More Bitter Than Death: A Novel Part 26

Vijay suddenly has a look of sadness again, an emotion I'm not used to seeing in him. I realize that he's opening up to me much more than he has before.

I tread cautiously. "That's what he says, but . . . do you think there's some other reason?"

Vijay shrugs his shoulders, lights yet another cigarette, and out of the corner of my eye I see his hand trembling a little. "I don't think . . . ," he begins.

"What?"

He hesitates. Takes a breath and says, "I don't think he loves me anymore."

He looks into my eyes, and his eyes are black and empty. He nods slowly at me.

"Now you know," he whispers.

Even though it's only two in the afternoon, it's already almost dark. Swift rivers flow in the gutters, brownish-gray water mixed with the occasional autumn leaf and piece of trash. The river pa.s.ses my feet and disappears with a slurping sound through the grating.

Just beyond McDonald's I spot the sign: Employment Center. So this is where she works.

Kattis invited me for coffee, and even though I'm aware that I'm getting too close to her, I like her too much and have given up on maintaining the kind of professional distance a therapist and client are supposed to have. So here I am outside her office, coming to have coffee with her, as if that were going to make anything better. I catch myself wondering what Aina would think if she saw us, and suddenly I feel ashamed, because I know she'd have something to say about my behavior, something I probably couldn't argue against, since she is sometimes right.

Kattis smiles widely as she opens the door and then embraces me warmly for a long time. "Come in," she says. "Oh my G.o.d, your fingers are like icicles."

She brushes a few raindrops off my forehead and laughs again, a little embarra.s.sed this time. I hang my coat on the hook and follow her into the bright office s.p.a.ce. The ceiling is high, at least sixteen feet; enormous, muntin windows run along the wall facing St. Eriksgatan. There are about ten men and women around the same age as us sitting at desks that look like they've been strewn randomly throughout the open floor plan. A couple of people wave cautiously and I wave back.

"Wow, this is nice," I say.

"It is, isn't it? It's an old bicycle factory from the turn of the century. There are fifteen of us who work here now, although everyone isn't in at the moment. A few of us are out doing site visits and things like that."

Kattis leads the way through the large s.p.a.ce, over to a little kitchenette all the way over at the right side of the room.

"I bought some cinnamon rolls," she says. "I didn't know what you liked. I hope that's okay."

Suddenly she looks nervous, as if she's extremely anxious that every little detail should be right today. I nod and sit down in one of the chairs.

"Cinnamon rolls sound great," I tell her.

Then we sit like that for a while, on those white chairs at the white table in the enormous white room. Chatting, eating the cinnamon rolls, giggling a little at Kattis's story about her former boss.

"Hey," she says suddenly, and lays her hand lightly on mine. "I have something for you." She walks over to the cabinets and reaches for something. "Here, I want you to have this."

I look at her, smile a little.

"Kattis, you didn't need to do that," I tell her.

"Open it!" she says eagerly.

I look at the beautifully wrapped package sitting in my lap. It's from a local art gallery called Bls & Knda. Slowly I pull the black, tarred ribbon, which smells like a wharf in the summer, and open the paper. It's a little ultramarine ceramic vase, not unlike the one Kattis broke that day at the office when she rushed into the conference room and told us Susanne was dead. I sit there with the vase in my lap for a few seconds, not sure how to respond.

"Why . . . ?" I begin.

She holds the palms of her hands up in front of her as if to protest something, to prevent my words with her bare hands.

"Please, it's important to me. Can you understand?" Kattis says.

I nod and look at her. Suddenly she looks so sad, sitting there across from me in her thick, gray hooded sweater. I carefully set the vase on the table in front of me, notice its reflection in the glossy tabletop.

Then Kattis suddenly looks up, over my left shoulder. She furrows her brow, troubled.

"What is it?" I ask. I turn around and see a guy in his twenties behind me. He's wearing worn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. His dark, shoulder-length hair hangs like a curtain over his eyes and he avoids eye contact with me. He's fiddling with a coin in one hand.

"Can we talk?" he asks Kattis, his voice deep and hoa.r.s.e-as if he'd been partying and smoking all night-his eyes still fixed on the ground.

