Anders Roslund - The Beast

He had not known that he was going somewhere.

Fredrik opened the car door. He had driven far too fast, stayed in seventy on the Tosterö Bridge with its thirty- kilometre limit, but he had promised Marie they would be in school by one thirty so there was nothing else for it.

And it was good that she went to school, because Daddy was working today. Actually, it was a lie. It had been a lie yesterday. She went to nursery school because it was important for her to keep the place, and because having a daddy who worked was part of the scene. Even better, a daddy who worked hard at writing and needed to be alone when he was thinking complicated thoughts. He hadn’t had even a single thought worth thinking for months, and he hadn’t written a word for weeks. He was in the grip of writer’s block and had no idea how to wrench free.

That was why Frans haunted him at night. That was why he could not make love to the beautiful, naked young woman lying close to him, instead constantly comparing her with someone who filled his thoughts but who didn’t want him, with Agnes. For a long time working, writing, had kept memory and reflection at bay. And perhaps that was what he had always done, avoided emotion through work work work, his mind turning over like an engine racing. Only by moving forward could he be sure to leave the past behind.

Fredrik had pulled in right in front of the school and parked on a double yellow line despite having been caught once already. It was worth it, rather than driving about aimlessly, looking. He helped Marie out of her seat in the back. On the way up the path to the school door she skipped and jumped in front of him. It was a lovely warm day, what a remarkable summer it had been, and she looked so happy; she hopped on both feet, then her right foot, then both, then her left foot. Micaela and David and all the others were waiting inside, twenty-five children whose names he’d never learned. He should have.

Just outside the gate a man was sitting on the park bench; must be somebody’s dad, because he’d surely seen that face before. He nodded at the man while he tried fruitlessly to match him with one of the little faces in the crowd inside the school.

Micaela was standing next to the coat-hangers in the hall. She kissed him, asked if he was properly awake now, and had he missed her? He said yes, he’d missed her. Had he? At night when he couldn’t sleep and sought out her soft body, then he would’ve missed her if she hadn’t been there; he needed her so much and felt less frightened when he could stay close to her and borrow her warmth. Daytime was different. Looking at her, he saw how young she was, too young and too lovely. He didn’t deserve her. Surely her lover should match her youth and beauty? Or did he actually believe all that crap?

These were things he mulled over all the time. These and, deep inside, the beatings.

The first time he had sought her out was after the divorce. She greeted the children when he brought Marie to school, and she was there morning after morning. Then, one day, they walked together for a while, long enough for him to tell her about the pain and loss of separation. She listened. They took more walks together, he kept confessing and she kept listening. Then the day came when they went to his house and made love all afternoon, while Marie and David ran around playing on the other side of the closed bedroom door.

He helped Marie to change into her indoor shoes, white fabric slip-ons. He took off the red shoes with the shiny buckles and put them on her shelf. Her sign was an elephant. The others had chosen bright red fire engines and football stars and Disney figures, but she had wanted an elephant and that was that.

She grabbed his arm.

‘Daddy, you mustn’t go.’

‘But… you wanted to come, didn’t you? Micaela is here. And David.’

‘Please stay. Please, nice kind Daddy.’

He held her in his arms, lifted her up.

‘My little sweetheart. But… Daddy must work. You know that.’

Her eyes met his, her forehead wrinkled. Her whole face pleaded with him.

He sighed.

‘Right you are, I will stay. But just a tiny little while.’

Marie stayed close to him while she gave her elephant a kiss and followed the contours of its body with her finger: its legs, along its back and all the way down its trunk. Fredrik made a what-can-I-do gesture to Micaela. This was how it had been ever since Marie had started at the nursery almost four years ago, after Agnes had moved away. Every time he had hoped that this would be the day he could leave easily, just say goodbye and go without having a bad conscience about it.

‘And how long are you staying today?’

This was the only thing they really disagreed about. Micaela wanted him to go, to establish that even if he did, he would still be back in the afternoon to pick Marie up. Never mind a few tears, the crying would pass. He always

told her that since she didn’t have children herself she couldn’t possibly know what he felt like.

‘Quarter of an hour. At most.’

Marie heard him and tightened her grip on his arm.

‘Daddy must stay. Stay with me.’

Then David came along, running, his face covered in warpaint stripes in garish poster paints. He ran past Marie, but called to her to come along. She let go of Fredrik’s arm and followed him.

Micaela smiled.

‘Look how easy it is! It’s the best I’ve seen. She’s forgotten about you already.’

She stepped closer, very close.

‘But I haven’t.’

A light kiss on his cheek. Then she turned and went away too.

Fredrik was at a loss. He watched her go, then went into the play-room. Marie and David and three other kids were piled up together, painting each other’s faces, shouting about Sioux Indians or something. He waved at Marie, she waved back. When he left, their war cries followed him to the door.

The sun hit his face. What about a coffee in the shade? After picking up a paper from the newsagent at the main square? But he made up his mind to go to his writer’s den on Arnö Island, just, to sit there and wait. He’d start the computer, read his notes, probably write nothing but at least be prepared.

He opened the gate, nodded again to the father on the bench, who must be waiting for someone, and went to get his car.

He liked this nursery. It had looked just the same four years ago. The little gate, white-painted wooden walls and blue shutters.

He had been sitting on this seat for four hours. There must be at least twenty kids in there. He had watched as the children came and went, always with a mother or a father, no kids on their own. A pity, it was easier then.

Three of the girls had gym shoes on. Two had weird sandals with long straps tied round their legs. Some were barefoot. So the heat was fucking unbearable, but he didn’t like this going barefoot thing. One of them had worn red leather shoes, shiny, with metal buckles. They were the best, really beautiful. She had turned up late, her dad had brought her. A blonde little whore. Her hair had natural curls, she tossed them about while she was speaking to her dad. Not much on, just shorts and a plain T-shirt, she must’ve dressed herself. She seemed happy. Whores were always happy. This one had hopped and jumped all the way to the front door and her dad had nodded to him, a kind of greeting, and he had returned it, it was only polite. The dad had taken longer to come back out than the rest of them, and when he passed, he had nodded again. What a weirdo.

He tried to spot the blonde whore through the window. Lots of heads came past but not the blonde with curls. She’d come looking for cock; whores like plenty of hard cock. She was hidden in there, only shorts and T-shirt on, and her red shoes with metal buckles, bare legs. Good. Whores should show skin.