Integrity. Anna Borgeryd
wondered what that had to do with anything. ‘No, I’m an anesthetic nurse.’
That fact did not mollify the woman on the other end in the least. She sounded impatient, as if she were straining to express herself properly to an irritating child.
‘Yes, but now you’re calling as a patient? It is your own presumed cruciate ligament and meniscus injury that you’re talking about?’
Now Vera understood that the secret passage through the wall was for people on the Inside, and she felt like a heavy stone was rolling in front of the entrance and blocking the little ray of light that she had seen. Vera could no longer hold back her despair and she sobbed out a little ‘yes’ in response. There was a deathly silence on the other end of the line. Then Vera heard the rustling of paper.
‘Aha…’ The gatekeeper woman on the other end seemed to be engaging in an inner struggle with herself, and she finally folded. ‘There is a cancellation here for the eighth of January. So what is your name? Your healthcare number?’
The last thing the woman who guarded access to Erland – the secret shortcut through the waiting list at Norrland’s University Hospital – said to her was, ‘I hope you know that I’m being nice to you!’
When Vera hung up the phone she felt strangely guilty. But when she wrote MRI and circled Tuesday, 8 January in her calendar, it felt like she was grasping her last available lifeline. The scans would be done, and then they would see that her knee could not heal on its own. She would finally get help.
19
The first project meeting for Future Wealth and Welfare was held in a classroom in the rectangular, functional Social Science building, with its white-painted interior. Only Vera was absent. Peter was surprised and disappointed. He also noticed that Cissi was stressed that Vera had not come, which was not a good sign. When Sturesson asked about her, Cissi tried to smile as she said, in an affected tone, that Vera ‘was at home in bed with a 100-degree fever’.
Peter drew two quick conclusions: it wasn’t true and Cissi was a terrible liar. He saw how Cissi’s fair-skinned face clouded over with worry as Sturesson went through the main components of the project. Their chapters were to be published in a book with a ‘popular science’ touch, and it was to be presented at a crowd-pleasing, public press conference. After that, Sturesson explained, more in-depth research would be conducted in stage two of the project, which would be published in international journals as it was completed. Sturesson then devoted himself to wishful name-dropping, and Peter didn’t have the energy to listen to the details. But that the speaker’s dream was to use the project to establish a ‘pre-eminent research center’ in Umeå was impossible to miss.
After the short break, Sturesson and Sparre began to assign the tasks for the project: ‘everything from globalization, tax policy and Europe’s aging population’ could be problematized. Peter recognized the approach: impeccably systematic and with long, verbose texts. And mind-numbingly dull.
When Cissi turned on her cellphone after the meeting she had a text message. It was from Vera. She had written that she was quitting the project. A small, digital ‘sorry’ ended the message.
Cissi was so angry that Peter quickly suggested that they go to her office and discuss things. On the way up in the elevator, thoughts raced around in Peter’s head. Cissi growled something inaudible though clenched teeth, and when they had closed the door to her office she raised her voice.
‘Why the hell is she doing this? Putting me in hot water with my boss just because she’s suddenly got it in her head to do something else?’
Peter’s thoughts led him to an uncomfortable suspicion. There was only one explanation that fitted with everything he knew. The more he thought about it the more sure he was. But he could not bring himself to say it. Instead, he said:
‘No, I don’t think she suddenly lost interest. Quite the opposite. I’ve seen her working really hard; my guess is that she’ll have a full draft of her chapter soon. I think it’s called “Redeeming reproduction”.’
‘Yes, I know! We’ve spent hours talking about it!’ exclaimed Cissi. ‘But then what the hell is she up to now?’
Peter had never heard Cissi swear before. But he could quite understand. She had put a lot of money on one horse. And that horse was called Vera Lundberg.
Peter felt a strong desire to make everything right. ‘I’m going to try to talk to her.’
Cissi stared at him in surprise, ‘Why?’ Then her face clouded over again beneath her red hair. ‘What do you think you can say to her that will make her a reliable person?’
If there was anything Peter thought about Vera, it was that she was reliable.
When Peter learned from Matt that Vera was at Solbacka, he looked up the address and went directly there. This game would demand an entirely new tactic. He would have to coax her, a bit like he used to do with his mother when she was upset. With sweaty palms, he practised different ways of saying it.
He asked around at the retirement home, and a woman told him that Vera had probably just finished her shift for the day, but that she sometimes stopped by to visit Solveig Marklund in Wing D. Peter looked around, unaccustomed to the institutional environment. A slowly shuffling man with Scottish plaid slippers and a wheeled walking frame helped him find Solveig’s door.
He whispered a thank you and knocked.
A frail woman’s voice answered from inside, ‘Yes? Come in!’ she called in surprise.
Peter took a nervous breath and turned the door handle. He stepped into a strange, female world filled with crocheting, yellowing black-and-white photographs and a scent of… those old-fashioned flowers that his grandmother used to have on the veranda! He smiled a little at the memory. Grandma’s house had been full of strong plant fragrances. Out of reach of her grandchildren she had a whole cabinet filled with small, dark bottles with various herb extracts that she determinedly claimed were useful against every imaginable kind of affliction. One extract was good for treating chicken pox; another for coughs. ‘In the olden days, they would have called me a witch!’ she used to say, extremely pleased with herself, conscientiously caring for everyone around her who was in need.
He felt them looking at him from the small kitchen: a curly, white-haired old woman in a wheelchair and Vera were both staring in surprise. And he could understand why. In his expensive designer clothes, he was like that black Porsche that someone sometimes tried to park among the hand-painted bicycles on Stipend Street. Impossible to melt into the surroundings. But it couldn’t be helped. Force majeure.
Warmed by the memory of his grandmother’s house, Peter pointed carefully at the red clusters of flowers on the kitchen windowsill behind them – ‘geraniums?’
‘Yes, my Mårbacka geraniums. And who might the gentleman be, if I may ask?’ The old woman rolled towards him in her wheelchair, an expression of kind curiosity on her face.
‘Oh, sorry. My name is Peter, Peter Stavenius. I’m looking for Vera.’
‘Yes, she is here, as you can see. By all means, come in.’
He did what he could. He took off his handmade Italian shoes and the wool Armani coat. He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves before pattering over to the table.
‘Would you like a little tea, Peter?’ Solveig looked questioningly at him from beside the kitchen counter.
‘No, thank you, I’m fine.’
She rolled herself back to the table again. He felt how the white-haired woman studied him, curious but friendly. He felt Vera’s gaze and met it nervously.
‘I’ve come directly from the project meeting. We missed you.’
Vera