warnings in her bags. She took lodgings with an angry lady in Vasastan, in the centreof Stockholm, and went out looking for a job; what sort was not important. She wanted to write, and all hardships were acceptable since she knew where she was headed and nothing could stop her. Damned if she wouldn’t show her family back home that she’d made the right decision. On the second day she was hired as an assistant at a Wassberg’s beauty parlour in the City Palace building at Norrmalmstorg. Her duties were to wash the customers’ hair, make coffee, and keep all the hairdressers’ equipment clean, the brushes combed out. She could perform most of her tasks while listening to the rich conversations between customer and hairdresser. Sometimes usable as inspiration for the stories she wrote at night; in the best cases for small articles that she sold for cash to some newspaper.
As a new immigrant to the big city she quickly discovered the places frequented by similar-minded people. Those with extravagant dreams and empty wallets whose genius would be discovered any day now. Those who considered themselves gifts to the world and whose distinctive characters would in future appear in cultural history; young women and men, lingering over glasses of beer or wine, artistic equals and presumptive bed companions. The war was over and the future one long avenue of possibilities. The restaurants Tennstopet, W6, Pilen and Löwet. They would spend every evening smoking Gauloises to compensate for not being in Paris, preferably near one of the tables where the journalists from the big dailies drowned their sorrows. Axel had been one of that crowd of young people, someone she hadn’t noticed at first. Nor had he shown any particular interest in her.
She got up and went to the refrigerator, checking she wasn’t out of milk. Jan-Erik always took milk in his coffee. She drank it black, a habit from the days when it was supposed to help her stay alert even though she was cross-eyed with fatigue. When the days were filled with hair and the nights with pounding on her portable Royal typewriter that shehad bought in a second-hand shop for seventeen kronor. At least that was her routine until the angry landlady forbade her to use the noisy machine and forced her to write in longhand. The waste-paper basket filled up with crumpled pages and returned manuscripts from publishers and magazine editors. In the evenings anguish could be shared and diluted with red wine, only to reappear with the next rejected manuscript.
No replies came to her letters home, despite her reassurances that everything was going well. She received a single note from one of her older siblings, a printed greeting card with wishes for a Happy Christmas and New Year. When things were at their worst she sometimes wished she were back down on aching knees amongst the weeds in the turnip fields, or feeling the sweaty prickle of hay on the drying racks: tangible results of an honest day’s work instead of feeling her mind rambling on endlessly. She was just about to give up when it finally happened. A few sentences in a letter, proving that her literary turnip fields were cleared and the drying racks were ready.
She smiled at the memory, remembering how she strode into Tennstopet restaurant like a queen and announced that her novel had been accepted. She felt as if she were physically raised above the crowd. Her personal, meticulous choice of letter combinations had been judged as more skilful than those of all the others. Her door had opened, while the others were still knocking on theirs. The smiles – some honest and happy for her sake, but most of them filled with distrust. How could the world be blind to their greatness yet take notice of her insignificant scribblings? From across the table, Axel’s blue eyes had burned into hers, taking her breath away. He was the only one not smiling, not toasting and congratulating her. He just gave her a look that screamed that he
As a new immigrant to the big city she quickly discovered the places frequented by similar-minded people. Those with extravagant dreams and empty wallets whose genius would be discovered any day now. Those who considered themselves gifts to the world and whose distinctive characters would in future appear in cultural history; young women and men, lingering over glasses of beer or wine, artistic equals and presumptive bed companions. The war was over and the future one long avenue of possibilities. The restaurants Tennstopet, W6, Pilen and Löwet. They would spend every evening smoking Gauloises to compensate for not being in Paris, preferably near one of the tables where the journalists from the big dailies drowned their sorrows. Axel had been one of that crowd of young people, someone she hadn’t noticed at first. Nor had he shown any particular interest in her.
She got up and went to the refrigerator, checking she wasn’t out of milk. Jan-Erik always took milk in his coffee. She drank it black, a habit from the days when it was supposed to help her stay alert even though she was cross-eyed with fatigue. When the days were filled with hair and the nights with pounding on her portable Royal typewriter that shehad bought in a second-hand shop for seventeen kronor. At least that was her routine until the angry landlady forbade her to use the noisy machine and forced her to write in longhand. The waste-paper basket filled up with crumpled pages and returned manuscripts from publishers and magazine editors. In the evenings anguish could be shared and diluted with red wine, only to reappear with the next rejected manuscript.
No replies came to her letters home, despite her reassurances that everything was going well. She received a single note from one of her older siblings, a printed greeting card with wishes for a Happy Christmas and New Year. When things were at their worst she sometimes wished she were back down on aching knees amongst the weeds in the turnip fields, or feeling the sweaty prickle of hay on the drying racks: tangible results of an honest day’s work instead of feeling her mind rambling on endlessly. She was just about to give up when it finally happened. A few sentences in a letter, proving that her literary turnip fields were cleared and the drying racks were ready.
She smiled at the memory, remembering how she strode into Tennstopet restaurant like a queen and announced that her novel had been accepted. She felt as if she were physically raised above the crowd. Her personal, meticulous choice of letter combinations had been judged as more skilful than those of all the others. Her door had opened, while the others were still knocking on theirs. The smiles – some honest and happy for her sake, but most of them filled with distrust. How could the world be blind to their greatness yet take notice of her insignificant scribblings? From across the table, Axel’s blue eyes had burned into hers, taking her breath away. He was the only one not smiling, not toasting and congratulating her. He just gave her a look that screamed that he
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