Karin Alvtegen - Shadow

She tried to talk to him about it, but it was no use. If communication was difficult for them in general, words were hopeless when it came to sex. As if everything they had devoted themselves to without embarrassment lacked any sort of name. He took her tentative objections as a criticism of his ability, and the only way to prove the opposite was to let the conversation devolve into yet another act of intercourse. Then one evening – it was one of those evenings when she had wanted to talk – he couldn’t get an erection. She assured him that it didn’t matter, she just wanted to hold him close, but her words had no effect. Most of all she remembered the rage in his eyes when he pulled away like a beaten dog and locked himself in his office. The months that followed became silent in every respect. At first, she thought the words that might have helped them had simply gone missing, but soon she realised they had never been present at all. She had mistaken the strong feeling of connection that arose when they had sex for love, when actually she hardly knew him. She had waited for ever for him to return. His reluctance became obvious, his surliness left her in despair. She tried everything. Romantic candlelit dinners, beautiful clothes, theatre tickets. Nothing had brought them closer together. Her failed attempts only intensified the problem, and the distance between them grew even greater. Then, after a dinner with her in-laws, long after she had given up hope, he had unexpectedly crawled over to her side of the bed. Wordlessly and with the bedside lamp turned off, his fingers fumbling from the wine, he had prepared the way, and with aggressive thrusts forced himself to climax.

That had been the last time. Eleven years had passed since then.

Her expectations had readjusted to their new way of living, in which physical closeness might extend at most to a pat on the shoulder when it couldn’t be avoided.

She looked at her naked body in the mirror. A little older, more mature, but well-kept after the surgery and hard workouts.

Desired by no one.

With each day that passed her longing became more unmanageable. A desire to once more experience the intensity of passion. A brief moment of balancing on the knife edge where life was at its most intimate.

She cupped her hands round her breasts and closed her eyes. To be able to give in. To be forced to acquiesce to the life force of passion and surrender. And then to rest in an embrace that assured her she was good enough.

At exactly ten o’clock, after a brisk walk, she put her key in the door of Boutique Louise on Nybrogatan. The Ragnerfeldt Corporation was the landlord of the shop. With Axel’s permission Jan-Erik had arranged it for her seven years ago, when her writing talent had ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Exclusive designer clothing for rich customers, most of them living nearby. She had done her best to adopt the lifestyle that was expected of her, but at ever greater cost to her soul. She had trained as a civil engineer in information technology, but after her maternity leave she had never returned. With all the rapid developments in the computer field, she had never caught up. Besides, Jan-Erik thought that being the proprietor of a boutique was better, and perhaps she had even let herself be enticed for a while. The truth was that the boutique was a luxury hobby. Sales were few and did not contribute much to the household budget. But at least she had something to do, so that Jan-Erik could in good conscience devote himself to his own interests. And every time she pointed out that he was working too hard, she was told that it was necessary for the family finances. She was completely dependent on Jan-Erik and the Ragnerfeldt Corporation.

She hung up her coat in the alcove behind the counter and took out her mobile phone. Jan-Erik still hadn’t called, even though she’d left a message to remind him of their daughter’s show that night. She gave a heavy sigh and dialled Alice Ragnerfeldt’s number instead. It rang many times, but that was not unusual. Her mother-in-law sometimes suffered from vascular cramps and claimed that the doctor said that a capful of whisky each morning was good medicine. Louise had no idea how big a cap was on the doctor’s bottle, but the one on her mother-in-law’s was clearly enormous. After the twelfth ring she answered.

‘Alice Ragnerfeldt.’

‘Hello, it’s Louise. How are you feeling today?’

There was no reply at the other end. Louise regretted her choice of words. She already knew the answer.

‘Fine, thanks, pretty much as usual.’

Louise hastened to reply before the detailed report began.

‘I wondered whether you wanted to accompany me to a play at Ellen’s school this evening.’

‘This evening?’

‘Yes. At seven.’

There was a long silence. Louise could hear her motherin-law’s heavy breathing. And then the question that she knew would follow.

‘Is Jan-Erik going?’

‘I don’t know whether he’ll be home in time. He gave a lecture in Göteborg yesterday, so he’ll be coming back by train sometime in the afternoon or evening.’

Even as she answered she wondered why she didn’t just tell Alice the truth. Why did she always instinctively defend him? It was as though a switch was thrown in her head each time she was confronted with her in-laws. A pretence that needed to be maintained to avoid insidious attacks and to prove that she fitted in. If her relationship to Axel was nonexistent, then her relationship to Alice was more highly charged. At first openly displeased, over the years her mother-in- law had resigned herself to accepting the marriage. It was better than nothing, and something in Louise strove for that acceptance, to be admitted in earnest. To be a real part of the Ragnerfeldt family and not merely basking in their radiance.

For the moment Alice Ragnerfeldt could not give an answer and asked Louise to ring back that afternoon.

As expected, Jan-Erik did not show up at the play. Her maternal heart was filled with holy fury when, as so many times before, she saw her daughter survey the audience expectantly, how her eyes searched for him, her hopes extinguished when his seat remained empty. The anguish Louise felt afterwards, as she tried to reduce the sense of betrayal and soothe her daughter’s disappointment. Her anger and power lessness had thwarted all possibility of enjoying the performance.

She couldn’t live this way. Not really. Not if she ever again wanted to be able to use the word ‘excellent’.

He didn’t show up until around eleven. Ellen had gone to bed, and Louise was sitting with an anaesthetising drink in the easy chair by the bay window.

‘Hello!’ she heard the cheerful voice from the hall.

She wished she were in bed already, hiding in the dark with her back turned so she could avoid seeing him. She was so utterly sick of what she’d become.

She heard his steps approaching and then he appeared in the living room. He looked tired. His face was puffy.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

She looked down and hastily brushed some non-existent fluff from the arm of the chair.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t make it to Ellen’s play. The train was late.’

‘You seem to have bad luck with trains. I thought it was last night you gave the lecture.’

He went over to the little gilt table with the bottles of spirits. With his back to her he poured himself a whisky. He was doing that more often lately. At night when she returned to the bedroom from the toilet, she would be met by the distinct odour of his breath. But considering what she was holding in her hand it was hard to raise objections.

‘I had a couple of meetings booked today with some companies in Göteborg. About fundraising for the clinic in Somalia. Anything new here?’