It just happened to have been the same day Erik informed her that he was finished with hypnosis forever.
Simone remembers that she hadnt been at her newly opened gallery that day, a rare occasion; maybe Benjamin wasnt in school, maybe shed taken the day off, but at any rate she was sitting at the kitchen table in the terrace house in Järfälla going through the mail when she caught sight of a pale blue envelope addressed to Erik. The senders name on the back simply said: Maja.
There are times when you know with every fibre of your being that something is wrong.
Simone had been married to Erik for eight years when, fingers trembling, she opened the envelope from Maja. Ten colour photographs fell out onto the kitchen table. The pictures had not been taken by a professional photographer. Blurred close-ups: a womans breast, a mouth and a naked throat, pale green underwear, black hair in tight curls. Erik was in one of the pictures. He looked surprised and happy.
Maja was a pretty, very young woman with dark, strong eyebrows and a large, serious mouth. In the only photo that showed her completely, she was lying on a narrow bed dressed in just her underwear, strands of black hair falling over her broad white breasts. She looked happy, too, a faint blush high on her cheeks.
It is difficult to recall the feeling of being deceived. For a long time everything was just a sense of sorrow, a strange, empty craving in her stomach, a desire to avoid painful thoughts. And yet she remembers that the first thing she felt was surprise, a gaping, stupid surprise at being so comprehensively taken in by someone she had trusted completely. And then came the embarrassment, followed by a despairing sense of inadequacy, burning rage, and loneliness.
Simone lies in bed as these thoughts go round and round in her head, spinning off in various painful directions. She remembers the way Erik looked into her eyes and promised he hadnt had an affair with Maja- that he didnt even know anyone named Maja. She had asked him three times, and each time he had sworn he didnt know a Maja. Then she had pulled out the photos and thrown them at him, one by one.
Slowly the sky grows light above the city. She falls asleep a few minutes before Erik returns. He tries to be quiet, but when he sits on the bed she wakes up. Erik says hes going for a shower. Looking up at him, she can tell hes taken a lot of pills again. Heart pounding, she asks him the name of the policeman who called during the night. When he doesnt answer, she realizes that hes passed out in the middle of the conversation. Simone tells him she called the number, and did a policeman answer? No, it was some giggling woman called Daniella. But Erik just cant keep awake; its infuriating. Then she yells at him, demands to know, accuses him of having destroyed everything, just when she had begun to trust him again.
Shes sitting up in bed now, staring at him. He doesnt seem to understand her agitation. She says the words that, no matter how many times she has thought them, seem no less painful, sad, or distant from her hopes.
It might be best if we separate.
That seems to get his attention momentarily. But Simone is already gathering her pillow and the duvet. Entering the guest room, she lies on the sofa and cries for a long time, then blows her nose. Now its really morning. She hasnt the strength to deal with her family right now. She goes to the bathroom, washes up, then creeps back to the bedroom. Erik is out like a light, so she collects an outfit and dresses in the guest room. She hastily puts on her makeup and leaves the apartment to have breakfast somewhere before she goes to the gallery.
She reads in a café in Kungsträdgården for a long time before she can manage to get down the sandwich she ordered with her coffee. She puts her newspaper down for a moment and looks through the cafés big window, which overlooks a large stage. A dozen or so men are preparing for some kind of event. Pink tents have been erected. A barrier is placed around a small ramp. Suddenly something happens. The men stumble backwards, yelling at one another. There is a crackling noise and a rocket shoots up into the air. Simone leans forward to follow its flight. It rises into the bright morning sky, then bursts in a transparent blue glow, and the explosion reverberates between the buildings.
Chapter 19
Simone sits in the office of the gallery, taking in the large self-portrait of the artist Sim Shulman posing in a black ninja costume, a sword raised high above his head, when the phone in her bag begins to buzz.
Simone Bark, she answers, forcing the sadness out of her voice.
Hello, its Siv Sturesson from Edsberg School, says an older woman.
Oh, says Simone hesitantly. Yes?
Im just calling to see how Benjamin is.
Im sorry, I dont understand.
Hes not in school today, says the woman, and he hasnt called in sick. We always get in touch with the parents in cases like this.
Right, says Simone. Ill call home and check. Both Benjamin and his father were still there this morning when I left. Ill get back to you.
