Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir

I was in luck: he was the only one in the house. It was about ten at night, but he hadn’t shut the curtain. He was sitting on his bed playing guitar. He had just taken a shower and was wearing a black robe.

I couldn’t stay outside. This was what I had been afraid of — that my longing would overpower me. I had not intended to go through the wall, but my longing forced me to, and there I was in his room.

At first things looked promising. He didn’t seem afraid, only surprised. I don’t know what I looked like in his eyes; perhaps I was nothing more than a breeze or a shadow, now that he’d decided to live. I wasn’t a monster, at any rate. Perhaps a vague ghost, a feeling rather than an experience? He started paying attention, the way a cat focuses on something without us knowing why. I could actually read his thoughts: There’s something in the room. There’s a ghost haunting this room.

No, I wanted to scream, it’s me, Alma. The one who saved you; now you can save me! See me, embrace me!

Then I noticed the photo on his nightstand. A stupid, cute, laughing, living human girl. A girl of the daylight, spoiled, sorrow-free. She’d used a gold marker to draw a heart around her childish face and the words To David.

What can I tell you? Jealousy, loneliness, unending pain — everything I mourned shot through me like a silent black explosion. I fell to pieces. Whatever had held back my hunger now dissipated and my true nature took over. In one jump I was on top of him. I’d turned into a demon, focused on his throat.

His blood — a dreamed-of nourishment, a drink more pleasant than anything I could imagine; I became whole, complete, at home in myself. He tried to defend himself, but it was all in vain.

But see, I didn’t kill him. Don’t look so frightened. He’s still alive. Because I came to my senses when I heard Mr. Fishy’s laugh echoing in my memory. I could stop myself because I realized I was doing just what, in his cynical and triumphant way, he’d predicted I’d do. So I stopped myself, I drew back, I pulled myself out through the wall. I disappeared down the street, out of the neighborhood, away to this wintery hill where I’m staying now. I’m ashamed, but I’m still proud I didn’t kill him. I’m alone, in an eternal land of limbo, where my old dreams have no place. I can’t dream of him. I can’t dream of being human again. And obeying my own nature... no! Turning into that hideous phantom, stinking of cold blood, cynical and greedy, with no shame and no conscience.

So I’m staying here, and not just because it’s closed for the winter, but also because I want to run into my mama who’s still living in the apartment building across the way. I can read thoughts a bit, and I want to read hers to see if she misses me. If she ever loved me, even a little. David’s blood has given me a shot of greater potential, so I can also read your thoughts. I know how much sympathy you have for me. Perhaps you have too much sympathy. You’re writing down my winter tale even though you’re freezing, with just this little space heater to warm you. This is the second long winter night you’ve spent secretly here with me, and soon dawn will break. Soon.

Still, before then, you’re going to fill that little egg cup with blood for me. Yes, just enough of your heart’s blood to fill that fine porcelain egg cup, and I promise not to want more later, not to demand more — don’t come too close to me — I’ll be content with just a little bit, it’s not going to control me. Just a little cut on your hand — not your throat! — and then it will run down into that little cup and I’ll drink it while it’s still warm. As if it were hot chocolate. Put down your pen. I’ll tell you more later. You need tales, just as I need blood. We’re almost related. We’re twins, you and me. You were sixteen once, weren’t you? And you died from being sixteen and abandoned. Part of you died and from what remained you recreated yourself. You understand me. PUT THAT PEN DOWN NOW AND GIVE ME WHAT I WANT — THIS IS NOT A FAIRY TALE!

Translated by Caroline Åberg

Saltsjöbaden

Awhile back I decided to join a dating site and created a profile starting with the following description: I’m thirty-six years old and I’m looking for a gentle, but not too gentle, man.

Under “Interests” I wrote none, under “Favorite Writer” I also wrote none. As well as under “Favorite Food” and “Favorite Places.” Under “Life Motto” I came up with: Meeting the man mentioned above. Then I thought about the word motto , that it’s probably something else, a sentence or something you could use as your words of wisdom in certain situations. But I’ve never had a motto like that, so I didn’t change it — even though that could say something about me, could reveal a nonverbal side that might repel some people. On the other hand, I wasn’t looking for a verbal person.

After I’d written what I’d written, I posted a photo of myself. It’s a picture a friend of mine took, where I’m lying on my stomach on his bed. My signs of aging don’t show in the photo, because the only light comes from a few candles, and, like my friend says, most people look fairly decent in that kind of lighting.

A week passed before I logged onto the site again, and by then I’d gotten a flood of replies. Surprised, I went through them all, one by one. An older gentleman promised me an economically carefree existence in exchange for his sexual satisfaction three times a week. A twenty-year-old wondered if I could teach him everything I knew. I sat there with my cup of coffee and laughed, but at the same time I felt oddly moved; not so much by all this appreciation (the photo was really a fraud), but because it was clear to me that they all truly and strongly believed in love, and believed that I could give them what they were looking for.

Several more weeks passed before I went back onto the site. But once I did, I noticed that many of the men who had first contacted me had kept writing. Some had written almost every day for weeks. The twenty-year-old who thought I could teach him something almost seemed obsessed, and in one message he wrote: I’ve always had girls who just talk and talk, they never seem to do anything but talk, but you feel so genuine, so free from words. Genuine, so free from words. I liked the sound of that.

I wrote to him: I guess you somehow send out the message that you like to talk. Try to send another message. Kind regards, M.

Others had sent pictures of themselves, their cars and their sailboats. One had sent a photo of his organ, fully erect. They all said something nice about my photo, and at first I was flattered, and thought I might not be all that bad. Then I realized there was nothing to be flattered about. No, this was something else, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, that had nothing to do with me.

I replied to one of them: Thank you for your words, but don’t have any illusions about me. I am thirty-six years old, the photo is taken in a candlelit room... Here is a real picture.

I attached a photo of me that I took then and there in regular daylight, the way I was: wearing panties and a bra (although I edited out my head). Without mentioning details I can only say that this picture was not as flattering as the last one, but still I managed to laugh a little at the cooling effect it would have on the man in question. But just a minute or so after I’d sent the photo came his response: Besides the fact that your age implies that we could have many interesting conversations, and you most likely can cook a good meal (for which I would choose the wine), I’m convinced your body, which I guess has already been enjoyed by many, holds an abundance of possibilities. And your womb is surely a repository of dirty deeds that I wouldn’t mind taking part in either.