Copyright

The Borough Press

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Sofia Lundberg 2017

English Translation © Alice Menzies 2017

Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Jacket illustration © Shutterstock.com

Sofia Lundberg asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Alice Menzies asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this translation

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008277925

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2019 ISBN: 9780008277949

Version: 2021-03-30

Praise for The Red Address Book:

‘Written with love, told with joy. Very easy to enjoy’

Fredrik Backman, New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove

‘[A] Swedish romance steeped in memory and regret … The Red Address Book is just the sort of easy-reading tale that will inspire readers to pull up a comfy chair to the fire, grab a mug of cocoa and a box of tissues and get hygge with it’

New York Times Book Review

‘Wise and captivating, Lundberg’s novel offers clear-eyed insights into old age and the solace of memory’

People Magazine

‘With an ingenious hook and a glorious heroine, this book is a delicate balance of heartwarming and heartbreaking and a timely reminder to hold on to those you love in case they get away. Enchanting’

Veronica Henry

‘In this tender and heartfelt story, Sofia Lundberg offers a reminder that those we too easily dismiss, such as the elderly, have rich histories and lives that we can learn from … Completely engrossing from start to finish, The Red Address Book is a poignant tale of memory and how those things we carry in our heart work together to create our own life stories’

New York Journal of Books

‘In a reader’s lifetime, there are a few books that will be companions forever. For me, The Red Address Book is one of them. It will comfort you, and remind you of all the moments when you grabbed life with both hands. It is also an homage to the wisdom of women who have lived longer than most of us. One is never too old to learn that love is the only meaning of life – let’s listen to these women’

Nina George, author of The Little Paris Bookshop

‘Doris’s life story is magnetic, and it’s her strong personality and pearls of wisdom … that drive the book … Fans of Fredrik Backman will find much to like here’

Publishers Weekly

‘A warm and tender story about life, memories, and the power of love and friendship. A novel with heart and humor!’

Katarina Bivald, author of The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend

‘The relationships [Doris] forms along the way, from the tortured gay artist who becomes a lifelong friend to the charismatic young man whose love drives Doris to battle enormous odds in an attempt to find him during WWII, are beautifully brought to life in this sweetly elegiac novel’

Booklist

‘Romantic … fabulous’

Lucy Dillon, author of Lost Dogs and Lonely Hearts

‘The Red Address Book is a love letter to the human heart. Full of tenderness and empathy, Lundberg has created more than just a novel – she has created a window into the soul’

Alyson Richman, author of The Lost Wife and The Velvet Hours

‘A charming, fragile romance’

Kirkus Reviews

‘Readers who enjoyed Eleanor Brown’s The Light of Paris or Nina George’s The Little French Bistro will delight in seeing Doris’s life unfold in this charming, tender tale’

Library Journal

Dedication

For Doris, heaven’s most beautiful angel You gave me air to breathe and wings to fly.

And for Oskar, my most precious treasure.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for The Red Address Book

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Epilogue

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

1

The saltshaker. The pillbox. The bowl of lozenges. The blood-pressure monitor in its oval plastic case. The magnifying glass and its red-bobbin-lace strap, taken from a Christmas curtain, tied in three fat knots. The phone with the extra-large numbers. The old red-leather address book, its bent corners revealing the yellowed paper within. She arranges everything carefully, in the middle of the kitchen table. They have to be lined up just so. No creases on the neatly ironed baby-blue linen tablecloth.

A moment of calm as she looks out at the street and the dreary weather. People rushing by, with and without umbrellas. The bare trees. The gravelly slush on the asphalt, water trickling through it.

A squirrel darts along a branch, and a flash of happiness twinkles in her eyes. She leans forward, following the blurry little creature’s movements carefully. Its bushy tail swings from side to side as it moves lithely between branches. Then it jumps down to the road and quickly disappears, heading off to new adventures.

