Martin wouldn’t be home for hours. He never came home when he said he was going to. She couldn’t remember how Arman Jahani had died. Probably some disease. Most people die in unassuming ways like that. Quiet but painful struggles consisting of medicines and doctor visits, hope established, quickly abandoned. It was so boring. Better to die like Barbro Ekman had. By the time Jonas was very young, two or three perhaps, she’d nearly forgotten that she had once thought he might be Arman’s son. She couldn’t remember what it had been like to feel any guilt about it. The wine was good, but it had left a sticky film in her mouth and she didn’t want the rest. She got up to find something else to drink.
In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of scotch from the bottle that Martin saved for special occasions and guests. She didn’t like scotch, particularly, but this tasted good. It stung her throat. She coughed, took another sip. What would it have been like to raise Arman’s son? Without imaging any details she felt the idea forming, shapely and full, and was able to hold it firmly in her mind for just a moment. What did it matter? Arman was dead. That was the simplest truth of all. Would Martin have figured it out? He’d been a good father, a little distant, a little too rooted in his work, perhaps, but that was normal. Jonas had had a good childhood. She was happy she hadn’t had to carry a lie as big as his life with her all this time.
She emptied her glass, winced, searched the burn of the scotch in her throat for pleasure. On the balcony she filled the empty glass with the rest of the wine and sat in her chair and drank. In Barbro Ekman’s apartment, Arman’s real child was alive. It was funny how her path and Arman’s, such a ridiculous metaphor, had converged. He would have found it amusing. She was sure of it.
The figure came to the window in the kitchen, pulled the curtains to one side, and opened the window. Arman had a daughter. Louise watched her sit at the table, the light from the lamp forming a bright circle at the center of the table. She was drinking something from a mug. Coffee or tea, maybe wine, Louise thought.
She and Martin had lived in the building longer than everyone but grouchy old Jan Lindblom down on the ground floor and Barbro Ekman, of course, before she’d died. Back in the kitchen, Louise poured another finger of whiskey. It tasted a little like wine but it wasn’t bad. In the cupboard, she found an unopened package of cookies. Shortbread, the kind Martin liked.
The stairwell was dark. She took the first steps carefully, her hand against the smooth wall as a guide. As she descended, the light from the courtyard brightened and eventually she could walk without fear of falling. Outside, she looked up at her balcony. The light from her kitchen was inviting, soft orange and yellow. Warm colors. She would never do this sober.
The name was on the mail slot on the door. Jahani. She knocked. Footsteps. The young woman answered. She was beautiful, as far from the middle as Louise’s son was near it. “Hello,” the young woman said.
“I live here,” said Louise.
“I’m sorry?” the young woman said.
“I meant I live in this building and I wanted to welcome you.”
“That’s very nice,” the young woman said. “Thank you so much.” She looked back into the apartment. Louise peered in too. There were open boxes, a leaning stack of blankets and towels, an empty bookcase turned at a funny angle at the end of the hall. “I was unpacking.” She smiled. Louise could tell she was embarrassed.
Louise smiled back and didn’t move. “You’ve just moved in,” she said.
“Officially tomorrow,” the young woman said. “Getting a head start. Sara,” she said and held out her hand.
Louise took it. “Louise,” she said. It was difficult to recall exactly what Arman had looked like. She might have seen him in Sara. But had he been tall? Sara was tall, taller than Louise. He had dark hair and she remembered him as very thin, but also strong. Sinewy was the word for it. He had thick veins on his arms. “I live just over there,” she said. She held the box of cookies out to indicate the direction of her apartment.
Sara looked at her.
“Oh, listen to me,” Louise said, handing the cookies to Sara. “These are for you. Welcome.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sara said.
“Of course,” said Louise. “I wanted to. You’re one of us now.”
Sara smiled.
Louise’s face and the top of her chest were warm. She touched her fingertips to her throat. “You’ll like living here,” she said.
“I think so too,” said Sara.
Louise didn’t believe in fate. Every morning she woke up with the thought that that day would be the one something terrible was destined to happen. She did this because she didn’t believe it was possible to predict the future, to know what was coming for each of us. Whatever she believed would happen that day she knew could not, by nature of our inability to predict the future. Lately, she’d been imagining terrible things. Car accidents, robberies, disease. Martin thought it was unhealthy and told her so frequently. “This is a good area,” she said. “We’ve been here for years. It’s very safe.”
Sara fidgeted at the door. “I like this neighborhood. I always have.” She held the cookies in front of her, took a step back into her apartment, smiled politely, and put her hand on the door.
“You could be my daughter,” Louise said.
“Excuse me?” Sara said. She let her hand fall from the door.
“I could have been your mother. I knew your father before you were born.”
Sara squinted a little bit, turned her head slightly to the left. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“Your father and I were friends,” said Louise. “We had a relationship.”
“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone.”
Louise reached out and touched Sara’s arm. “It was a long time ago. I was in love with him.”
Sara smiled and in the smile Louise, even drunk, located judgment. This was how Jonas looked at her, Martin too. The same sad eyes, the narrow, thin-lipped smile. They pitied her, thought she was ridiculous, incapable, unwell. She hated them all. “A woman died here,” she said.
Sara started to push the door closed. “Thank you again,” she said. “I really should get back to unpacking.”
“She was very old, the woman who lived here before you,” Louise said, stepping forward until she’d nearly entered the apartment. “Her body was found just before Christmas last year. I think she had a stroke.”
“I’m sorry,” Sara said.
“I thought you should know,” Louise said. “I’d want to know.” She put her hand on the door.
Sara looked at her and Louise saw the pity again. “Are you feeling all right?” Sara said.
“Her name was Barbro,” Louise said. She closed her eyes “The woman who used to live here. She was very old. I think that’s the best way to go, don’t you? In your sleep, just like that. I don’t want to sit around waiting for it.”
“Can I help you get back home?” Sara said. “Do you think you’ll make it on your own?”
“They’ve cleaned your apartment. You can’t imagine the smell. Martin told me about it.”
“Do you need help walking back?”
Louise concentrated on holding her head as still as possible. “No,” she said. “It’s just over there.”
In the courtyard, she looked up at Barbro Ekman’s apartment. The blinds were drawn. The light in the front room had been turned out. She was cold. She turned the light on in the stairwell, listened to her shoes click and shuffle against the hard stone. From one of the ground floor apartments loud applause and laughter from a television mocked her. She steadied herself with a hand on the cold wall.