for a bit?”
She shook her head, her eyes glued to the television.
At half past seven that evening he parked the Volvo a short distance from Sophie’s villa and took a stroll along the roads around her house, trying to find a way of getting closer. As usual, he saw nothing that struck him as odd, and he returned to his car. He sat there for a while, staring out into space, then went for a drive, making sure he knew the neighborhood for the tenth time. Then he parked in a different place, took a few indistinct pictures of her house, made a note of something that didn’t need noting. At nine o’clock Lars sighed to himself once more, started the car, and decided to swing past the house one last time before heading home.
He passed the villa just as Sophie emerged and walked over to a taxi that was waiting outside her gate. She was wearing a thin, unbuttoned coat, an evening bag in her hand, and she got in the back of the taxi and it drove off.
He had watched her for a few short seconds as he passed by in the car. Time had felt stretched, slower — as if everything had stopped for a while. In those short moments he had experienced her as something perfect, something ideal. Lars was struck by a strong impression that he knew her, that she knew him. He shook off the peculiar feeling, turned the car around farther down the road, and followed the taxi.
Lars maintained a safe distance, nervousness throbbing inside him, and he wanted to pee, as if the two things were connected in some unfair way. He never let the taxi out of his sight as it passed Roslagstull and went on down Birger Jarlsgatan before turning left onto Karlavägen, past Humlegården Park. Eventually it pulled up on Sibyllegatan. He cruised past as she got out of the taxi, and watched her in the rearview mirror as she disappeared through a doorway.
Lars parked farther down the street in the bus lane and waited for a minute before jumping out of the car.
He shone his pocket flashlight through the door and wrote down all the names on the board inside the hall.
It was eleven o’clock before she came out with a female friend. They walked arm in arm toward Östermalmstorg, laughing ;her friend eventually had to stop and lean over in a fit of giggles. Lars stared for a while, then left his car and followed them on foot.
Sophie and her friend went to three different places that evening. Lars was denied entry to two of them and had to show his police ID.
Sophie and her friend were sitting at the bar. Several times men of various ages went up and tried to talk to them, but the women showed no interest. Lars was standing farther along the bar, drinking a Virgin Mary and feeling out of place. He seldom went out, and when it did happen it was to a restaurant, never a club, and absolutely not in the smartest part of the city. He watched her, realized he was staring, looked away, and finished his drink. The tomato juice tasted of tomato juice and the celery was bitter. Her proximity was knocking him off kilter. He glanced at her again, noting how attractive she was, how beautiful. He saw details he had never noticed before: the little, almost invisible wrinkles by her eyes, her bare neck, her hair, which seemed to have a life of its own … The nape of her neck that he glimpsed every now and then, a perfect nape that seemed to hold up her whole body … Her forehead, the shape of which made her look tasteful and beautiful as well as exuding an intelligence that radiated around her. He was close now, almost too close. But still he stared, staring at her like a teenage boy seeing someone naked for the first time.
Sophie and her friend suddenly burst out laughing again. Lars was infected by her laughter and for a moment she turned to look at him, maybe alerted by the intensity of his stare. Their eyes met for a second, she smiled mid-laugh, he smiled back, but her gaze slid past him.
He felt her smile on his face, let it fall, turned, and quickly left the bar.
At home
She shook her head, her eyes glued to the television.
At half past seven that evening he parked the Volvo a short distance from Sophie’s villa and took a stroll along the roads around her house, trying to find a way of getting closer. As usual, he saw nothing that struck him as odd, and he returned to his car. He sat there for a while, staring out into space, then went for a drive, making sure he knew the neighborhood for the tenth time. Then he parked in a different place, took a few indistinct pictures of her house, made a note of something that didn’t need noting. At nine o’clock Lars sighed to himself once more, started the car, and decided to swing past the house one last time before heading home.
He passed the villa just as Sophie emerged and walked over to a taxi that was waiting outside her gate. She was wearing a thin, unbuttoned coat, an evening bag in her hand, and she got in the back of the taxi and it drove off.
He had watched her for a few short seconds as he passed by in the car. Time had felt stretched, slower — as if everything had stopped for a while. In those short moments he had experienced her as something perfect, something ideal. Lars was struck by a strong impression that he knew her, that she knew him. He shook off the peculiar feeling, turned the car around farther down the road, and followed the taxi.
Lars maintained a safe distance, nervousness throbbing inside him, and he wanted to pee, as if the two things were connected in some unfair way. He never let the taxi out of his sight as it passed Roslagstull and went on down Birger Jarlsgatan before turning left onto Karlavägen, past Humlegården Park. Eventually it pulled up on Sibyllegatan. He cruised past as she got out of the taxi, and watched her in the rearview mirror as she disappeared through a doorway.
Lars parked farther down the street in the bus lane and waited for a minute before jumping out of the car.
He shone his pocket flashlight through the door and wrote down all the names on the board inside the hall.
It was eleven o’clock before she came out with a female friend. They walked arm in arm toward Östermalmstorg, laughing ;her friend eventually had to stop and lean over in a fit of giggles. Lars stared for a while, then left his car and followed them on foot.
Sophie and her friend went to three different places that evening. Lars was denied entry to two of them and had to show his police ID.
Sophie and her friend were sitting at the bar. Several times men of various ages went up and tried to talk to them, but the women showed no interest. Lars was standing farther along the bar, drinking a Virgin Mary and feeling out of place. He seldom went out, and when it did happen it was to a restaurant, never a club, and absolutely not in the smartest part of the city. He watched her, realized he was staring, looked away, and finished his drink. The tomato juice tasted of tomato juice and the celery was bitter. Her proximity was knocking him off kilter. He glanced at her again, noting how attractive she was, how beautiful. He saw details he had never noticed before: the little, almost invisible wrinkles by her eyes, her bare neck, her hair, which seemed to have a life of its own … The nape of her neck that he glimpsed every now and then, a perfect nape that seemed to hold up her whole body … Her forehead, the shape of which made her look tasteful and beautiful as well as exuding an intelligence that radiated around her. He was close now, almost too close. But still he stared, staring at her like a teenage boy seeing someone naked for the first time.
Sophie and her friend suddenly burst out laughing again. Lars was infected by her laughter and for a moment she turned to look at him, maybe alerted by the intensity of his stare. Their eyes met for a second, she smiled mid-laugh, he smiled back, but her gaze slid past him.
He felt her smile on his face, let it fall, turned, and quickly left the bar.
At home
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