Mari Jungstedt: Dark Angel

The sixth book in the Anders Knutas series, 2012

English translation © Tiina Nunnally 2012

SHE LOOKED SO beautiful standing there. Wearing a white dress with a wide belt around her slender waist. Her blond hair pinned up high in a knot. Very stylish. She was smiling at the photographer with her head tilted to one side. Flirting with the camera, as usual. Always well dressed. Sometimes she wore her hair tied back with a ribbon. And that dazzling smile of hers. Standing in front of the stove as she fried Falun sausages, picking apples out in the country, walking out to the car with the children. A façade. As fragile as the glass in the frame of the photograph. He picked up the portrait and hurled it against the wall.

The shattered glass flew all over the room. That was his life.

THE BLINDS DRAWN, shutting out the springtime sun. Silence in the room. From far off the sound of car doors slamming, dogs barking. Sirens. The muted conversation of passersby, an occasional laugh. Street sounds, the sounds of life. It has nothing to do with us. My story is etched into the face of the person sitting across from me. As if the lines had deepened, the eyes filled with compassion. Neither of us says a word.

Once again I have described a memory from my childhood. In truth, nothing out of the ordinary, not at all. Just a fragment from daily life. Yet the image is still razor-sharp in my mind, although twenty-five years have passed.

I was seven when I decided to surprise my mother by serving her breakfast in bed. The idea came to me the minute I woke up and realized that everyone else was still asleep. I was ecstatic at the thought. I would make Mamma happy again. She’d been so sad on the previous day, sitting on the sofa and crying for such a long time. She never seemed to stop. I didn’t know why she was so sad. Mamma was often like that. She would cry and smoke, and smoke and cry. Then she would talk on the phone all evening, and afterwards we had to go to bed. There was nothing I could do. Or my siblings either. It made all of us sad. But now I’d come up with a good plan. I would serve her breakfast in bed.

Eagerly I climbed out of bed and padded down the hall to the bathroom. I tried not to wake anyone. I wanted to do this on my own, without any help from my siblings. I wanted to be the one she would thank, the one she would hug. Her face would be beaming with joy when I came into her bedroom carrying the tray. And then everything would be fine again.

Cautiously I crept down the stairs. I remember how I cringed at every creak of the steps, scared that the sound might wake her. In the kitchen I got out a cereal bowl and a spoon. But the box of cornflakes was high up on a shelf in the pantry. I couldn’t reach it. I went to get a chair from the table. It was so heavy. With great effort I lugged the chair into the narrow work area and then into the pantry. I climbed up on it and stretched out my hand for the box. Pleased that I’d managed to grab it, I filled the bowl and then poured just the right amount of milk over the cereal. Mamma was very particular about things like that. It had to be done just so. Not too much and not too little. What about sugar? She usually wanted sugar on her cereal. But where was it? There, behind the porridge oats. Good. I used the spoon to scoop out what I thought was the proper amount of sugar, but not too big a spoonful. Mamma always complained if her cereal was too sweet; I’d heard her say that so many times.

What was I missing? Oh, yes, an open sandwich. I looked inside the bread box. There was a loaf of bread. Skogholm Bakery, it said on the wrapper. I knew how to read. My older siblings had taught me. I found the bread knife in a drawer, but now came the hard part: cutting two slices. I thought I could manage it, but if the pieces ended up being too big, Mamma didn’t have to eat all the bread. She was a grown-up, and grown-ups didn’t have to obey the same rules as children. The problem was that she hated slices of bread that were too thick. They had to be thin. I sawed at the loaf with the knife, but it went in crooked. Thick on top and thin at the bottom. I studied the first slice with a frown. It didn’t look good. I didn’t dare throw it in the trash, because then Mamma would get mad. I knew she would. She often complained about how much everything cost. Cheese was so expensive that my siblings and I were each allowed only one slice on our sandwiches. Mamma always had two. And if I occasionally asked for a second glass of milk, she would always look so displeased that I didn’t ask again. I held the piece of bread in my hand. What should I do with it? This slice would never do. All of my efforts to make her breakfast would be ruined because she’d be so annoyed by the size of that piece of bread. If only the slice were the proper thickness, everything would have been fine. Now I was not going to see the look of total joy on her face that I longed for. Instead a deep furrow would appear between her eyes, or lines of disapproval would form around her mouth. All because of that darn slice of bread.

I cast a glance out in the hall, listening for any sounds. It was OK; everyone was still asleep. Quickly I stuffed the piece of bread in my mouth in order to get rid of it. Then I tried again, and this time I made a better job of it. The butter was hard and I couldn’t get the lumps to spread out evenly. I covered up the lumps with cheese. Then I had an idea. What if I put on three pieces of cheese instead of the two she usually ate? Wouldn’t that make her even happier? But when I saw the three pieces piled on top of each other on the bread, doubt seized hold of me again. It looked like a lot. What if she got angry because I was being wasteful? I didn’t dare take that risk, so I ate the extra piece of cheese too. Then I studied my handiwork. I was almost done.

In a cupboard I found a tray and a small plate. Mamma hated to set sandwiches directly on the bare tabletop. After I’d arranged everything on the tray, I could see that something was still missing.

Of course – how could I be so stupid? Coffee. I mustn’t forget the coffee. That was the most important part of all. Mamma always drank coffee first thing in the morning, otherwise she didn’t feel human, she said. And a paper napkin! She needed something to wipe her mouth with. She was always annoyed if the kitchen roll wasn’t on the table. I rushed over to the breakfast nook and tore off a piece. It looked a bit ragged. I tried again and managed to tear off a whole sheet. The first one I crumpled up and tossed in the bin. Now for the coffee. Again I was in doubt. How exactly was it made? I’d watched my mother cooking it on the stove. After that she would pour it into a thermos. Ours was made of red plastic with a black spout and lid. I needed water and coffee grounds, which were kept in a metal tin in the pantry. I got out the tin but then wondered how to get the powder inside the thermos. And it had to be cooked too. I turned around to look at the stove. I’d seen how my mother turned those knobs to make the burners hot. That much I knew. I paused to think. This was the only thing left to do, and I had to work it out for myself. Then my mother could have her breakfast. And be happy again. I chose one of the knobs and turned it to the number six, thinking that the biggest number must be the hottest. I waited for a moment, and then I held my hand over the burners. The one closest to me was getting warm. Hurray! I was excited, now that I was so close to achieving my goal. I picked up the thermos and turned on the tap. I had to climb up on the chair again to reach it. Then I filled the thermos half full of water. That seemed like enough. I picked up the coffee scoop and put a lot of grounds into the water. Now all I had to do was put it on the burner to cook. Proud of my ingenuity, I set the thermos on top of the hot burner. Just then I heard someone go into the bathroom upstairs. Darn. I hoped it wasn’t my mother.