Read Online The Swede by Robert Karjel - Free Book Online Page B

a machine of flesh and blood who wasn’t ashamed of himself.
    But he never found redemption. He came and came, without any sense of peace. The game went on for far too many years. The cursed hunger devoured him, demanded the next level or simply something different. A demon to be exorcised every time. In the end, he could only make love—or as he put it, knock off , clear himself —in complete darkness. He couldn’t bear to look at faces.
    Waking up together, that he could sometimes do. Sometimes. Sometimes even a relationship. But he could never stand the ones who wanted to share closeness in the morning light. He was like a vampire. The dark was made for that—after the final trembling, it was every man for himself. Some shared that need, could live like that for a while. But then he always hit the point where some triviality would start to irritate him beyond reason. They ate from the refrigerator without asking, or dug around too much in his cupboards and closets.
    For a while he dated a morning-TV host with big hair. She wasyoung, had her own apartment, and never said a word about wanting it any other way. She liked the darkness and was as restless as he was; it worked. They showed up together in the tabloids—in the captions, he was “the policeman.” Her breath smelled like a warm orchard breeze, she hated wearing skirts, and she screamed into the phone whenever he made excuses for sometimes wanting to spend a week alone. On the way to bed, she would braid her hair in a split second. And at a couple of ambitious restaurants in upscale Kungsholmen, her drinks were always on the house. Then came the rumors about her and some theater actor with sleepy eyes. Grip was surprised that he didn’t care—he still thought he was getting what he needed. But when he saw all the empty white-wine bottles in her nightstand, and realized what the mints and apple scent were hiding, he’d had enough. Couldn’t tolerate that kind of weakness.
    That was a few years ago. Since then, most of his women had closed the door on him. Among his colleagues, a few stories hung around. Immortal feats, the prey in mink coats, the untamed Amazons, those far too young and far too old: “What about the one that . . .” A question to kill the boredom during a three a.m. stakeout. A colleague hoping for entertainment. Grip shrugged. None of them saw that the temple had collapsed, the tide had reversed.
    The change was spelled New York.
    It happened in the fall, but really it began in early August of the same year. A Belorussian lost his shit while being arrested in Stockholm and pushed a bookcase over onto Grip. It landed on him full force, dislocating his shoulder. The Belorussian was deported, shouting of excessive police violence, with two broken ribs and a black eye—but even though Grip had paid back, he was the one who needed surgery. A few titanium screws in his shoulder, and for that, he was out for ten weeks.
    When he came back, the security police’s own doctor—a moody type who ruled over his own arbitrary little kingdom of sickness and health—wasn’t happy with the number of hours Grip had put in on physical therapy and barbells. Without even asking him to take off his shirt, he took Grip out of action for another two months. There was no point arguing. Causing trouble could trigger the sudden mention of a heart murmur in your record, leading to years of examinations. Such was the power of the white coat.
    Another two months. Grip could stand it for about three days. He’d already been stuck at home for ten weeks, hardly getting out except to the weight room at the gym. His shoulders and biceps grew while everything else in life stood still. The dead time burned in his head as soon as he woke up in the morning. He had to make a break, get away.
    One night he thumbed through his address book, made a call, and reminded someone of an old promise. She lived in Stockholm but also had an apartment in Brooklyn, on the outskirts of