It must almost be time to eat, she thinks, stroking her stomach. She picks up the magnifying glass and with a shaking hand raises it to her gold wristwatch. The numbers are still too small, and she has no choice but to give up. She clasps her hands calmly in her lap and closes her eyes for a moment, awaiting the familiar sound at the front door.

“Did you nod off, Doris?”

An excessively loud voice abruptly wakes her. She feels a hand on her shoulder, and sleepily tries to smile and nod at the young caregiver who is bending over her.

“I must have.” The words stick, and she clears her throat.

“Here, have some water.” The caregiver is quick to hold out a glass, and Doris takes a few sips.

“Thank you … Sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.” It’s a new girl again. The old one left; she was going back to her studies.

“It’s me, Doris. Ulrika. How are you today?” she asks, but she doesn’t stop to listen to the answer.

Not that Doris gives one.

She quietly watches Ulrika’s hurried movements in the kitchen. Sees her take out the pepper and put the saltshaker back in the pantry. In her wake she leaves creases in the tablecloth.

“No extra salt, I’ve told you,” Ulrika says, with the tub of food in her hand. She gives Doris a stern look. Doris nods and sighs as Ulrika peels back the plastic wrap. Sauce, potatoes, fish, and peas, all mixed together, are tipped out onto a brown ceramic plate. Ulrika puts the plate in the microwave and turns the dial to two minutes. The machine starts up with a faint whirr, and the scent of fish slowly begins to drift through the apartment. While she waits, Ulrika starts to move Doris’s things: she stacks the newspapers and mail in a messy pile, takes the dishes out of the dishwasher.

“Is it cold out?” Doris turns back to the heavy drizzle. She can’t remember when she last set foot outside her door. It was summer. Or maybe spring.

“Yeah, ugh, winter’ll soon be here. The raindrops almost felt like tiny lumps of ice today. I’m glad I’ve got the car so I don’t have to walk. I found a space on your street, right outside the door. The parking’s actually much better in the suburbs, where I live. It’s hopeless here in town, but sometimes you get lucky.” The words stream from Ulrika’s mouth, then her voice becomes a faint hum. A pop song; Doris recognises it from the radio. Ulrika whirls away. Dusts the bedroom. Doris can hear her clattering around and hopes she doesn’t knock over the vase, the hand-painted one she’s so fond of.

When Ulrika returns, she is carrying a dress over one arm. It’s burgundy, wool, the one with bobbled arms and a thread hanging from the hem. Doris had tried to pull it loose the last time she wore the dress, but the pain in her back made it impossible to reach below her knees. She holds out a hand to catch it now, but grasps at thin air when Ulrika suddenly turns and drapes the dress over a chair. The caregiver comes back and starts to loosen Doris’s dressing gown. She gently pulls the arms free and Doris whimpers quietly, her bad back sending a wave of pain into her shoulders. It’s always there, day and night. A reminder of her age.

“I need you to stand up now. I’ll lift you on the count of three, OK?” Ulrika places an arm around her, helps her to her feet, and pulls the dressing gown away. Doris is left standing there, in the kitchen, in the cold light of day, naked but for her underwear. That needs changing too. She covers herself with one arm as her bra is unhooked. Her breasts fall loosely towards her stomach.

“Oh, you poor thing, you’re freezing! Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom.”

Ulrika takes her hand and Doris follows her with cautious, hesitant steps. She feels her breasts swing, clasps one arm tight against them. The bathroom is warmer, thanks to the under-floor heating beneath the tiles, and she kicks off her slippers and enjoys the warmth beneath the soles of her feet.

“Right, let’s get this dress on you. Lift your arms.”

She does as she is told, but she can raise her arms only to chest height. Ulrika struggles with the fabric and manages to pull the dress over Doris’s head. When Doris glances up at her, Ulrika smiles.

“Peekaboo! What a nice colour, it suits you. Would you like some lipstick as well? Maybe a bit of blusher on your cheeks?”

