The Red Address Book. Sofia Lundberg

has finished eating, Sara takes command of the stack of pictures. Holds them up one by one, and lets Doris point to the box where each should go. Sara doesn’t ask questions, though her face reveals some curiosity about the people and places from the past who go flickering by. She calmly places the pictures in the boxes, upside-down so that Doris doesn’t have to look at them. Many of the older black-and-white images end up in the negative pile. The modern colour photographs, showing sweet giggling children, land in the positive. Sara studies Doris’s face as she makes her decisions, gently strokes her back.

      The stack is soon sorted. Sara winds the transparent tape round and round the tin box. Then she rummages through the drawer again, finds more rolls. She continues with the beige masking tape, then finishes with a few layers of silver tape. She giggles in satisfaction when she places the box in front of Doris.

      “Try to get into that now!” Sara is beaming, and she raps the box with her knuckles.

       The Red Address Book

      N. NILSSON, GÖSTA

      The sheet of paper was blank. I was tired. Had no words. Had no joy. I sat on the mattress, curled up against the wall, a cushion supporting my back. The room was green, and the colour nauseated me. I wanted to get away from the wallpaper’s symmetrical leaves and flowers. The flowers were big and plump, slightly lighter than the dark-green background, with stalks and leaves snaking around them. Every time I’ve seen similar wallpaper since, it has reminded me of my nights in that room. The idleness, the tiredness, the forced politeness among the girls. The aches in my body and the boredom in my soul.

      I wanted to write to Gösta. Wanted to tell him everything he was longing to hear. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t manage even a few nice words about the city I had come to hate. The last golden rays of sunlight found their way in through the window, making the wallpaper even more loathsome. I slowly turned the pen so that the polished steel cast a glow on the opposite wall. A thin strip of light danced as I went over everything that had happened lately. Despairingly, I tried to transform my experiences into something positive.

      My scalp ached, and I adjusted my hair, a strand hanging over my face, to lessen the pain as best I could. The hard, spiked rollers that were wound into my hair every morning left red marks, and sometimes even broke the skin. The hairdressers could be rough; they would pull and yank to achieve the perfect style. It was all about being as perfect as possible for whichever photo shoot or viewing we had ahead of us. But I was also expected to look equally beautiful the next day, and the day after that. I couldn’t let holes in my scalp or skin problems get in the way, ruining the impression of a young, fresh-faced woman. The kind of woman everyone would want to be.

      My appearance was my only asset, and I sacrificed everything for it. I went on diets. Squeezed my body into corsets and girdles. Applied face masks, homemade from milk and honey, in the evening. Rubbed horse liniment into my legs, to improve the circulation. Never happy, always on the hunt for more beauty.

      I was beautiful. My eyes were big; my eyelids didn’t droop. The colour of my cheeks was pretty and even; this was before the sun’s rays worked their way in and ruined the pigmentation. The skin around my neck was tight. But no cure in the world could improve my view of myself. We never know what we have until it’s gone. That’s when we miss it.

      I suppose I was too caught up in my own unhappiness to write to Gösta. The environment I lived in was far removed from Gösta’s idealised Paris. What would I write? That I longed to come home and cried myself to sleep at night? That I hated the noise of the traffic, the smells, the people, the language, the hustle and bustle? Everything that Gösta loved. Paris was a city where he felt free, but I was held prisoner in it. I put pen to paper and managed to scribble a few words. About the weather. I could describe that, at least. The stubborn sun that continued to shine day after day. The sticky heat on my skin. But what did he care about that? I ripped the sheet of paper to shreds and threw it away. The pieces floated down into the wastebasket to join all the other letters I’d never sent.

      The buildings in the area of the department store were beautiful, ornately decorated, but the ground was all I saw. Because of the long, hard days, I could not discover and appreciate my surroundings. Most of all, I remember the smells as I walked home. Whenever I smell garbage, it reminds me of Paris. The streets were so dirty, the gutters full of rubbish. By the kitchen doors of restaurants, it wasn’t unusual to see piles of fish guts, meat, and rotten vegetables.

      Around the department store, everything was nice and clean, the errand boys in their tweed caps, white shirts, and vests sweeping carefully with their brooms. Gleaming cars, driven by chauffeurs in black suits, parked in a fan around the store, facing the sidewalk. I was fascinated by the elegant ladies who skipped gracefully along the streets, then in through the large doors. They became our audience. They never spoke to the live mannequins. Not a single word. They just studied us. From top to bottom, from bottom to top.

      In the evening, I would often soak my feet in a bucket of ice-cold water. It stopped them from swelling after a long day in heels. The shoes I wore were often too small. Scandinavian girls tend to have big feet, but no one ever paid attention to that. The shoes had to fit everyone. They were size 37, or 38 if I was lucky. But my feet were 39s.

      The weeks passed. It was the same routine over and over again. Long days, demanding hairstyles; raw, swollen feet; makeup that melted into your pores and made your skin burn. I scrubbed it off, using oil and a piece of paper. The oil got into my eyes, making my vision blur, and it was almost always with gritty eyes that I read the letters that arrived from Gösta at odd intervals.

       Dear Doris,

       What has happened? I feel sick with worry. Every day that passes without the postman bringing me word from you is a disappointment.

       Please, let me know that you are living and doing well. Give me a sign.

       Your Gösta

      His anxiety became my security. I leaned against it. Played with it as though we were a pair of confused lovers with no hope of a future. I even placed a picture of him on my bedside table — a clipping from a newspaper that I had saved in my diary. I put it in a small golden frame that I found at a flea market. The oval opening was so tiny, there was barely room for Gösta’s chin, and I had to cut off some of his hair too. It looked like his skull was completely flat. His face made me smile at night before I fell asleep. He looked silly. But his eyes looked straight into me. It’s strange. I missed him more than I missed my own mother and sister.

      I think I was slightly in love with him. Though I knew he didn’t see me that way, that he didn’t have that ability with women. But we had something different, something very special. A link between our hearts, a glittering rainbow that brightened and dimmed over the years. But it was always there.