Lars Kepler - The Nightmare

“Hi,” Axel says quietly.

Jorgen Grunlicht can’t help smiling. The cartoon face with spiky hair does resemble Axel Riessen and in the dialogue bubble from the figure’s mouth the word “Hi!” had been written.

“Hello,” Jorgen says.

“It was just too soon,” Axel explains.

“I understand. I didn’t want to pressure you, even if we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Jorgen says. “The trade minister was on my case again and Silencia Defense is ringing the phone off the hook. Still, I get you, you know. This responsibility is totally new to you and you… want to be especially thorough.”

“That’s right.”

“And that’s a good thing,” he continues. “But you can send the agreement to the government instead if you’re unsure about it.”

“I’m not unsure,” Axel replies. “I’m just not finished. That’s all there is to it.”

“It’s just… from their perspective, things are going unreasonably slowly.”

“I’m putting everything else aside for the moment and so far I can say that everything looks good,” Axel replies. “I’m not telling Silencia Defense to wait before loading the freighter, but I’m just not finished yet.”

“I’ll let all parties involved know you are positive.”

“Go ahead. I mean, if I don’t find anything unusual, it’s just-”

“You won’t. I’ve done all the research myself.”

“Well, then,” Axel says softly.

“I won’t disturb you anymore,” Jorgen says. He gets up from the chair. “Any hint when you think you’ll be ready?”

Axel glances down at the paperwork.

“Count on at least a few days. Maybe I’ll have to look a little more into Kenya first.”

“Of course.” Jorgen Grunlicht smiles as he leaves the room.

Axel leaves the ISP office at ten o’clock in the morning to work from home. He puts all the paperwork needed into his briefcase. He still feels cold from being so tired, and now he’s hungry as well. He drives to the Grand Hotel and picks up brunch for two people.

Axel carries the food into his kitchen. Beverly is sitting cross-legged on top of the kitchen table, right in the middle, and she’s flipping through the bridal magazine Amelia Brud amp; Brollop.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

“I don’t know if I want to wear white when I get married,” Beverly says. “Maybe light rose…”

“I like white,” Axel mumbles.

Axel prepares a tray and then the two of them ascend the stairs to the salon, where a red rococo sofa group is placed next to the large windows. As part of the grouping there’s an eight-sided table from the eighteenth century. It shows how much that era appreciated intarsia; this motif shows a garden with peacocks and a musician, a woman playing the erhu.

Axel sets the table with the family china. It is imprinted in silver. He sets matching silver-gray napkins and heavy wineglasses beside the plates. He pours Coca-Cola into Beverly’s glass and mineral water with slices of lime into his own.

Beverly’s childish face has a tiny, chiseled chin above a fragile neck. The entire curve of her head is clear under the fuzz of hair. She drinks the entire glass, then stretches her upper body indolently; a beautiful, innocent movement. Axel thinks that she’ll do it exactly that way when she’s an adult, maybe she’ll stretch that way even as an old lady.

“Tell me more about the music,” she asks him.

“Where were we?” Axel directs the remote toward his music system.

Alexander Malter’s incredibly perceptive interpretation of Arvo Part’s Alina comes out of the speakers. Axel sets his glass down on the table. The bubbles of the mineral water dance. Axel wishes with all his heart that it were champagne in that glass, champagne to go with this food. He wishes for another heart’s desire-sleeping pills to get through the night.

Axel pours more Coke into Beverly’s glass. She looks at him in thanks. He stares right into her large, dark eyes and doesn’t notice that he’s over-pouring until the Coke starts spreading over the table. The entire Chinese landscape darkens as if its sun is covered by a cloud. The liquid film shimmers over the park with its peacocks.

Axel stands up. He sees Beverly’s reflection in the glass of the windows. The curve of her chin is so strong… and then he makes a sudden blinding connection. He realizes all at once that she resembles Greta.

How could he not have seen this before?

All he wants to do now is run away, run from this room, run from this house. Instead, he forces himself to get a cloth to wipe up the spill until his heart has a chance to slow and return to its normal rhythm.

It’s not as if the two women would ever be confused one for the other, but now he spots one reminder, one trait after the other that they both share.

Axel stops and wipes his mouth. His hand is trembling.

There is not a single day when he does not think of Greta. And every day he does his best to forget.

The day after the competition still haunts him.

It was thirty-four years ago, but in his mind, everything since has been darkened by that event. His life was so new then; he was just seventeen, but all the bright hopes had come to an end.

The Johan Fredrik Berwald Competition was northern Europe’s most prestigious competition for young violinists. Many of the world’s young virtuosi had come to be set directly in this blinding spotlight, but after six rounds before a closed jury, the number had been whittled down to just three. Now it was the final round, and the three violinists left would compete in the concert hall as part of a performance conducted by the legendary Herbert Blomstedt, and the music would be broadcast live on television.

In music circles, it was a sensation that two of the finalists, Axel Riessen and Greta Stiernlood, had both studied at the Royal College of Music in Stockholm. The other finalist was Shiro Sasaki from Japan.

For Alice Riessen, an uncelebrated professional musician, her son Axel’s success was an enormous triumph. Especially now. She’d ignored the warnings from the school’s principal about Axel’s absences from classes, sometimes for an entire day, and that he was growing careless, wasn’t concentrating.

Once Axel and Greta had reached the third round, they were granted permission to devote their time to rehearsal. The competition had brought them together, and, amazingly, each was happy about the other’s success. Lately they’d been meeting at Axel’s house for mutual support.

Axel and his younger brother, Robert, had the run of seven rooms on the top floor of the house in Larkstaden. As a rule, Axel never practiced per se. Instead, he would find his way into a piece, exploring its undercurrent of sound as if in a new world. He loved to play and sometimes he was up long into the night playing his violin until even his toughened fingertips burned.

There was one day left before Axel and Greta would compete in the concert hall. Axel was sitting on the floor looking at the covers of his LPs spread out in front of his record player. He had three albums by David Bowie: Space Oddity, Aladdin Sane, and Hunky Dory.

His mother knocked on the door and came in with a bottle of Coca-Cola, two glasses with ice, and lemon slices. Axel was surprised to see her, but he thanked her, got up to take the tray, and set it on the coffee table.

“I thought you were practicing,” Alice said as she looked around the room.

“Greta needed to go home and eat.”

“You could still use this time for work.”

“I’m waiting for her to get back.”

“You know that the final is tomorrow,” Alice said as she sat down on the floor next to her son. “I devote myself to practice eight hours a day and sometimes ten.”