The makeup is set out on a little table by the sink. Ulrika holds up the lipstick, but Doris shakes her head and turns away.

“How long will the food be?” she asks on her way back to the kitchen.

“The food! Ah! What an idiot I am, I forgot all about it. I’ll have to heat it up again.”

Ulrika hurries to the microwave, opens the door and slams it shut again, turns the dial to one minute, and presses start. She pours some lingonberry juice into a glass and places the plate on the table. Doris wrinkles her nose when she sees the sludge, but hunger makes her lift the fork to her mouth.

Ulrika sits down across from her, with a cup in her hand. The hand-painted one, with the pink roses. The one Doris herself never uses, for fear of breaking it.

“Coffee, it’s liquid gold, it is,” Ulrika remarks. “Right?”

Doris nods, her eyes fixed on the cup.

Don’t drop it.

“Are you full?” Ulrika asks after they have been sitting in silence for some time. Doris nods and Ulrika gets up to clear away the plate. She comes back with steaming coffee in yet another cup. A dark blue one, from Höganäs.

“There you go. Now we can catch our breath for a moment, hmm?”

Ulrika smiles and sits down again.

“This weather, nothing but rain, rain, rain. It feels like it’s never ending.”

Doris is just about to reply, but Ulrika continues:

“I wonder if I sent any extra socks to the nursery. The little ones will probably get soaked today. Oh well, there must be spares they can borrow. Otherwise I’ll be picking up a grumpy sockless kid. Always this worrying about the kids. But I suppose you know what it’s like. How many children do you have?”

Doris shakes her head.

“Oh, none at all? You poor thing, so you never get any visitors? Have you never been married?”

The caregiver’s pushiness surprises Doris. These young women don’t usually ask this kind of question, at least not so bluntly, anyway.

“But you must have friends? Who come over occasionally? That looks thick enough, anyway.” She points to the address book on the table.

Doris doesn’t answer. She glances at the photo of Jenny. It’s in the hallway, but the caregiver has never even noticed it. Jenny, who is so far away and yet always so close in her thoughts.

“Well, listen,” Ulrika continues. “I’ve got to rush off. We can talk more next time.”

Ulrika loads the cups into the dishwasher, even the hand-painted one. Then she turns the machine on, gives the counter one last wipe with the dishcloth, and before Doris knows it, she’s out the door. Through the window, she watches Ulrika pull on her coat as she walks, and then climb into a little red car with the agency’s logo on the door. With shuffling steps, Doris makes her way to the dishwasher and pauses the wash. She pulls out the hand-painted cup, carefully rinses it, and then hides it at the very back of the cupboard, behind the deep dessert bowls. She checks from every angle. It’s no longer visible. Pleased, she sits back down at the kitchen table and smooths the tablecloth with her hands. Arranges everything carefully. The pillbox, the lozenges, the plastic case, the magnifying glass, and the phone are all back in their rightful places. When she reaches for the address book, her hand pauses, and she allows it to rest there. She hasn’t opened it in a long time, but now she lifts the cover and is met by a list of names on the first page. Most have been crossed out. In the margin, she has written it several times. One word. Dead.

The Red Address Book

A. ALM, ERIC

So many names pass by us in a lifetime. Have you ever thought about that, Jenny? All the names that come and go. That rip our hearts to pieces and make us shed tears. That become lovers or enemies. I leaf through my address book sometimes. It has become something like a map of my life, and I want to tell you a bit about it. So that you, who’ll be the only one who remembers me, will also remember my life. A kind of testament. I’ll give you my memories. They’re the most beautiful thing I have.

It was 1928. It was my birthday, and I had just turned ten. The minute I saw the parcel, I knew it contained something special. I could tell from the twinkle in Pappa’s eyes. Those dark eyes of his, usually so preoccupied, were eagerly awaiting my reaction. The present was wrapped in thin, beautiful tissue paper. I followed its texture with my fingertips. The delicate surface, the fibres coming together in a jumble of patterns. And then the ribbon: a thick red-silk ribbon. It was the most beautiful parcel I had ever seen.

