opened a bottle of red wine and made a salad, which we ate straight from the bowl. We had both showered and I had borrowed a pajama shirt that reached down to my feet.

  Calisto soon fell asleep. His large body lay there, completely knocked out on the sheepskin rug. I imagined standing up and kicking him in the gut. A hard, strong kick. My foot with its cuts and wounds would disappear into Calisto’s fat. Then he would open his eyes and I would lift my leg and plant my heel right in his face and at the same time I would scream with anger, loud and clear, the scream echoing between the white walls. I knew that if I didn’t deal with my need to hurt him, it would remain inside me, sour and dark, and I wouldn’t be able to get rid of it once I was home again.

  Then I realized there was a much better way to hurt Calisto. I got up quietly so I wouldn’t wake him and walked over to his study. I turned the light on: there it was, the manuscript. Lying there like the crown jewel of the house. Standing in Calisto’s study with this author’s manuscript in front of me was like standing in the middle of Calisto’s heart, right before the blood supply, with a pair of tongs in my hand. I laughed quietly. I collected the two piles and carried the stack out into the living room. The fire had almost gone out and I had to blow on it to get it crackling again. Then I burned the pages. One after another I let them float down into the flames. I started at the back, in case Calisto woke up and tried to grab what was left. The fire got going again, as if its appetite had been awakened. I threw the sheets of paper on the fire until the manuscript was completely destroyed and there were only embers left, fully aglow among the ashes. Calisto was lying behind me, his belly up in the air like a mound, his mouth half open, saliva dripping down onto the floor. Now we’re even, I thought. Now everything is in balance and I can go back to my windowless hotel.

  I laid down beside Calisto and fell asleep almost immediately. A few hours later I felt him move and woke up. He sat up; then he laid down again behind me and pulled me in. I was sort of enveloped in Calisto. I smelled his scent and felt his warm breath on my neck.

  —You wanted me without money, he whispered behind me. It’s fucking unbelievable. And I hurt you. Can you forgive me?

  —It’s all in the past, I said.

  I had never slept with anyone like I did with Calisto that night. I woke up now and then, heard the snow whip against the windows. The whole time he had his arm around me and breathed down my neck. Even when he was asleep his arm held me tightly.

  At seven I woke from a new sound, snapping and reverberating; a hazy light filled the room.

  —It’s the ice breaking, Calisto whispered behind me.

  Before my eyes I saw long, dark cracks that started out at sea and quickly ran through the ice to the shore. Here and there large pools of black water opened up. I put my hand over Calisto’s and went back to sleep.

  When I woke again it was ten o’clock and the pendulum clock twanged throughout the house. Calisto stood before me—his face was as black as night.

  —Where is the manuscript? he said through his teeth.

  —What manuscript?

  —I was going to the bathroom and saw that the light was on in the study. I went in and saw that it was gone. Now tell me where it is, do you hear me? You tell me where the author’s manuscript is!

  —I burned it, I said, as revenge for the glass.

  Calisto stared at me. His eyes were bloodshot and the hair that hung down on his forehead looked wet.

  —What did you just say? he asked, his voice sounding faint. You said you . . . ?

  —Yes, I burned it. It’s gone.

  —You goddamn . . . Are you out of your mind?

  I got up without meeting his gaze. He stood in front of me and breathed heavily.

  —Calm down, I said. You could have a heart attack.

  —You are completely fucking crazy. Completely . . .

  I raised my hand.

  —That’s enough. I get it. I’m leaving.

  Calisto slowly sat down on a chair and put his face in his hands.

  —The author is going to hate me, he said.

  —I really don’t give a shit. And if you want to know my opinion, he wanted to get rid of it. Or else he wouldn’t have given his only copy to a stranger. He might not see it that way now, but as time goes by he might come to this realization.

  —But what about me? he said, resigned. My reading.

  I didn’t feel like standing there sharing my theories with Calisto, but I thought to myself that as far as his own reading went, I couldn’t imagine there was as much at stake as he thought. If he had read the whole thing without being disappointed he would have just thought he understood something no one else understood. That would have given him a sense of superiority, which in time would have made him even lonelier than he already was. I know something about loneliness: it’s not pretty. Calisto in this huge house; Calisto sitting in his tidy study reading manuscripts; Calisto who has to pay for sex; Calisto who laboriously moves his own weight around the house. Calisto being one of the only defective people in this cold, perfect city. And then me, in the middle of all this, just as lonely and defective as he was, but in a completely different way.

  I got dressed. Calisto stood watching me the whole time, and when I went to the kitchen to have a glass of water he followed me. I put my shoes on, took my bag, realized I wouldn’t be getting money for the cab, but didn’t care; I was sure there would be bus stops, even in a place like this. I opened the door and walked out onto the front steps. The wind had subsided and the trees surrounding the house stood tall and straight. This is when he pushes me out and slams the door shut, I thought, but Calisto didn’t.

  Kim

  BY TORBJÖRN ELENSKY

  Gamla stan

  Translated by Rika Lesser

  The phone in my pocket was silent. Cold and dead. I sat on the Skeppsbron wharf while the summer night smiled at me with scorn. A cold, white twilight sun in a c
lear sky—scrubbed clean, as if to wipe out all traces of a crime that had been committed. I took the phone out of my pocket and flung it straight into the light, without once checking if a new message or missed call had come. I threw hard, right toward the sun, as if I were trying to hit it. With a miserable little splash, a disappointing plop, it fell into the water, while gulls circled and squawked with disappointment that it wasn’t something edible.

  You’d think that the warmth and the sun that shines almost all night in summer would make everything lighter, warmer, milder. But no. This cold summer night’s light over Skeppsbron’s old façades and down between the alleys in Old Town makes nothing better. It only makes the shadows denser and the secrets of the alleys deeper. It’s probably meaningless to say, but I wanted to do a good deed. I wanted to help. Maybe I did? Maybe the truth is that there’s no difference between good and evil, help and harm; in a cold cosmos it makes no difference what we do to one another. Against one another. Yet it does. Still. It must. Allow me, in peace and quiet, to tell you how I experienced it all from the beginning.

  For me, Old Town is a part of the city which, with every passing year, loses a bit more of its magic. More and more Västerlånggatan is becoming a tourist trap that could just as well be some random street in Mallorca. The old shops, the musty bookstores, and the shabby little cafés have all been replaced by big clean places, where hardly any Stockholmers sit, not least because of the prices. But you can still manage to find alleyways where time has stood still, and the magic from earlier times lingers.

  * * *

  I’d been sitting up there at Tyska Brunnsplan, on a little isolated bench, reading and enjoying the last remnants of the atmosphere in Old Town, when my phone rang. Unknown number. I don’t usually answer these since they’re almost always sales calls. But this time, whether out of boredom, loneliness, or maybe hoping a friend would want to go out for a bite to eat, I picked up and answered anyway.