It was not that she hadn’t played along. She went along, she was a part of it. The fat sow was actually enjoying it, and despite the fact that she was as drunk as she was she had suddenly achieved orgasm, just shrieked flat out and arched her body in the bed despite the fact that he’d tied her up. And he had immediately folded up; all his strength had suddenly simply run out of him.
“I had no idea that you were an art lover,” said Lisa Wiijnbladh sourly.
“Art is really nice,” said Wiijnbladh evasively. Now she’s her usual self again, he thought.
He’d put the muzzle and blindfold on her and tightened her a little harder. But that hadn’t helped either. Then he shaved her between her legs, for that usually helped, but all that had happened was that she’d come to climax one more time while he was at it.
And then he gave up.
“Perhaps you ought to start painting yourself,” said Lisa Wiijnbladh. “Like that Zorn.” Wasn’t that his name? she thought.
“Oh well,” said Wiijnbladh, stealing a glance at his watch. “When would I have time for that?” Won’t we be there soon? he thought.
When they were sitting on the sofa afterward he’d poured her a hefty drink. She’d needed it, for she’d looked unbelievably awful. The makeup that had run all over her face, the large white sagging breasts, the skirt bunched up around her waist, and her legs spread while she looked at her shaved sex. Suddenly the tears had started to flow.
“What have you done?” she’d whimpered. “What will I say to my husband?”
“That might be a nice surprise for him,” Waltin had said lightly, and suddenly the familiar feeling had returned. You have a husband, he’d thought.
“Or draw naked women,” persisted his wife. “What is that called, when they sit and draw naked women?” Although you’d hardly be able to manage that either, she thought.
“Life drawing,” said Wiijnbladh sourly, for he’d learned that on the job. “It’s called life drawing.”
“My God,” she’d sniffled. “What will I say to my husband?”
Now the tears had sprayed out of her and she’d suddenly appeared quite inconsolable.
“You can surely think of something,” Waltin had said helpfully. Otherwise I’ll have to help you, he’d thought, for now the feeling had come back again, just as strong as before. Before, she wasn’t able to behave the way she should.
“He’s never going to believe me,” she’d sobbed. “He’s a policeman.”
Policeman, Waltin had thought. This is too good to be true. It had felt as if he were going to burst again as he pulled her up and forced her down across the arm of the sofa. Then he’d entered her from behind and she had howled like a banshee the whole time and before he drove her home he’d tied her up on her belly in the bed and given her a good going-over with his belt.
“Maybe you think that’s really fun,” his wife teased. “Lots of naked women. Drawing them shouldn’t be all that hard.”
“We’re here now,” said Wiijnbladh evasively and got up. “It’s here we change trains,” he said. Actually I ought to kill you, he thought.
…
Because he had snooped through her handbag when she went to the bathroom, and because her name was what it was, a look at the Stockholm Police Department employee register had been sufficient to find him.
Detective Inspector Göran Wiijnbladh with the technical squad. I must meet him, Waltin had thought, feeling almost as enlivened as that time when he’d seen his dear mother take the escalator down to the subway at Östermalm Square.
The prime minister’s special adviser celebrated Christmas together with his old friend, teacher, and mentor, Professor Forselius. True, both had a number of ex-wives, even more children, and in the case of Forselius an almost unbelievable and quickly increasing number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but when it was finally time to celebrate Christmas, for various reasons they only had each other, and it had been like that for a number of years.
It wasn’t so strange either that they always convened at the home of the special adviser. Forselius either ate canned food or went to the exclusive gentlemen’s club Stora Sällskapet, while the special adviser had access to all the resources that his secret life could offer. If you looked in the phone book-he was actually in the phone book with both first and last name, but without title-he had a very modest address on Södermalm where he never set foot other than to fetch his mail, and the telephone number that went there had been forwarded from the first day to the large home in Djursholm where he actually lived. In addition he had a housekeeper, a wine cellar, a party membership book, and several million dollars that he’d buried abroad with all the care of which only people like him and Forselius were capable. Strangest of all, he’d earned all his money himself and he’d done it before he’d turned thirty-five.
Forselius loved him more than his own children, while the special adviser’s feelings for Forselius were more mixed. He liked his children best anyway, he used to think, for actually Forselius was only a grumpy old bastard who could be totally and uniquely self-absorbed. He did have one characteristic, though, that was hard to beat. Forselius was the only person that he could talk with about the kinds of things that no one else understood, and because questions of that type made up the essential reason for his continued existence, the answer was also a given.
And who the hell wants to toast themselves in a shaving mirror on Christmas Eve? thought the special adviser, raising his glass toward his only and recurring guest.
“Skoal, professor,” said the special adviser. “And merry Christmas.”
“Skoal, young man,” said Forselius, savoring the wine in his glass. “And merry Christmas to you too.”
“Well,” said the special adviser, looking at him with curiosity.
“Petrus,” said Forselius. “1945.”
“My birth year,” said the special adviser.
“A great year in Bordeaux,” said Forselius.
“A great year here, there, and everywhere,” said the special adviser generously, thinking of his own inception.
“Have I told you about that Pole?” said Forselius. “It was the same year.”
“The one you killed,” said the special adviser, chuckling so that his fat belly jumped.
“Oh well,” said Forselius. “What the hell choice did we have?”
Appetizer, main course, cheese, and dessert, but not a herring butt, slice of ham, or Christmas pudding as far as the eye could see. A skinny, middle-aged, black-clad woman who moved like a lost soul between the kitchen, the serving corridor, and the enormous dining room table, never saying a word. Now she stood in the door between the dining room and the library, exchanging a glance with the master of the house.
“I believe that coffee and cognac are waiting,” said the special adviser, setting aside his damask napkin, pushing his chair back, and getting up with a certain effort.
Forselius nodded, cleared his throat, winked meaningfully, and leaned forward.
“Is she mute, man?” he whispered. “Is she really mute?”
“I really don’t know,” said the special adviser. “She’s never said anything.”
…
With coffee and cognac they usually exchanged Christmas presents. Always the same kind of Christmas present, yet always different than the one they’d received and the one they’d given the year before. Each a folded-up slip of paper that they gave to each other and then unfolded and read. A frighteningly long row of numerals on both pieces of paper, different numerals, wrinkled brows. Forselius’s brow smoothed out first and his wrinkled old man’s face split into a contented grin.
“I won again,” he said with delight.