“Open, open!” Agnes, my two-year-old sister, leaned eagerly over the dining table with both arms on the tablecloth, and received a mild scolding from our mother.

“Yes, open it now!” Even my father seemed impatient.

I stroked the ribbon with my thumb before pulling both ends and untying the bow. Inside was an address book, bound in shiny red leather, which smelled sharply of dye.

“You can collect all your friends in it.” Pappa smiled. “Everyone you meet during your life. In all the exciting places you’ll visit. So you don’t forget.”

He took the book from my hand and opened it. Beneath A, he had already written his own name. Eric Alm. Plus the address and phone number for his workshop. The number, which had recently been connected, the one he was so proud of. We still didn’t have a telephone at home.

He was a big man, my father. I don’t mean physically. Not at all. But at home there never seemed to be enough room for his thoughts. He seemed to be constantly floating out over the wider world, to unknown places. I often had the feeling that he didn’t really want to be at home with us. He didn’t enjoy the small things of everyday life. He was thirsty for knowledge, and he filled our home with books. I don’t remember him talking much, not even with my mother. He just sat there with his books. Sometimes I would crawl into his lap in the armchair. He never protested, just pushed me to the side so I didn’t get in the way of the letters and images that had caught his interest. He smelled sweet, like wood, and his hair was always covered with a thin layer of sawdust, which made it look grey. His hands were rough and cracked. Every night, he would smear them with Vaseline and wear thin cotton gloves as he slept.

My hands. I held them around his neck in a cautious embrace. We sat there in our own little world. I followed his mental journey as he turned the page. He read about different countries and cultures, stuck pins into a huge map of the world that he had nailed on the wall. As though they were places he had visited. One day, he said, one day he would head out into the world. And then he added numbers to the pins. Ones, twos, and threes. He was ordering the various locations, prioritising them. Maybe he was suited to life as an explorer?

If it hadn’t been for his father’s workshop. An inheritance to look after. A duty to fulfil. He obediently went to the workshop every morning, even after Grandpa died, to stand next to an apprentice in that drab space, with stacks of boards along each wall, surrounded by the sharp scent of turpentine and mineral spirits. My sister and I were usually allowed to watch only from the doorway. Outside, white roses climbed the dark-brown wooden walls. As their petals fell to the ground, we and the neighbourhood children would collect them and place them in bowls of water; we made our own perfume to splash on our necks.

I remember stacks of half-finished tables and chairs, sawdust and wood chippings everywhere. Tools on hooks on the wall; chisels, jigsaws, carpentry knives, hammers. Everything had its rightful place. And from his position behind the woodworking bench, my father, with a pencil tucked behind one ear and a thick apron of cracked brown leather, had a view over it all. He always worked until dark, whether it was summer or winter. Then he came home. Home to his armchair.

Pappa. His soul is still here, inside me, beside me. Beneath the pile of newspapers on the chair he made, with the rush seat my mother wove. All he wanted was to venture out into the world. And all he did was leave an impression within the four walls of his home. The highly crafted statuettes, the rocking chair he made for Mamma, with its elegantly ornate details. The wooden decorations he painstakingly carved by hand. The bookshelf where some of his books still stand. My father.

