Freedom? She no longer even knew how to spell the word. Her life consisted of the space inside this flat. It was only the children who made it possible for her even to breathe, the children and the hope that if she found the right formula, the right answer, then everything could be the way it used to be.
In slow motion she placed the lid on the butter tub, put the cheese in a plastic bag, inserted the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, and wiped off the table. When everything was shiny and clean, Anna sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and looked around the room. The only sound was Emma’s childish prattle from the nursery, and for a few minutes Anna allowed herself to enjoy a little peace and quiet. The kitchen was bright and airy, decorated in a tasteful combination of wood and stainless steel. They had spared no expense on the appliances, which meant that Philip Starck and Poggenpohl were the dominant brand-names. Anna herself had wanted a cosier kitchen, but when they moved into the lovely five-room flat in Östermalm she knew better than to air her views.
Erica’s concern over the house in Fjällbacka was something she couldn’t even consider. Anna couldn’t afford to be sentimental, and the money they would get from the sale of the house might mean a new start for her and Lucas. She knew that he wasn’t happy with his job here in Sweden and wanted to go back to London; that was where he thought the action and the career opportunities were. He viewed Stockholm as a backwater, careerwise. And even though he made a good, even excellent, salary at his present job, the windfall from the house in Fjällbacka, combined with the money they had already saved, would buy them a residence in London that was consistent with their social standing. That was important to Lucas, so it became important to her. Erica would get along all right. She had only herself to think of; she had a job and a flat in Stockholm. The house in Fjällbacka would only serve as a summer cottage. The money would help her out as well – a writer made no money to speak of, and Anna knew that Erica sometimes went through hard times. She would soon realize that this was for the best. For both of them.
Adrian’s shrill voice came from the children’s room, and her brief respite was over. No sense sitting and fretting. The bruises would go away as they always did, and tomorrow was another day.
Patrik felt inexplicably light-hearted and took the stairs to Dagmar Petrén’s house two at a time. But when he was almost to the top he had to catch his breath, bending over with his hands on his knees. He certainly wasn’t twenty years old anymore. The woman who opened the door definitely wasn’t either. He hadn’t seen anything so little and wrinkled since the last time he opened a bag of prunes. Stooped and hunched as she was, she hardly came up much past his waist, and Patrik was afraid she’d snap in two in the slightest breeze. But the eyes that looked up towards him were as clear and alert as a young girl’s.
‘Don’t stand there puffing, son. Come in and have a cup of coffee.’
Her voice was surprisingly powerful, and Patrik suddenly felt like a schoolboy as he followed her obediently inside. He resisted a strong urge to bow and struggled to maintain the snail’s pace so as not to run over Mrs Petrén. Inside the door he stopped short. Never in his entire life had he seen so many Santa Clauses. Everywhere, on every available surface, there they were. Big ones, little ones, old ones, young ones, winking ones and grey ones. He felt his brain go into overdrive to handle all the sensory input flowing towards him.
‘What do you think? Aren’t they magnificent!’
Patrik didn’t know quite what to say, and after a moment he managed to stammer a reply.
‘Yes, absolutely. Fantastic.’
He gave Mrs Petrén an anxious look to see whether she could hear that his words didn’t really match his tone of voice. To his amazement she gave him a roguish smile that made her eyes flash.
‘Don’t worry, boy. I’m well aware that it’s not really your taste, but when one gets old it involves certain responsibilities, you understand.’
‘Responsibilities?’
‘One is expected to show a bit of eccentricity to be interesting. Otherwise one is simply a sad old crone, and no one wants that, you know.’
‘But, why gnomes?’
Patrik still didn’t quite understand. Mrs Petrén explained it to him as if she were speaking to a child.
‘Well, the best thing, you see, is that one only needs to put them up once a year. The rest of the year I can keep the place nice and tidy. Then there’s the advantage that it brings a pack of children running up here at Christmastime. And for an old crone who doesn’t have many visitors, it’s a joy to the soul when the little creatures come and ring my bell to see the Santas.’
‘But how long do you keep them up, Mrs Petrén? We’re in the middle of February now.’
‘Well, I start putting them up in October and then take them down around April. Although you must realize that it probably takes a week or two to put them up and take them down.’
Patrik had no difficulty at all visualizing that it would take time. He tried doing a quick calculation in his head, but his brain hadn’t really recovered from the shock of the whole scene. Instead he turned to Mrs Petrén with a direct question.
‘How many do you actually have here?’
The reply was instant. ‘One thousand four hundred and forty-three, no excuse me, one thousand four hundred and forty-two – I happened to break one yesterday. And one of the nicest ones at that,’ said Mrs Petrén with a sad expression.
But she pulled herself together, her eyes flashing again. With astonishing strength she tugged on Patrik’s sleeve and more or less dragged him to the kitchen, where in contrast there was not a Santa to be seen. Patrik discreetly smoothed out his jacket but had a feeling that she would have grabbed hold of his ear instead if she could reach that high.
‘We’ll sit here. One gets a bit testy always having a bunch of old men around one. Here in the kitchen they’re banned.’
He sat down on the hard kitchen bench after all his offers of assistance were brusquely refused. Steeling himself at the thought of some thin, wretched boiled coffee, his mouth fell open for the second time at the sight of the huge, stainless-steel, hypermodern coffee brewer enthroned on the worktop.
‘What would you like? Cappuccino? Café au lait? Maybe a doppio espresso – you look like you could use it.’
Patrik managed only a nod. Mrs Petrén was apparently enjoying his amazement.
‘What did you expect? An old percolator from ’43 and hand-ground beans? No, just because I’m an old crone doesn’t mean that one can’t enjoy the good things in life. I got this from my son as a Christmas present a couple of years ago, and it’s always running, I can tell you that. Sometimes there’s a queue of old ladies from the neighbourhood waiting to have a drop.’
She patted the machine tenderly, which was now sputtering and fizzing as it whipped up milk to an airy froth.
As the coffee was being prepared, one fantastic pastry after another materialized on the table in front of Patrik. Not a Finnish pin roll or Karlsbad kruller as far as the eye could see; instead big cinnamon buns, stunning muffins, sticky chocolate biscuits, and fluffy meringue cakes were set out as Patrik’s eyes grew bigger and bigger. His mouth started watering so much that saliva threatened to run out the corners of his mouth. Mrs Petrén chuckled when she saw the expression on his face, and sat down across from him on one of the Windsor chairs. She served them each a cup of hot, aromatic, freshly brewed coffee.
