On the other side of the street she suddenly stopped and turned to him.
‘Hey, Axel!’
He watched her, waiting.
‘You with the great imagination, why don’t you go home and wonder about what I do when I get angry with someone else?’
Jan-Erik woke up alone in room 403. His only company in bed was an empty bottle of Glenlivet and some colourful miniatures from the minibar spread helter-skelter over the flowery bedspread. He realised he’d fallen asleep with his clothes on. The key he had so ingeniously handed over in the theatre dressing-room had been returned to the reception desk when he arrived at the hotel; the delay had apparently made her change her mind. Now he was grateful, but the dreary hotel room had driven him to empty the minibar. He hated hotel rooms. The anxiety-filled isolation; the claustrophobic feeling of being cut off from the world. He always checked all the emergency exits so he’d know which way to run if a fire started. Tried to convince himself that the probability of the hotel catching fire on the very night he was there was negligible. On the other hand hadn’t all hotel guests that died in a fire thought the same thing just before being engulfed by the flames or suffocated by the smoke that prevented them from finding their way out?
With great effort he propped himself up on his elbow and looked around for some water. There was a bottle on a little side table, but the distance seemed insurmountable. He fell back onto the pillows and closed his eyes. He wanted to be somewhere else, at some other time. It couldn’t be a hangover, this was something else. He must have come down with some illness. His heart’s laboured beating seemed audible throughout the room. The anxiety lent each thought sharp barbs. Every molecule in his body was trying to fight the poisoning. He couldn’t possibly have caused this himself, it couldn’t be self-inflicted.
He lay utterly still and tried to convince himself that his condition was not life-threatening.
It was ten minutes to six.
His drunken state wouldn’t even allow him to sleep.
He fell into a restless doze and managed to kill forty minutes. Then he was involuntarily back in reality. Cautiously he broached the thought of the day before. Sporadic mem ories arose, gradually trying to arrange themselves in some sort of order. He had woken up at home. Morning in Stockholm. Louise and Ellen had already left. He had thought about Annika, about the choice she’d made, about the new grief that had to be endured, and how he would handle his parents’ thirty-year-old lie.
Then came the newly discovered fear that Louise might leave him; in the morning light it had still felt real. He had promised himself that he would change his behaviour. Never again come home feeling guilty, never again wake up in the straitjacket of a hangover. He would show that he really wanted to fight, though he didn’t actually know for what. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand having such a crucial decision taken over his head. On the way to Central Station he had passed by Louise’s boutique. The ‘closed’ sign was on the door, and she hadn’t answered her mobile. With a nagging sense of uneasiness he had taken a seat on the train and swore to himself to be a better father, a better husband, a better person. He had even considered ringing the therapist, if that’s what it would take.
But then he had stood there on stage in the spotlight. Felt how every pore opened up and gratefully absorbed the unconditional admiration that came rushing towards him from the audience. Felt the adrenaline racing through his veins, the power of approbation. And she had sat there worshipping him, unable to get enough of what he had to give. It was so simple, so impossible to resist.
And once again he’d fallen to temptation.
He thanked God that she had changed her mind.
He would become a better person. He really would.
It was his mobile ringing that woke him the next time. In the hope that it was Louise he fumbled about looking for the phone. He had rung her several times the day before without getting an answer. She hadn’t returned his calls.
He cleared his throat in an attempt to sound less groggy.
‘Yes, this is Jan-Erik Ragnerfeldt.’
‘Oh, forgive me, this is Marianne Folkesson. I didn’t wake you, did I?’
He cleared his throat again.
‘No, no, not to worry, I just have a slight cold.’
He sat up with an effort. Some of the little bottles fell to the floor with a clatter.
‘I just wanted to ask if you’d managed to find a photograph for the funeral. Time is getting short, so I really need to know.’
‘I looked all over the house but unfortunately I couldn’t find one.’
He wanted to be of help. Especially this morning. So that not a single person could think ill of him.
‘But I’ll look again. I’m in Västerås right now but I’ll be home this afternoon. Is it all right if I let you know tomorrow?’
‘Yes, of course. It’ll be a bit of a rush but I think there’ll be enough time.’
He was going to go straight home. Buy some groceries on the way and have coffee and sandwiches ready when Ellen came home from school.
‘I should also tell you that I gave your phone number to Kristoffer Sandeblom, the one who’s named in the will. I hope that’s all right. He wanted so badly to get in touch with someone who knew her.’
Jan-Erik suddenly remembered the visit in his dressing-room. The strange young man and the awkward circumstances. The absurd notion that he might be Annika’s child, that it had something to do with her suicide. Crazy perhaps, but the stranger’s story had got tangled up in the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind. Thankfully he had worked out that the years didn’t match. With the clarity of distance, he realised what his preposterous idea said about his confidence in his parents. It filled him with sadness.
He cleared his throat again.
‘I’ve already talked with him. He came to meet me yesterday after a lecture, and I must say it was a strange story. Unfortunately I wasn’t much help to him. He is apparently a foundling, but I haven’t the slightest idea what connection he might have had to Gerda.’
‘A foundling, you said?’
‘Yes, that’s what he told me.’
There was silence on the other end.
‘But I promise to let you know tomorrow when I’ve had another chance to look for a photo. I think there must be one somewhere, the question is where. I promise I’ll do my best.’
They said goodbye. There were seven minutes left till checkout time.
He managed to shower but not much more. Embarrassed, he checked out and paid for wreaking havoc with the minibar. He explained to indifferent ears that he’d had some friends visiting and they’d even drunk the small bottles of liqueurs.
His hand was shaking when he signed the bill.
He took the path through the park to the train station. Tiny stones caught in the wheels of his rolling suitcase, and kicking it did no good. He picked up the bag and ran to catch the train, his body protesting at the strain. Thirsty and sweaty he made it in time and found his seat in the first-class carriage. He sat down to catch his breath and noticed at once that he could see into the restaurant car. The feeling of being poisoned was still strong, and he knew very well what would help. The method was well-proven and he would feel so much better if he took a little nip, merely as an antidote to help his body.
He took out his mobile and tried to ring Louise, but he still got no answer. The Swedish Railways magazine lay on the table before him and he leafed through it half-heartedly, without taking in what he read. The door to the restaurant car opened and closed when a passenger went through. He drummed his fingers on the armrest, looked out of the window and then at the restaurant car again. He took out his mobile for a second time and began keying in a text message, but stopped and deleted it. He drummed his fingers some more, looked out of the window, flicked through the magazine. Maybe he ought to buy something to eat; the thought wasn’t appealing, but still. In any case he could see what they had. If nothing else, he could stretch his legs a bit.
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