"Now's not such a good time, Tobias," says Kattis. "You'll have to wait a bit. I have a visitor."

"Oh, okay," he says, but instead of going on his way, he sits down on one of the chairs at the table. An uncomfortable silence takes over. I pick up little sugar crystals that have fallen off the cinnamon rolls, gather them up in my hand and eat them, one by one.

"Tobias-" Kattis begins.

"It's okay, I don't mind," I say, but she shakes her head.

"I need to talk to Siri a little. You'll have to take a seat over on the couches by the front door, okay?"

He makes eye contact with Kattis for the first time, and there's something pained about the way he's looking at her, something resentful. As if she has insulted him by asking him to wait. But a second later he looks down at the table again and shrugs. Then he picks his lanky body up and plods over toward the front door without turning around.

"Sorry," Kattis begins.

"No need to apologize, my G.o.d. I mean, you are at work."

She continues, still apologetic. "Tobias is one of the guys I'm in charge of. He's a sweetheart, really. And I think he might have a little crush on me too." She chuckles. "Maybe I should go for him, then at least I'd end up with a nice guy." She smiles and shakes her head, looks almost tender, like a mother or a big sister.

Suddenly I'm curious about what Kattis does. I want to know more about her job.

"What do you guys actually do here at the Employment Center?" I ask her. "I mean, I know you're a case manager, but what exactly does that mean?"

"The Employment Center is a resource for young adults who have a hard time entering the workforce for a variety of reasons. For example, they may have some sort of disability, or they've been unemployed for a long time, or maybe they've suffered some sort of chronic illness. We meet with our clients, perform a skills a.s.sessment, and prepare an action plan that can include various components, for example, vocational training, or a list of what types of jobs they should look for. Then we help them with the actual job search, writing resumes and cover letters and so on. We receive government funding, but we're owned by a private foundation."

Suddenly a young black woman is standing by our table. She's wearing a batik dress and her dreadlocks are wound up into a bun she wears high on the back of her head. The expression on her face is dogged, grim.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Kattis, but something has happened," the woman says.

"What?" Kattis raises her eyebrows.

The woman sighs and looks at me, troubled, then whispers, "It's Muhammed . . ."

"Yes?" Kattis says encouragingly, and I wonder if the woman is another caseworker.

"He burned the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n thing down."

"What? What happened?" Kattis asks.

"Something apparently went wrong with the welding torch. I don't know, maybe it wasn't his fault, but they're saying he did it on purpose. He's on his way over here now."

"Given his track record, it's pretty likely it was his fault," Kattis says with a sigh. Getting up, she touches the woman's arm, squeezes gently. "It'll be okay, I'll take care of it. Do you have the number for Asplund Sheet Metal?"

The woman nods and smiles in relief. "Thank you. I really appreciate it," she says.

Kattis smiles. "It's my job. I'll talk to Muhammed when he gets here."

Then she turns to me. "It's one of our clients. We've really had a lot of trouble with him. Well, you just heard it for yourself. He has, uh, a rather nasty habit of setting fire to things. This isn't the first time. Maybe we could talk about that sometime? I mean, you're a psychologist, right? Maybe you can explain to me why he does this?" She falls silent and fiddles with her hair before continuing. "I'm sorry. I'm going to have to go take care of this now. And maybe I should go talk to Tobias first, so . . ."

"That's fine," I tell her. "I have to get back to work anyway."

It isn't until I step out into the rain on St. Eriksgatan that it hits me that I've forgotten the little vase on the table in the kitchenette. I turn around and walk back into the building.

In front of me, on the red visitors' couch, Kattis is sitting very close to a black guy with long hair in a blue jumpsuit and bright white sneakers. His hand rests in hers and her face has a determined expression.

He looks at me in surprise when I walk in, pulls his hand back.

"The vase," I mumble, suddenly overcome by a strange sensation that I've barged in on something, interrupted a private moment.

"This is Muhammed," Kattis says.