She rings off and immediately calls the apartment. It isnt like Benjamin to oversleep or flout the rules.
Nobody picks up at home. Erik is supposed to have the morning off. A fresh fear sinks its claws into her, before it occurs to her that Erik is probably lying there snoring with his mouth open, knocked out by his beloved pills, while Benjamin is listening to loud music. She tries Benjamins phone; no reply. She leaves a short message, then tries Eriks mobile, but of course its switched off.
She calls out to her assistant at the art gallery. Yiva, I have to go home. Ill be back soon.
Her assistant peers out of the office, a thick file in her hand, and calls out, with a smile, Kiss-kiss!
But Simone is too stressed to return their running joke. Throwing her coat around her shoulders, she picks up her bag and almost runs to the underground station.
There is a particular silence outside the door of an empty house. As soon as Simone puts her key in the lock, she knows no one is in.
The skates lie forgotten on the floor, but Benjamins backpack, shoes, and jacket are gone, as are Eriks overcoat and scarf. The Puma bag containing Benjamins medication is in his room. She hopes this means Erik has given Benjamin his injection.
Simone glances around the room, thinking it is a bit sad that he has taken down his Harry Potter poster and put almost all his toys in a box in the cupboard. He was suddenly in a hurry to grow up when he met Aida.
It occurs to Simone that perhaps Benjamin is with her now.
Benjamin is only fourteen, Aida is seventeen; he claims theyre just friends, but its obvious that shes his girlfriend. Has he even told her he has a blood disorder? Does she know that the slightest blow could cost him his life if he hasnt taken his medication properly?
She sits down and buries her face in her hands, trying to stop all the terrifying thoughts. Simone cant help worrying about her son. In her minds eye she has always seen Benjamin being hit in the face by a basketball during break time or imagined a spontaneous bleed suddenly starting inside his head: a dark bead expanding like a star, trickling along all the convolutions of his brain.
She is overcome by an almost unbearable feeling of shame when she remembers the way she lost patience with Benjamin because he wouldnt walk. He was two years old and still crawling everywhere. She would scold him and then tease him when he cried. Said he looked like a baby. Benjamin would try to walk, take a few steps, but then the terrible pain would force him to lie down again.
They didnt know then that he had a blood disorder, that the blood vessels in his joints burst when he stood up.
Once Benjamin had been diagnosed with von Willebrands disease, it was Erik who took over the care the condition demanded, not Simone. It was Erik who gently moved Benjamins joints back and forth after the nights immobility, in order to reduce the risk of internal bleeding; Erik who carried out the complex injections, where the needle absolutely must not penetrate the muscle but must be emptied carefully and slowly beneath the skin. The technique was far more painful than a normal injection. For the first few years, Benjamin would sit with his face pressed against his fathers stomach, weeping silently as the needle went in. These days he went on eating his breakfast without looking, just offering his arm to Erik, who swabbed it, administered the injection, and put on a dressing.
The factor preparation that helped Benjamins blood to coagulate was called Haemate. Simone thought it sounded like a Greek goddess of revenge. It was a horrible and unsatisfactory drug that was delivered in the form of a yellow, freeze-dried, granular powder, which had to be measured, dissolved, mixed, and warmed into the correct dosage before it could be administered. Haemate greatly increased the risk of blood clots, and they lived in constant hope that something better would come along. But with the Haemate, a high dose of desmopressin, and Cyklokapron in a nasal spray to prevent bleeds in the mucous membrane, Benjamin was relatively safe.
She could still remember when they had received his laminated alert card from the Emergency Blood Service, adorned with Benjamins birthday photo: his laughing four-year-old face beneath the message:
I have von Willebrands disease. If anything happens to me, please call the Emergency Blood Service immediately: 040-33-10-10.
Since meeting Aida, Benjamin always wears his mobile phone hanging around his neck from a black strap with skulls on it. They text each other far into the night, and Benjamin still has the phone around his neck when Erik or Simone wakes him up in the morning.
Simone searches carefully among all the papers and magazines on Benjamins desk. Then she opens a drawer and moves aside a book about World War II, unearthing a scrap of paper with the imprint of a pair of lips pressed upon it in black lipstick and a telephone number below. She hurries into the kitchen and punches in the number, waits while the line rings, and is throwing a stinking sponge into the waste bin when someone finally picks up.