Love Doesn't Work Read online

  Everything was fine in Harold and Linda’s world, except for this contentious issue of space—because, at the end of each menstrual cycle, Linda became depressed at the thought of her unborn children.

  Every month a child died inside her, leaving a void.

  October came round again and she had her thirty-seventh birthday. They went out for a Chinese meal with friends. It was a success. They talked about property, future movements in property prices, whether to buy or rent. One woman had thought it better to rent, a man had disagreed with her. Then the subject of Europe came up. Someone advocated that Sweden should join the foreign exchange mechanism. Someone else insisted it should not.

  Harold had concentrated on making the duck pancake rolls and occasionally offering one to Linda. On the way home, Linda grabbed his arm, squeezed it and said, “Harold? Why do you never say anything? When we’re with people.”

  He thought about it. “It’s because everyone else is so busy talking. And I’m not sure they really want me to interrupt.”

  “But that’s not the actual reason, is it?”

  “No,” said Harold. “To be honest, I don’t really care about those things. Property, Europe…”

  “Aren’t you at all interested? I mean we have a property and we live in a country in the European Community.”

  “Do you mind if I’m honest? Those things bore me rigid.”

  “What do you want to talk about, then?”

  They walked home in silence.

  He woke up abruptly in the night. Linda was sitting up in the bed like a little owl, gazing at the duvet with her sharp nose in profile.

  He was unnerved. “What is it darling? Have you got a stomach ache? Can I make you some camomile tea?”

  “I don’t have a stomach ache.”

  “Oh, isn’t it that time of the month?”

  “I want a child,” she said. Her words filled the room and rumbled against the walls, even rattling the front door slightly.

  Harold wound up his thoughts, then mechanically released them. “Anyone can have a child,” he began. “But a happy child, that’s a rarity. A happy child with two happy parents, that’s almost unheard of. The world is a harsh place. Maybe it’s better to leave the children where they are, in the unexpressed world where they’re blissfully unaware of ever having lived at all. Where no human ties or disappointments or pain will ever plague them. Anyway, we don’t have much space in this flat.”

  “I can feel my children inside me. They’re knocking against my insides and they want to come out. Harold, why can’t you just oblige me?” she whispered. “Take off your pajamas and put away your condoms. Come inside me every night. Enjoy yourself.”

  The idea was appealing, but Harold felt worried by her insistence.

  Winter started creeping in, unwelcome as always. People put on their frowns before they went out. It was also a cool period in Harold and Linda’s relationship.

  When they set off for work in the mornings, they rarely stopped off at the café to have a cappuccino together like they used to. It was a relief to perform only a cursory muzzling of their lips, then murmur a quick goodbye and walk on in blessed solitude.

  In spite of always trying to do what one should, Harold was not a popular person. Many of their friends actually disliked him, and had made it clear to Linda that she should leave him before it was too late. Harold couldn’t understand why people didn’t like him. Old ladies smiled at him pleasantly enough as he walked down the pavement, but men and women of his own age frowned and looked away.

  Was there anything wrong with being a well manicured, carefully presented clean-shaven young banker with fur-lined kidskin gloves, a leather briefcase and a cashmere overcoat? Was there anything contemptible about listening to what people said, agreeing affably whenever it was possible to do so?

  II

  The day after Linda’s birthday, as he was making his way to the office, Harold experienced something very unsettling. At first he put it down to too many whisky sours the night before, but there it was: the world was moving, very slightly, all round him. To be specific, it wasn’t so much the world as a section of the pavement on the corner of Nytorgsgatan. When he tried his foot against the paving stones they were springy like the mossy surface of a bog.

  He stood, irresolute for a while, watching as other hurried walkers crossed the flexing section of the pavement. None of them noticed. In fact, several of them were more concerned about the spectacle of Harold standing there glaring at the ground, and occasionally kicking it with his highly polished brogues.

  The bells of St. Maria struck eight-thirty and Harold moved on.

  In the evening when Harold returned he’d bought a steel-tipped umbrella, which he dug into the tarmac by a lamp post. Soon enough he’d made a little hole, knelt down and poked his finger through. He got down on his knees and peered into the hole. Nothing. Just black. An odd smell came up through the hole. Was it sulphur? Or some sort of natural gas? He straightened up. What was needed here was a torch and a plumb line.

  Back home, Linda was curled up in the sofa watching a DVD on how to improve your diet and fitness for pregnancy, while at the same time lacquering her toenails, as if intentionally ignoring the fact that Harold was slightly phobic about lacquered toenails, which made him wince.

  Harold had the uncomfortable feeling that he was not a man at all and felt himself retreating through puberty into boyhood. His voice grew high-pitched in his throat, and his limbs lost their hair, once again acquired a chubby softness.

  “Darling,” he squeaked.

  “What?”

  “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?”

  “Harold. You have done nothing. You have never done anything.” She turned her face to him, and he was astonished that she had also receded into childhood. Her hair hung down in damp ringlets. She wore a soft yellow towelling robe which scarcely reached down to her knees and she’d tucked her favorite doll under her arm. “By the way, I just had a shower,” she said. “I am very clean.”