The long-haired guy doesn't say h.e.l.lo. Instead he makes of point of staring at his shoes with his arms crossed. I look at him and something occurs to me: there's something about this guy, something about welding and fires, but I don't remember what. And then the thought is gone; it slips away like water through my fingers, impossible to hold on to.

Kattis smiles, walks over, and grabs the little blue vase without saying anything else. Once again I'm struck by how secure and confident she seems in her professional role, how much her clients and coworkers seem to value her.

Then we hug one more time and I set out for Medborgarplatsen in the autumn darkness.

SOMEWHERE OUTSIDE STOCKHOLM.

NOVEMBER.

Tilda is sitting next to him on the couch in the funny room with all the dusty old furniture. It reminds her a little of the dollhouse she has at her mom's place. The furniture is all scattered around, some of it upside down or stacked up in little piles, like cans of food in a pantry. He gave her a popsicle, which she's eating silently, trying to avoid slurping so he won't get mad. He doesn't like it when she makes noise. He doesn't like it when she plays either. Or when she talks. It's best to sit in total silence without moving so he doesn't get mad.

She thinks about Henrik. He always let her eat her ice cream on his lap and never got mad when she played, not even if the whole scoop fell on his pants or his shirt. He just laughed and gave her a new one, even if Mama protested. He said ice cream is good for the stomach. Just like beer.

She covers her legs with her nightgown so she won't be cold, but it doesn't help. Cold air seeps in anyway, sneaking in around her body like a cold little animal, wrapping itself around her stomach, her legs, her ribs.

She can't help it. Her fingers get sticky as the popsicle melts and starts dripping, and she eyes him cautiously before wiping her hands on her Dora the Explorer nightgown. But he doesn't notice, just smokes and peers out the dark window at the falling rain.

Outside there's only woods.

She knows that because he let her look out, explained to her that the woods went on for many miles, that she would get lost if she went out there, that no one would ever find her, and the foxes and crows would eventually eat her up since they're always hungry, and besides they think little children are super yummy.

Music streams from the little TV in the corner. On the screen two guys in sungla.s.ses, baseball hats, and big gold necklaces are riding around in a long white car and singing while they seem to be speaking sign language with their hands. Fadime at daycare, the one who can't hear at all, speaks sign language with her hands like that. But he doesn't seem to be watching the TV or listening to the music. He just wants to smoke and smoke and watch the rain.

The big white dog is lying on its side on the floor in front of her, sleeping. She's not allowed to touch the dog in front of him, even though it's a nice dog. She can tell because it usually comes up to her and licks her face and hands with its long, sticky tongue, which smells gross.

She used to want a dog. She always asked for a dog when it was her birthday or Christmas, but she never got one, because Mama said dogs were toomuchwork.

Now she has a dog.

But no Mama.

And she thinks that she would much, much rather have Mama back. He can keep his stupid dog with its mouth that smells like p.o.o.p. If only Mama would come back, then she really wouldn't need a dog. She would never ask for a dog again, would never ask for anything again.

If only- Riiiiiing.

The sound is so shrill it almost hurts her ears. For a second she thinks the noise is her fault, that yet again she must have touched something she wasn't supposed to touch, talked when she was supposed to be quiet, kicked her leg again even though she was supposed to stay still.

She curls up into a ball on the couch. Makes herself so small that maybe he won't see her, won't hit her. Can you make yourself so small and invisible that you can't be seen? Is that possible?

But he doesn't seem mad, just nervous. He looks toward the front door, where the dog is already standing and barking, hops up off the couch and runs over to the door, pushes the dog out of the way with his foot, and peeks through the little eye that sees everything outside.

The spying eye.

Then he comes back, squats down in front of her, and holds her firmly but gently by the shoulders.

"Listen up now," he says.

She nods slowly, doesn't dare look at him. She looks down even though he's so close she can smell his ashtray breath.

"You hide behind the couch here. You got it?" he says, pointing behind the back of the couch, and she nods again. "Do not come out. Okay?"

She looks at the floor behind the couch. She sees a heap of dust bunnies and ice cream wrappers. A pair of headphones peeks out from under the couch; an old cord is wrapped around one of the legs like a lonely snake.