“Nice outfit,” sniggered Sanna. “It’s good to see you’ve adapted to the classic look up here so quickly.”
“The baggy Gällivare look suits any figure,” replied Rebecka, wiggling her bottom so that the loose seat of the long johns flapped about.
“God, you’re thin,” exclaimed Sanna.
Rebecka straightened up at once and poured herself a cup of coffee in silence, her back toward Sanna.
“And you look so sort of dried-up,” Sanna went on. “You ought to take more care what you eat and drink.”
Her voice was gentle and concerned.
“Still,” she sighed when Rebecka didn’t respond, “it’s lucky for the rest of us that most men like a girl with something to get hold of. Although of course I think it’s really attractive to be flat-chested like you.”
Well, lucky me, thought Rebecka sarcastically. At least you think I look good.
Her silence made Sanna babble nervously.
“Just listen to me,” she said. “I sound like a real mother hen. I’ll be asking you next if you’re getting your vitamins.”
“Do you mind if I put the news on?” asked Rebecka.
Without waiting for a reply she went over to the television and switched it on. The picture was grainy. There was probably snow on the aerial.
An item about the embezzlement of some EU funds was followed by the murder of Viktor Strandgård. The voice of the reporter explained that the police were following the usual procedures in their hunt for the murderer, and as yet there was no obvious suspect. Pictures followed one another in rapid succession. Police and dogs searching the area outside the Crystal Church as they looked for the murder weapon. Assistant Chief Prosecutor Carl von Post talking about door-to-door inquiries, interviews with members of the church and those attending the service. Then Rebecka’s red Audi appeared on the screen.
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Sanna, crashing her coffee cup down on the table.
“Viktor Strandgård’s sister, who found the dead man at the scene of the crime, also arrived under somewhat dramatic circumstances to be interviewed at the police station last night.”
The whole incident was shown, but on the morning news almost all the sound had been removed, except for Rebecka’s stifled “Get out of the way.” It emerged that the reporter had reported the lawyer for assault, before the anchorman in the studio exchanged a few words with the weatherman about the forecast that would follow the break.
“But you couldn’t see how aggressive and horrible that reporter was!” said Sanna in amazement.
Rebecka felt a burning pain in her midriff.
“What is it?” asked Sanna.
What do I say? thought Rebecka, and slumped down on a chair by the kitchen table. That I’m afraid of losing my job. That they’ll freeze me out until I’m forced to resign. When she’s lost her brother. I ought to ask her about Viktor again. Ask if she wants to talk about it. I just don’t want to get drawn into her life and her problems again. I want to go home. I want to sit at the computer writing an analysis of income tax set against pension contributions.
“What do you think happened, Sanna?” she asked. “To Viktor. You said he’d been mutilated. Who could have done something like that?”
Sanna squirmed uncomfortably.
“I don’t know. That’s what I told the police. I really don’t know.”
"Weren’t you scared when you found him?"
“I wasn’t thinking like that.”
“What were you thinking, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Sanna, and put her hands on her head as if to console herself. “I think I screamed, but I’m not sure about that either.”
“You told the police Viktor woke you up, and that’s why you went there.”
Sanna lifted her eyes and looked straight at Rebecka.
“Do you really think that’s so strange? Have you started to believe that everything stops because your body no longer works? He was standing by my bed, Rebecka. He looked so sad. And I could see that it wasn’t him, not physically anyway. I knew something had happened.”
No, I don’t think it’s strange, thought Rebecka. She’s always seen more than the rest of us. A quarter of an hour before somebody came to visit completely unannounced, Sanna would put the coffee on. “Viktor’s on his way,” she’d sometimes say.
“But…” began Rebecka.
“Please,” begged Sanna, “I really don’t want to talk about it. I daren’t. Not yet. I’ve got to keep it together. For the girls’ sake. Thanks for coming up. Even though you’ve got your career to think about. You might think we’ve lost touch, but I think about you loads. It gives me strength just to know that you’re down there.”
Now Rebecka was squirming.
Stop it, she thought. We’re not friends. Her opinion of me used to mean so much. The fact that she said I was an important part of her life. But now… now it feels as if she’s spinning a web around my body.
Virku was the first to hear the sound of the snowmobile, interrupting them with a sharp bark. She pricked up her ears and looked out of the window.
“Is somebody coming?” asked Rebecka. She wasn’t sure where the noise came from, but thought it sounded as if the snowmobile was idling not far from the house. Sanna leaned her forehead against the windowpane and shaded her eyes with her hands so that she could see past her own reflection.
“Oh, no,” she exclaimed with a nervous laugh, “it’s Curt Bäckström. He was the one who gave us a lift out here. I think he’s got a bit of a thing about me. But he’s really good-looking. A bit like Elvis, somehow. Might suit you, Rebecka.”
“Stop right there,” said Rebecka firmly.
“What? What have I done?”
“You’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you. You attract endless brainless admirers, and then announce that they might suit me. Thanks but no, thanks.”
“I do apologize,” said Sanna in an offended voice. “I’m sorry if people I know and associate with aren’t good enough or smart enough for you. And how can you call him brainless? You don’t even know him.”
Rebecka went over to the window and looked out at the yard.
“He’s sitting on his snowmobile, it’s practically the middle of the night, and he’s staring at the house you’re staying in, instead of coming to the door,” she said. “I rest my case.”
“Besides, it’s not my fault if some men are attracted to me,” Sanna went on. “Or maybe you agree with Thomas and think I’m a whore.”
“No, but you can damn well stop making comments about my appearance or offering me your cast-off admirers.”
Rebecka grabbed her travel bag and rushed into the bathroom. She banged the door so hard that the little red wooden heart that said “Here It Is” swung violently.
“Ask him to come up,” she shouted out to the kitchen. “He can’t sit out there in the cold like an abandoned dog.”
God, she thought as she locked the door. Sanna’s witless admirers. Sanna’s loose way of dressing. It’s not my problem anymore. But it upset Thomas Söderberg. And at the time, when Sanna and I used to share an apartment, in some peculiar way it was my responsibility.
“I would like you to speak to Sanna about her clothes,” Thomas Söderberg says to Rebecka.
He is displeased with her. She can feel it in every pore. And it is as if she is being crushed to the ground. When he smiles, heaven opens and she can feel God’s love, even though she cannot hear His voice. But when Thomas has that disappointed look in his eyes, it is as if a light goes out inside her. She becomes nothing more than an empty room.
“I have tried,” she defends herself. “I’ve told her that she must think about how she dresses. That her necklines shouldn’t be so low cut. And that she should wear a bra, and longer skirts. And she understands, but… it’s as if she doesn’t see what she’s putting on in the mornings. If I’m not there to keep an eye on her when she’s getting dressed, she just forgets, somehow. Then I meet her in town and she looks like…”