2

Even the smallest movements require mental and physical exertion. She moves her legs forward a few millimetres and then pauses. Places her hands on the armrests. One at a time. Pause. She digs in her heels. Grips the armrest with one hand and places the other on the dining table. Sways her upper body back and forth to get some momentum. Her chair has a high, soft back support, and the legs rest in plastic cups, which raise it a few centimetres. Still, it takes her a long time to get to her feet. On the third attempt she manages it. After that, she has to stand still for another second or two, with her head bowed and both hands on the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Her daily exercise. The stroll around her small apartment. Down the hallway from the kitchen, around the sofa in the living room, pausing to pick any withered leaves from the red begonia in the window. Then on to her bedroom, and her writing corner. To the laptop computer, which has become so important to her. She gingerly sits down, in yet another chair resting on plastic supports. They make the chair so high, she can barely fit her thighs beneath the desk. She lifts the lid of the computer and hears the faint, familiar whirr of the hard drive waking up. She clicks the Internet Explorer icon on the desktop, and the online version of her newspaper greets her. Every day, she is amazed by the fact that the entire world exists inside this tiny little computer. That she, a lonely woman in Stockholm, could keep in touch with people all over the world, if she wanted to. Technology fills her days. It makes waiting for death a little more bearable. She sits here every afternoon, occasionally even in the early morning or late at night, when sleep refuses to co-operate. It was her last caregiver, Maria, who taught her how it all worked. Skype, Facebook, email. Maria had said that no one was too old to learn something new. Doris agreed, and said that no one was too old to realise her dreams. Shortly after that, Maria handed in her notice so that she could resume her studies.

Ulrika doesn’t seem so interested. She has never mentioned the computer or asked what Doris is up to. She just dusts it in passing as she sweeps through the room, ticking off task after task on her to-do list. Maybe she’s on Facebook, though? Most people seem to be. Even Doris has an account, the one Maria set up for her. She also has three friends. Maria is one. Then there’s her great-niece, Jenny, in San Francisco, plus Jenny’s older son, Jack. Doris checks in with their lives every now and then, follows images and events from another world. Sometimes she even studies their friends’ lives. Those with a public profile.

Her fingers still work. They’re a little slower than they used to be, and sometimes they start to ache, forcing her to rest. She writes to gather her memories. To get an overview of the life she has lived. She hopes it will be Jenny who finds everything later, once Doris herself is dead. That it will be Jenny who reads and smiles at the pictures. Who inherits all of her beautiful things: the furniture, the paintings, the hand-painted cup. They won’t just be thrown out, will they? She shudders at the thought, brings her fingers to the keys, and starts to write, in order to clear her thoughts. Outside, white roses climbed the dark-brown wooden walls, she writes today. One sentence. Then a sense of calm as she navigates through a sea of memories.

The Red Address Book

A. ALM, ERIC DEAD

Have you ever heard a real roar of despair, Jenny? A cry born of desperation? A scream from the very bottom of the heart, which digs its way into every last atom, which leaves no one untouched? I have heard several, but each has reminded me of the very first, and most terrible.

It came from the inner yard. There he stood. Pappa. His cry echoed from the stone walls, and blood pulsed from his hand, staining red the layer of frost covering the grass. There had been an accident in his workshop, and a piece of metal was wedged in his wrist. His cry ebbed, and he sank to the ground. We ran down the steps and into the yard, towards him; there were many of us. Mamma tied her apron around his wrist and held his arm in the air. Her cry was as loud as his when she shouted for help. Pappa’s face was worryingly pale, his lips a shade of bluish-purple. Everything that happened next is a haze. The men carrying him to the street. The car that picked him up and drove him away. The solitary dry white rose growing on the bush by the wall, and the frost embracing it. Once everyone had gone, I stayed where I was in the yard and stared at it. That rose was a survivor. I prayed to God that my pappa would find the same strength.

Weeks of anxious waiting followed. Every day, we would see Mamma pack up the remains of breakfast — the porridge, milk, and bread — and head off to the hospital. She would often come home with the food parcel unopened.

One day, she came home with Pappa’s clothes draped over the basket, which was still full of food. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. As red as Pappa’s poisoned blood.

Everything stopped. Life came to an end. Not just for Pappa, but for all of us. His desperate cry that frosty November morning was a brutal end to my childhood.

