Åke Edwardson - Frozen Tracks

“What?”

“You get a stiff neck in the summer because you drive with the window open,” she said, and saw the glint of water beyond the field that appeared to be almost as full of water as the sea.

“But it’s not summer now,” he said.

She laughed loudly.

“Although it’s pretty warm,” he said. “From a purely statistical point of view the average temperature today is high enough for it to count as summer.”

“In that case it must be summer, Billy,” she said.

“Yes, you’re right,” he said, turning to look at her.

“And so it follows that you’ll soon get a stiff neck,” she said, looking out at the rocks and the sea, both of which were totally motionless.

Brorsson rolled the window up.

“Straight ahead,” she said at the roundabout.

They drove to a turning space and parked, and stepped out of the car. The modern terraced houses on the right were built-in steps, like some of the rocks. There were hills behind them. The bay was open here, and the ocean lay in wait beyond the archipelago. There were sailboats still moored to jetties as if to confirm what Brorsson had just said: Summer had refused to die this year. No snow this year, and Larissa Serimov liked snow. Snow on the ground and snow on the ice. That’s my heritage. A white soul in a white body.

“It’s open,” said Brorsson.

They could see the interior of the restaurant through the glass doors. It looked inviting. The horizon appeared to cut right through the building, making it seem like a tower, or a lighthouse. The placidity of the coast this newly born December felt as restful as it was. But not for them.

“We just had lunch,” she said. “Have you forgotten?”

“Yes, I know, but I thought we could get the customers to blow into the bag when they come out.” She noticed his eyes, apathetic and exhilarated at the same time. “I need to book a few more drunks before Christmas.” He looked at her. “The statistics are important as far as I’m concerned.”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“What do you say, then?” he said, checking his watch.

“Can’t you leave poor people alone just for once?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like that poor woman yesterday afternoon in Linnégatan. We wouldn’t have needed to be there at all if it hadn’t been for your statistics.”

“She didn’t stop,” he said.

“She tried to let you pass.”

“She was lucky she got away with it,” he said.

“Got away with what?” asked Serimov.

He didn’t answer.

“Got away with what?” she asked again.

“Arrogant bitches,” he said.

“You have a problem, Billy,” she said.

“So, should we wait here for a while and see what we can do?” he said.

“Certainly not. They live up there, and that’s where we’re going,” she said, pointing.

“In that case there was no need for me to drive down here first,” he said.

“I wanted to see the sea,” she said.

“The sea, the sea! I could kiss the sea!” he said.

Kiss my ass, she thought: She was good at swearing. She had a Russian background, after all. The Russian language is world champion when it comes to swear words. In Sweden people call them “rude words,” but a lot of the Russian swear words are beautiful, she thought, gazing out to sea again.

They got back into the car and drove up the steeply sloping streets.

“Here we are,” she said, and he pulled up.

“I’ll wait out here,” he said.

“Don’t harass the neighbors,” she said. She got out of the car and rang the doorbell.

Kristina Bergort answered after the second ring. Larissa could see Maja peeping out from behind her mother.

“Come in,” said Mrs. Bergort.

“I hope this isn’t too inconvenient for you,” Larissa said, aware of how silly it sounded. She had called in advance and Kristina Bergort had said that it was OK.

The girl was clinging to her mother.

“Magnus called to say that he couldn’t get away from work,” said Bergort.

You are the one I want to talk to anyway, Larissa thought, feeling awkward in the kitchen wearing her police uniform.

The girl looked at her belt and the gun sticking out like… like a… well, sticking out. Larissa realized that she hadn’t spoken to the girl yet.

“Hello, Maja,” she said.

The girl looked up, shyly, smiled quickly, and then looked down again.

“You can go back and play,” said her mother.

Maja turned around and Larissa could see a scratch on her upper arm, like a line of chalk. Larissa watched her walk away. She crossed over the threshold. Larissa was still watching. There was something odd. But what? There was something about the way she moved. What was it? Her leg? It was…

Maja was out of sight now.

“Is there something wrong with her leg?” Larissa asked.

“What? Her leg?”

“Maja’s leg. She seemed to be limping.”

“Limping? Maja? I haven’t noticed anything.” Kristina Bergort looked at her with an expression that could have been one of concern. “Surely I would have noticed?”

Larissa Serimov wondered what to say next. She ought to know. She knew why she’d come here.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” asked Mrs. Bergort.

Larissa thought about Billy Brorsson waiting outside, said “yes please,” and then her mobile rang.

“Are you going to be in there long?” asked Brorsson.

“Ten, fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll go for a little drive.”

She hung up and thought about the plight of humanity exposed to assault by Brorsson, and turned to Kristina Bergort.

“I’ve been thinking a bit more about that story Maja told you,” she said.

THEY WERE SERVED COFFEE, CHEESE ROLLS, AND THREE KINDS OF cookies. The rooms were full of Christmas decorations, an excess of them. The children had been given free rein. Angela recognized Elsa’s paintings because Elsa had shown them to her before. There were lines and circles that could symbolize most things. Or just represent them. Not everything was symbolic.

There was a smell of candle wax and hot punch. Parents were circulating and discussing the Christmas atmosphere that had arrived here about three weeks early.

There were no children present this evening. No overtime for them, Angela thought. Elsa can relax at home with Erik. Rolling the ball across the floor until he’s too stiff to stand up again. No, it wasn’t that bad. But obviously, being a father at forty is not the same as being a father at twenty-five.

She looked around. She was at a sort of middle age when it came to parenting, not too young and not too old. Waiting until you were thirty before having a child was no big deal nowadays. Lots of women waited. But she wouldn’t have wanted to wait any longer. Nevertheless, Erik had waited until she couldn’t take it any longer. And she hadn’t taken it any longer. No more waiting.

The future was not over. Just wait and see, Erik.

They assembled in the big hall. The nursery-school manager welcomed them to the annual Christmas get-together. This nursery school is a bit special, she said. Inner-city dwellers and inner-city children.

Angela could see the house by the sea in her mind’s eye. An avenue, trees on all sides, gravel paths, and a kitchen garden.

The future was not over.

But the apartment at Vasaplatsen wasn’t something you just got rid of. At the moment it seemed to be the best place for Elsa. Big, shiny floors. They were easy to roll a ball over.

It was afterward, when there were fewer parents still present, that the matter came up. Lots of them had been thinking about it all evening, the staff as well of course, but one of them said:

“We didn’t really know how to bring it up.”