  “I can see that.”

  “If you want a shower too, that might be nice. There’s nothing worse than a dirty man.”

  “You used to say you loved my smell,” said Harold.

  “Yes but that was just after I met you. I was still at the stage of trying to brainwash myself that you were perfect. Now I know you’re not.”

  Harold put down his briefcase, relieved that she was talking to him at least. “How can you say I’ve never done anything?”

  “Because you haven’t. When I think of your life, I think of a big yawning emptiness.”

  Harold closed the front door and went into the kitchen without another word. He put on the coffee and sat in the window seat to read the newspaper. It was full of a repetitious banality that almost made him feel sick. The only headline he inadvertently caught before folding it up and hiding it under the table was “Man Eaten by Cat.” He considered what it would be like being eaten by a cat. Surely one would have to actually want to be eaten? Only a debilitated, possibly comatose person would lie still long enough for its tiny jaws to inflict mortal wounds. That must be the answer. The man had a stroke and, after a few days of lying motionless on the floor, the cat started eating him.

  The coffee pot was bubbling and Harold quickly turned it off to avoid any bitter aftertaste. While the milk was heating up he took the newspaper and went to the ceramic-tiled fireplace in the corner of the living room. He opened the little brass doors, stuffed the newspaper inside, then put a match to it.

  Linda smelt the smoke. “What are you doing?” she called out.

  “I’m burning the newspaper.”

  “Why? I haven’t read it yet.”

  “Don’t.”

  Linda stood in the doorway, looking at him strangely. “Why shouldn’t I read the newspaper?”

  “Newspapers create an image of life that’s not only false but evil,” said Harold. “They waste our time; stop us from thinking; lull us into a false se
nse of security.”

  He went back into the kitchen, boiled the milk and poured himself a nice café latte. “Do you want coffee?” he called out.

  “I’m not drinking coffee.”

  “Why not?”

  “It makes you less fertile.”

  Oddly enough, sitting there looking out of the window at the bored people walking along the river with their dogs, stopping to say hello to other bored people, fumbling for something to say, he wanted nothing but to open the now-burnt newspaper and sit there with his coffee, reading a pack of lies about how all this was normal.

  Linda walked into the kitchen. “Are you having a bath?”

  “No. I’m tired.”

  “I’m going to bed,” she said.

  Harold looked at the kitchen clock and realized with a shock that it was ten-thirty at night. It had taken him four hours to get home from work and have a cup of coffee.

  III

  The next morning, Harold woke up with a sense of purpose. Linda lay demonstratively with her back to him even though she was awake. He ignored her, got up, showered, shaved; then after breakfasting on yogurt, sliced apple, pumpernickel bread with hard Austrian cheese and pickled gherkins, he brought Linda breakfast in bed on the pretty, floral-patterned tray they had bought in Florence.

  He knew what she liked when she was down: a slice of cake, a cup of herbal tea and a lit candle.

  He sat by her side for a while. She tried not to show that she was pleased.

  “Aren’t you going to work?” he said.

  “I’ve got a pain,” she said. “In my stomach. I think I better stay at home, rest a bit. What about you? You’re going to be late.”

  “I’m taking the day off. Going fishing.”

  “You never take a day off work, Harold. You never go fishing.”

  “I’m not really going fishing.”

  She munched her cake and looked at him. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on? In your head, I mean?”

  “Linda, I don’t know quite how to put this, but… I’ve found a hole in the pavement and it’s really bothering me. I think someone could fall into it.”

  “I didn’t know you were so interested in road works.”

  “It’s nothing to joke about, Linda. It’s a deep hole, incredibly deep. It could be lethal.”

  “For God’s sake! Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

  He stood up. “I’m going to find out how deep it is, then report it to the City Council. I have to be responsible. If I don’t do this, someone could get hurt.”

  “I’m the one who’s hurt, Harold. I’m very hurt.”

  “At least you haven’t fallen down a hole,” said Harold, standing up and giving her a quick peck on the cheek before slipping out.

  In the hall, he took his telescopic fishing rod, the fishing reel and the small box of tackle. He stood staring at his coats for a good long while, trying to decide whether to put on his usual cashmere overcoat or opt for his leather pilot jacket. Linda came out into the hall and walked into the bathroom. The door slammed behind her.

  Harold took a deep breath, snatched the pilot jacket off its hanger and walked out. Just to reciprocate, he also slammed the door.

  IV

  Harold had not seen Stockholm mid-morning on a weekday since his undergraduate days more than five years ago. Everywhere there were people with time on their hands. Some also had money, which struck him as anomalous. Women shopping. Young men browsing in music shops. Why weren’t they at work?

  Strolling down the familiar streets, he felt ashamed of himself. Here he was, a man in the middle of his career, with a fishing rod in his hand. If anyone from the office should see him now, it would certainly not look good. He pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and sneaked along the back streets.

  When he reached the hole, he saw it had enlarged enough for him to peer down and see its rocky sides widening as they descended into pitch black. He took his fishing rod out of its case and extended it to its full length.

  The reel sang. At 150 meters his line ran out, but he had still not touched bottom.

