Inger Frimansson - Good Night, My Darling

“You think?”

“It’s not completely impossible.”

“Maybe you’re right. Let’s hope so.”

He said he had to come over and talk to her in person. She was able to hinder that. “Wait for the mail first,” she had said. “What time does it usually arrive?”

He said he didn’t know. He was normally not at home during the work week.

She promised to let him come over after lunch.

She thought about Hans Peter.

First she had to deal with the purse and the tote. In some strange way, she hoped that they had just disappeared by the time she opened the wardrobe door. Of course they were still there. Berit’s large leather purse stood on top of her gym shoes, just where she had placed it.

Her headache returned.

She sat on the floor with the scissors. She intended to cut the purse into small, small pieces, the purse and everything in it. When she took it in her hand, the way Berit had often held it, she realized that would be difficult. She didn’t want to open it, but she realized that she had to. The small metal clasps released, and the purse yawned open with its dark secret contents. The owner’s things, her life.

On the top was a cloth handkerchief with vague lipstick marks, then all the rest that she didn’t want to see, but had to, all those personal belongings that would bring the picture of Berit back into her house: a wallet, worn out at the seams, the pocket with the bank card, the white plastic card from the landsting , an American Express card, a book club card that had expired a while ago, a pharmacy card. Justine lifted a flap and three person’s eyes met hers: the husband, Tor, and the two boys, school age. There were almost a thousand crowns in the bill area. She began with those, clipped them to pieces; then the photos, the plastic cards, the small pieces of paper and receipts that were in the pocket behind the bills. Then she took the pocket calendar. She flipped through it and read sporadic notations: the dentist at one-thirty; don’t forget to pick up shoes. At the very bottom, Berit’s driver’s license, loose. She did not look like herself in the photo. It was an old picture; Berit had her hair in a bun. It made her seem older. Keys, comb, mirror and lipstick. She started collecting it in a bag, sat for a while and tried to break the comb in two. It was a light blue plastic comb with a handle. She tried with all her might, but the plastic refused to give. A small bottle of perfume, Nuits indiennes ; she rolled it into a small plastic bag to dampen the smell. The lighter was on the table. The cigarette pack was also there, five or six cigarettes left; she crumbled them to bits right onto the pile. Clipped the cloth tote into small pieces; tried to do it with the leather purse, but now she had to give up. The scissors had lost their strength.

What was she supposed to do with this? She sat on the floor with her legs straight. Berit’s eye, cut loose from her driver’s license, stared right into her face. She took it between her fingers and stuffed it into the bottom of the pile.

The telephone rang; she hadn’t pulled the line from the jack. She was thinking of Tor Assarsson’s and Berit’s children. She had to be available, the happy and wonderful friend.

She spoke her entire name out loud, tensely.

“My dearest sweetheart!”

It was Hans Peter.

“I was afraid you’d disconnected the phone.”

“No…”

“I’m longing for you. My whole body longs for you; my palms miss the warmth of your skin. I want to hear your voice and embrace you.”

“Oh, Hans Peter…”

“What’s wrong? You sound so different. Has something happened?”

“No, nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine. Are you working today?”

“Certainly, but not until evening. May I come over right now? I want to!”

She froze from the sound of her own voice.

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

“When do you have time?”

She noticed the lessening of his enthusiasm.

“I’ll have to call you.”

“When?”

“Please, Hans Peter, there’s a few things I really need to take care of first, and I can’t talk about them now. But I will call you.”

“Maybe I won’t be in.”

“No, but I’ll try anyway. I have to go now. Sorry!”

She hung up the phone. This was not how she imagined things. She placed her hands on her eyes, and whimpered.

Should she burn up the purse? No. That would be too risky. She grumbled to herself and walked in circles. What to do? Then she remembered the transfer station Lövsta, on the other side of Riddersvik. Of course. Why didn’t she think of this before? She was very tired; she was dizzy when she went into the basement. She found the roll of black garbage bags. She stuffed the purse and its pile of remains into one of the bags and tied it up. She strode about, searching in all the rooms; no, no more traces. She put on her coat and drove away.

She was afraid that someone would ask what was in the garbage bag. A man in overalls looked at her without any interest. She asked anyway, “Where’s the container for combustibles?”

He pointed to one of the containers.

“Thanks,” she said.

When she returned to the car: “Have a nice day.” He muttered something unintelligible.

As soon as she returned home, she dialed Hans Peter’s number. Of course he didn’t answer. Worry gripped her, began to transform into despair. She went into the bathroom and put on a thick layer of make-up, thick Kohl eyeliner and eye shadow. She put on a skirt, a cardigan and thick woolen leggings. Her foot was better after a night of rest, but it was still a bit swollen.

She tried calling again. No, now he was unhappy and hurt; he wouldn’t answer, even if she called the whole day long. She could well imagine that he was the type who didn’t forgive easily.

Someone was at the door. Was it him? There was a man outside; she saw him through the milky glass. It looked like Hans Peter. Was it him?

It wasn’t him.

She knew who it was right away.

Tor, Berit’s husband.

“You’re Justine, aren’t you?”

He looked scruffy; there was stubble like a cloud over his chin and cheeks, his eyes small and confused.

“Come in,” she said softly.

He stood in the hallway, looked around.

“So she was here as late as last Saturday. I’m trying to think my way into her mind, imagine what she was reasoning and doing.”

“Yes…”

“Where did you go after she came in?”

“We went upstairs, I believe. We sat and talked up there for a long time.”

“Let’s do that, too.”

She pulled herself up the stairs with the help of the railing. Her foot was aching again. He noticed, but didn’t say anything. “Maybe you would like some coffee?”

“No, I don’t want coffee. I don’t want anything.”

The bird sat on the backrest of Berit’s chair. When he saw the man, he screeched. Tor Assarsson jumped.

“What in the fucking hell is that?”

“Everyone asks,” she said. “It’s a bird. My pet.”

He remained standing. Justine held out her arm, the bird hopped up onto it, and launched from there to the top of the bookcase.

Tor Assarsson stood with his arms over his head.

“How in the hell can you have a pet like that?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do I dare sit down, or is anything else going to swoop down and surprise me?”

Justine was beginning to regret that she had let him in. He sounded irritated and provoked, probably was in shock.

She sank down on the edge of the chair.

“Were you sitting here?”

“Yes, we did, I believe.”

“We’ve been married for many years, Berit and I. Now I understand how much she’s become a part of me. Do you understand? And now it might be too late!”