The Red Address Book. Sofia Lundberg
me know when you’re ready, and we’ll slowly make our way over to your very own spa.”
Doris nods feebly.
“Imagine if you had a real spa at home. With a jacuzzi and massages and facials. That would be something, hmm?” Ulrika laughs gently at this fantasy. “I’ll buy you a face mask on vacation, and when I come back I’ll give you a bit of extra care. It’ll be fun.”
Doris nods and smiles at Ulrika’s chatter, refraining from comment.
When they reach the bathroom, Doris holds out her arms and lets Ulrika pull off her top and trousers, exposing her naked body. She takes a couple of cautious steps into the shower. Sits down on the edge of the high white stool with the perforated seat that the home-care company gave her. She holds the showerhead close to her body and lets the warm water run over her. Shuts her eyes and enjoys the feeling. Ulrika leaves her alone, goes out into the kitchen. Doris turns up the temperature and hunches her shoulders. The sound of running water has always had a calming effect on her.
The Red Address Book
S. SERAFIN, DOMINIQUE DEAD
I found a special place. An open square some distance from the house. La place Émile-Goudeau had a bench and a pretty fountain: four women holding a dome above their heads. The fountain radiated strength, and I loved the sound of the droplets trickling down over the figures’ ankle-length dresses. It reminded me of Stockholm, of Södermalm, and its closeness to the water. Paris had only the Seine, but it was some distance from Montmartre, and the long days at Madame’s house made it difficult to get down there. That was why the fountain in the square became my refuge.
I sometimes went over there in the afternoon while Madame slept, and I would write my letters to Gösta. We wrote to each other often. I gave him snapshots, images of everything he was missing. The people, the food, the culture, the places, the views. His artist friends. In return, he sent me snapshots of Stockholm. Of the things I missed.
Dear Doris,
The stories you send have become the elixir of life for me. They give me the courage and strength to create. I am painting now like never before. The flowing stream of images conjured up by your words has also enabled me to see the beauty around me. The water. The buildings. The sailors on the pier. So much that I have missed until now.
You write so well, my friend. Perhaps you will become an author one day. Keep writing. If you feel the slightest of callings, never give up that feeling. We are born into art. It is a higher power, which we are given the honour to manage. I believe in you, Doris. I believe that the power to create is within you.
The rain is pouring down today, hitting the cobblestones so hard that I can hear its pounding from up here on the third floor. The skies here are so dull that I almost fear they will envelop my head if I go out. I stay in the apartment instead. Painting. Thinking. Reading. Sometimes I see a friend. But that means he has to come over here. I don’t want to venture out into the bottomless depression that accompanies the late Swedish autumn. The darkness has never affected me as much as it does at this moment. I can just picture the beautiful autumn in Paris. The mild days. The bright colours.
Use your time wisely. I know you long for home. Though you never mention it, I can feel your anxiety. Enjoy the moments you find yourself in. Your mother and sister are well, so you have no cause for concern there. I shall visit them one day soon to make sure of that.
Thank you for the strength your letters give to me. Thank you, dearest Doris.
Write again soon.
I still have them, all of the letters I received. They’re in a small tin box beneath my bed, and they have followed me through life. I read them sometimes. Think about how he saved me during those first few months in Paris. How he gave me courage to see the positives in that new city, which was so unlike my home. How he made me register everything that was happening around me.
I don’t know what he did with my letters; perhaps he burned them in the open fire he often sat beside, but I remember what I wrote. I still recall the detailed scenes I captured for him. The yellow leaves falling on Parisian streets. The cold air finding its way in through the cracks around the windows, waking me at night. Madame and her parties, attended by artists like Léger, Archipenko, and Rosenberg. The house in Montparnasse, at 86 rue Notre Dame des Champs, where Gösta himself once lived. I sneaked in and saw what the stairwell was like, described every detail for him. Wrote which name was on each door. He loved it. He still knew many of the people who lived in the building, and he missed them. I wrote about Madame, how she wasn’t throwing as many parties as she had in Stockholm, choosing to roam around the Paris night instead, looking for new artists and authors to seduce. About how she was sleeping longer and longer in the mornings, which gave me time to read.
I learned French, thanks to a dictionary and the books on her shelves. I began with the thinnest and worked up from there, novel by novel. Fantastic books that taught me so much about life and the world. Everything was there, gathered on her wooden shelves. Europe, Africa, Asia, America. The countries, the scents, the environments, the cultures. And the people. Living in such different worlds, and yet still so alike. Full of anxiety, doubt, hate, and love. Like all of us. Like Gösta. Like me.
I could have stayed there forever. My place was among the books; it was where I felt safe. But sadly that didn’t last very long.
One day, on the way home from the butcher with a basket of freshly sliced charcuterie, I was stopped on the street. For one reason. Now, today, when my hunched body and wrinkled face hide every last trace of beauty, it feels good to admit it: once upon a time, I was very beautiful.
A man in a black suit rushed out of a car that had stopped dead in the heavy traffic. He took my head in his hands and stared straight into my eyes. My French was still far from perfect, and he spoke too quickly for me to understand his words. Something about how he wanted me. I was afraid, and tore myself from his grip. Ran as fast as I could, but he got back into the car, which followed me. It drove slowly, right behind me. When I reached Madame’s house, I ran inside and slammed the door. Secured every lock.
The man pounded on the door. Pounded and pounded until Madame herself went to answer it. She swore at me in French.
At the very moment she opened the door, her tone changed, and she immediately invited the man inside. Glared at me and gestured for me to disappear. She stood up straight and strutted around him as if he was royalty. I didn’t understand this. They vanished into the drawing room, but after just a few minutes she came rushing to me in the kitchen.
“Get washed, straighten yourself up! Take that apron off. Mon dieu, monsieur wants to see you.”
She grabbed my cheeks between her thumb and forefinger. Nipped firmly several times to make the skin flush.
“There. Smile, my girl. Smile!” she whispered, pushing me ahead of her. I forced myself to smile at the man in the armchair, and he immediately got to his feet. Studied me from head to toe. Looked into my eyes. Ran his finger over my skin. Pinched the flesh around my slender waist. Sighed at my earlobes and flicked them with his fingers. Studied me in silence. Then he backed away and sat down again. I didn’t know what I was meant to do, so I just stood there with my eyes fixed on the floor.
“Oui!” he eventually said, bringing both hands to his face. He got up again and spun me around.
“Oui!” he repeated, once I was finally standing still in front of him.
Madame tittered happily. Then something very strange happened. She invited me to sit down. On the sofa. In the drawing room. Together with them. She smiled at my wide eyes and waved firmly, as though to show that she was serious. I sat at the very edge of the seat, my knees firmly clenched together and my back straight. I smoothed the black fabric of my maid’s dress, which was crumpled where the apron had been, and listened attentively to the rapid French bouncing back and forth between the man and Madame. The few words I could