The Red Address Book

S. SERAFIN, DOMINIQUE

The tears at night weren’t mine, but they were so constant that sometimes I would wake and think they were. Mamma started sitting in the rocking chair in the kitchen once Agnes and I had gone to bed, and I got used to falling asleep to the accompaniment of Mamma’s sobs. She sewed and she cried; the sound came in waves, through the room, across the ceiling, to us children. She thought we were sleeping. We weren’t. I could hear her sniffing and swallowing, trying to clear her nose. I felt her despair at having been left alone, no longer able to live securely in Pappa’s shadow.

I missed him too. He would never sit in his armchair again, deeply absorbed in a book. I would never be able to crawl into his lap and follow him out into the world. The only hugs I remember from my childhood are the ones Pappa gave me.

Those were difficult months. The porridge we ate for breakfast and dinner became more and more watery. The berries, which we had picked in the forest and then dried, started to run out. One day, Mamma shot a pigeon with Pappa’s gun. It was enough for a stew, and it was the first time since he had died that we were all full, the first time the food had made our cheeks flush, the first time we had laughed. But that laughter would soon die out.

“You’re the oldest, you’ll have to look after yourself now,” she said, pressing a scrap of paper into my hand. I saw the tears brimming in her green eyes before she turned away and, with a wet cloth, began frantically rubbing at the plates we had just eaten from. The kitchen we stood in at the time, so long ago, has become a kind of museum of childhood memory for me. I remember everything in detail. The skirt she was busy sewing, the blue one, draped over the stool. The potato stew and the foam that had run over during cooking, drying down the side of the pot. The lone candle, which bathed the room in a dim glow. My mother’s movements between the sink and the table. Her dress, which swung between her legs when she moved.

“What do you mean?” I managed to ask.

She paused but didn’t turn to look at me.

I continued, “Are you kicking me out?”

No reply.

“Say something! Are you kicking me out?”

She looked down at the sink.

“You’re a big girl now, Doris. You have to understand. It’s a good job I’ve found for you. And as you can see, the address isn’t too far away. We’ll still be able to see each other.”

“But what about school?”

Mamma looked up and stared straight ahead.

“Pappa would never have let you take me out of school. Not now! I’m not ready!” I shouted at her. Agnes whimpered anxiously in her chair.

I slumped down at the table and burst into tears. Mamma came to sit next to me and placed her palm on my forehead. It was still cold and damp from the dishwater.

“Please don’t cry, my love,” she whispered, pressing her head to mine. It was so quiet that I could almost hear the heavy tears rolling down her cheeks, mixing with my own.

“You can come home every Sunday, that’s your day off.”

Her comforting whisper became a faint murmur in my ears. Eventually, I fell asleep in her arms.

I woke the next morning to the brutal and undeniable truth that I was being forced to leave my home and my security for an unfamiliar address. Without protesting, I took the bag of clothes that Mamma held out to me, but I couldn’t look her in the eye as we said goodbye. I hugged my little sister and then left without a word. I carried the bag in one hand, and three of Pappa’s books, tied together with a thick piece of string, in the other. There was a name on the scrap of paper in my coat pocket, written in Mamma’s ornate script: Dominique Serafin. That was followed by a couple of strict instructions: Curtsy nicely. Speak properly. I wandered slowly through the streets of Södermalm towards the address below the name: Bastugatan 5. That was where I would find my new home.

When I arrived, I paused for quite some time outside the modern building. Red window frames surrounding big, beautiful windows. The façade was made of stone, and there was an even walkway leading into the yard. It was a long way from the simple, weathered wooden house that had been my home until now.

A woman came out through the door. She was wearing glossy leather shoes and a shiny white dress without a defined waist. She had a beige cloche hat pulled down over her ears, and a small leather bag in the same shade hung from her arm. Ashamed, I ran my hands over my own worn, knee-length wool skirt, and wondered who would open the door when I knocked. Whether Dominique was a man or a woman. I couldn’t know; I had never heard such a name before.