  Troubled, he looked up. Linda was standing on the street corner, looking at him. Quite a few other people had stopped and were giving him the once over. Quickly he started reeling in his line. When he looked up again, Linda was standing right next to him.

  “Harold. What’s going on?” she said.

  He almost broke into a sweat getting the last of the line in, then packed his rod away and straightened up. “You know what I’m doing. I told you this morning. I’m trying to measure the depth of this bloody hole. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Her eyes grew moist as they always did when she got emotional about something. She reached out and caressed his cheek, then left without another word.

  Harold spent the rest of the morning pacing round streets in the locality, examining the tarmac for that same spongy feeling as on the corner of Nytorgsgatan. It was all solid except in one spot, where extensive cracking seemed to indicate the formation of a large hole under the pavement. This cavity might conceivably be part of the same structure, although, of course, a hole does not have any structure except the gaseous molecules inside it.

  In an infinity of space, would there still be a claustrophobia in one’s body, a claustrophobia of suspension? He pondered this while he ate a shish kebab, sitting on a low wall with his fishing rod case leaning up next to him.

  Then, when heading homewards, he saw a truly shocking thing.

  As he came round the corner of Nytorgsgatan, an old lady fell through the pavement by the lamp-post. She fell like a stone, without a sound. Even her wheeled shopping trolley went in after her, like an articulated lorry tumbling over the edge of a precipice.

  Harold ran up to the hole, which was now the width of a toilet-lid, just about enough for a skinny lady to go through. He put his head down the hole and stared down.

  “Hello!” he shouted.

  No one made any reply from the depths. He shouted again, even though he knew instinctively it was useless. She was already dead or dying.

  Immediately he called up the City Council to report the hole and explain that he’d seen someone falling into it.

  Within an hour they had sent a van, and set up a cordon preventing pedestrians from walking along the pavement. A small sign politely requested they cross the street and walk on the other side.

  Harold was in deep shock. He approached one of the burly road-workers who had spilled out of the van to let him know about the old lady.

  “You’ll have to have a word with the emergency services about that,” said the road-worker. “We’re checking the pavement, but there’s nothing here worth getting stewed up about. Just a little crack in the tarmac.” He had an amused look on his face. His lips bulged, his mouth was so stuffed with snuff he could scarcely talk and his furry brown arms were covered in tattoos. Harold sighed. Clearly, he would have to speak to someone more senior.

  As soon as he walked into the flat he knew that Linda was not there. Admittedly this was not so difficult to gauge, given that she had removed her coats from the coat-rack. Other things she had taken included CDs, DVDs, toiletries, books, a laptop and all of her clothes from the wardrobe. The place looked bigger, somehow.

  In the bed, right in the middle, she had very pointedly left her doll.

  On the kitchen table was a note, which he distractedly looked at, deciding to read it later once he had made his phone call to the City Council.

  On the fridge was another note, held in place by a fridge magnet. It said: “Check the freezer. I have frozen ten portions of beef stroganoff.” He wondered if this meant she would be back in ten days.

  He went into the living room and, after consulting the telephone directory, put a call through to the Manager of Roads, Footpaths, and Cycle Lanes at the City Council. Unfortunately, the manager was not at his desk. According to his secretary, he was at an urban regeneration conference in Kuala Lumpur. Still, the secretary
, who seemed fairly capable and senior, was willing to discuss Harold’s urgent matter.

  Harold quickly and efficiently summarized what he had seen, that is, the old lady falling down a hole in the pavement.

  The secretary was quiet, and then she said: “Was an ambulance called?”

  “No. The council workers showed up and they said there wasn’t a hole.”

  “If there wasn’t a hole then how do you suppose a woman fell into it?” she said. Harold could almost visualize her glancing at her watch.

  “Can I be frank? This is a very deep hole, I suspect what we’re dealing with here is a displacement of the earth’s crust.”

  There was a loud sigh. “Oh Christ.”

  “I know. It’s serious. Look, I’m not a deluded person. I’m a banker. I’ve taken the day off just to examine this hole. It’s at least 150 meters deep, and my own personal feeling is it’s a hell of a lot deeper than that.”

  The telephone made a click.

  Harold stared at the phone for a while, then called the emergency services. A curt, anonymous voice answered.

  “Your name?”

  “Yes, I’d like to report a person falling into a hole in the pavement,” said Harold.

  “Your name, sir.”

  “Harold Blomkvist.”

  “Can you give me a location?”

  “Absolutely. It’s on the corner of Nytorgsgatan, Södermalm.”

  “Any idea of the victim’s injuries?”

  “I would have thought she’s dead but I’m not sure.”

  After a few more routine questions, the operator hung up. Harold quickly put on his coat again and ran down to the corner of Nytorgsgatan. The ambulance and police car were already there with their blue lights flashing. Some ambulance personnel were searching the scene, presumably puzzled to find neither a hole nor anyone lying injured at the bottom of it.

  Harold stepped forward to explain. A few minutes later he was sitting in the police car with a frowning constable.

  “You’re not listening to me,” said Harold. “A woman died here today when she fell through.”