I walked slowly, my feet pausing on each step of the polished marble staircase. Two floors up. The double doors, made from dark oak, were taller than any doors I had ever seen. I took a step forward and lifted the knocker, a lion’s head. The sound echoed faintly, and I stared straight into the lion’s eyes. A woman dressed in black opened the door and curtsied. I began to unfold the note for her, but another woman appeared before I had time to finish. The woman in black moved to one side and stood with a straight back against the wall.

The second woman had reddish-brown hair, which she wore in two long braids wound into a thick bun at the nape of her neck. Around her neck hung several strings of white pearls, slightly varied in size and shape. Her three-quarter-length dress, with a pleated skirt, was made of shiny emerald-green silk, which rustled when she moved. She was wealthy; I knew that immediately. She looked me up and down, took a drag on the cigarette that she held in a long black holder, and then blew the smoke towards the ceiling.

“Well, what do have we here?” She had a strong French accent, and her voice was hoarse from smoking. “Such a pretty girl. You can stay. Come, come inside now.”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the apartment. I remained where I was on the doormat, my bag in front of me. The woman in black nodded for me to follow her inside. She took me through the kitchen to the adjoining maids’ bedroom, where the slender bed that would be mine stood alongside two others. I placed my bag on the bed. Without being told to, I picked up the dress lying there and pulled it over my head. I didn’t know it at the time, but I would be the youngest of the three servants, left with the jobs the others didn’t want.

I sat on the edge of the bed and waited, my feet pressed firmly together and my hands tightly clutched on my lap. I can still remember the feeling of loneliness that enveloped me in that little room; I didn’t know where I was or what awaited me. The walls were bare and the wallpaper yellowed. There was a small bedside table next to each bed, with a single candle in a holder. Two half-burned down, one new, its wick still waxy.

It wasn’t long before I heard loud footsteps on the tiles and the rustle of my new mistress’s skirt. My heart was racing. She paused in the doorway, and I didn’t dare meet her gaze.

“Stand up when I come into the room. There. Back straight.”

I got up, and she immediately reached for my hair. Her slim, cool fingers moved all over me; she craned her neck and came closer, inspecting every millimetre of my skin.

“Nice and clean. That’s good. You don’t have lice, do you, girl?”

I shook my head. She continued to inspect me, lifting wisp after wisp of hair. Her fingers moved behind my ear; I felt her long nails scraping my skin.

“This is where they usually live, behind the ear. I hate creepy-crawlies,” she mumbled, a shiver passing through her body. A ray of sunshine had found its way in through the window, highlighting the fine, downy hairs on her face, which rose above a layer of light powder.

The apartment was big and full of paintings, sculpture, and beautiful furniture in dark wood. It smelled of smoke and something else, something I couldn’t quite place. It was always calm and peaceful during the day. Life had been kind to my employer, and she never had to work; she was well-off enough. I don’t know where her money came from, but sometimes I fantasised about her husband. About her keeping him locked up in the attic somewhere.

Guests often came over in the evening. Women in beautiful dresses and diamonds. Men in suits and hats. They entered, wearing their shoes indoors — a practice I find odd even to this day — and strolled around the drawing room as though it was a restaurant. The air filled with smoke and conversations in English, French, and Swedish.

My nights in the apartment introduced me to ideas I had never heard of before. Equal pay for women, the right to education. Philosophy, art, and literature. And new behaviours. Loud laughter, furious arguments, and couples kissing openly in the bay windows and corners. It was quite a change.

I would crouch down when I crossed the room to collect glasses and mop up spilled wine. High heels moved unsteadily between the rooms; sequins and peacock feathers floated to the floor and became wedged between the hallway’s broad wooden tiles. I would have to lie there until the early hours, using a small kitchen knife to remove every last trace of the festivities. When Madame woke, everything had to be perfect again. We worked hard. She expected freshly ironed table runners every morning. The furniture had to be shiny, the glasses free of flecks. Madame always slept until late morning, but when she eventually left her bedroom, she would walk through the apartment, inspecting it one room at a time. If she found anything noteworthy, it was always me, the youngest, who got the blame. I quickly learned what she might spot, and would do one last loop through the apartment before she woke, righting the things the other maids had done wrong.

The few hours of sleep I got on the hard horsehair mattress were never enough. The seams of my black uniform irritated my skin, and I was constantly tired from the long days. And from the hierarchy and the slaps. And from the men who laid their hands on my body.

The Red Address Book

N. NILSSON, GÖSTA

I was used to people occasionally falling asleep after having too much to drink. It was my job to wake them and send them on their way. But this man wasn’t asleep. He was staring straight ahead. The tears ran slowly down his cheeks, one by one, as his eyes focused on an armchair where another man — young, with a halo of golden-brown curls — was sleeping. The young man’s white shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a yellowed undershirt. On the tan skin of his chest, I could see a tattoo of an anchor, unsteady lines in greenish-black ink.

The man noticed me.

“You’re upset, sorry, I …” I hurried to leave.

The man turned his head, lowering his shoulder to the leather armrest so that he was now half-lying across the chair.

“Love is impossible,” he slurred, nodding towards the armchair he was staring at.

I tried to make my voice sound firm. “You’re drunk. Please, sir, get up; you need to leave before Madame wakes.” His hand gripped mine as I struggled to pull him to his feet.

“Don’t you see, miss?”

“Don’t I see what?”

“That I’m suffering!”

“Yes, I can see that. Go home and sleep it off, and your suffering will feel a little lighter.”

“Just let me sit here and look at this perfection. Let me enjoy this perilous electricity.”

He tangled his words as he attempted to capture his mood. I shook my head.

It was my first meeting with this delicate man, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Often, as the apartment emptied and the new day dawned over the rooftops of Södermalm, he lingered, lost in thought. His name was Gösta. Gösta Nilsson. He lived further down the street, at Bastugatan 25.

“One can think so clearly at night, young Doris,” he would say whenever I asked him to leave. Then, with drooping shoulders and a bowed head, he would stagger off into the night. His cap was never straight, and the tattered old jacket he wore was too big; it hung slightly lower on one side, as though his back was crooked. He was handsome. Often tan, his face had classical features — a straight nose and thin lips. There was plenty of goodness in his eyes, but he was usually sad. His spark had gone out.

Only after several months did I realise that he was the artist whom Madame worshipped. His paintings hung in her bedroom, huge canvases featuring brightly coloured squares and triangles. No theme to speak of, just explosions of colour and shape. Almost as if a child had been let loose with a brush. I didn’t like them. Not at all. But Madame bought and bought. Because Sweden’s Prince Eugen did the same. And because surrealist modernity had a particular power that most people couldn’t understand. She appreciated the fact that Gösta, like her, was an outsider.

It was Madame who taught me that people come in many different shapes. That others’ expectations of us are not always right. That there are many routes to choose from on the journey we are all making towards death. That we might find ourselves at difficult junctions, yet the road may still straighten. And that the curves aren’t dangerous.

Gösta always asked a lot of questions.

“Do you prefer red or blue?”

“To which country would you travel if you could go anywhere at all on earth?”

“How many one-öre sweets can you buy with one krona?”

After that last question, he always tossed me a krona. He flicked it into the air with his index finger and, with a smile, I caught it.

“Spend it on something sweet, promise me that.”

He could see that I was young. That I was still a child. He never reached to touch my body the way the other men did. He never made comments about my lips or budding breasts. Sometimes he even helped me in secret: picking up glasses and taking them to the corridor between the dining room and kitchen. Whenever Madame noticed, she would slap me afterwards. Her thick gold rings left red marks on my cheeks. I covered them with a pinch of flour.

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