that was someone’s office. The desk and computer had led her and the superintendent to draw the erroneous conclusion that it was Richard’s. The ballet poster, however, indicated that it must be Sylvia’s. Richard had a whole apartment for his office, after all.
Irene quickly crossed the soft carpets in the hall and library. Sylvia gave a start when she realized she was no longer alone in the workroom. Irene was perplexed by this reaction, and by the expression on Sylvia’s face. She looked as if she’d been caught red-handed.
As Irene later recalled this fleeting image, Sylvia leaned her forehead lightly against the frame of the photograph that hung on the wall next to the computer table. Irene took a few cautious steps into the room and looked at the picture. The photo itself was A4 letter sized, surrounded by a broad mat within a narrow silver frame.
The smile was the same. The glint in his eyes, the expression of joie de vivre. A markedly pulsating, sensual presence. But it wasn’t Richard; it was Henrik. The short-cropped hair and the beret that sat nonchalantly—but certainly according to regulations—at an angle showed that the picture must have been taken when he was in the service. The commandos, the magazine article had reported.
Sylvia gave Irene a look brimming over with rage and hatred. Suddenly she started to cry. Her eyes wide, without blinking, she stood erect with her arms hanging loosely at her sides, without uttering a sound, but tears were streaming down her cheeks. Irene had an uncomfortable feeling of having witnessed something very personal. She felt the need to break the unpleasant scene which she had unintentionally provoked.
Contritely she said, “Forgive me, I must have misunderstood you, but I thought I was supposed to follow you up here and write down the addresses.”
Sylvia didn’t reply, but her smoldering fury subsided. Instead she began to shake violently. On impulse Irene went over, carefully put one hand on the woman’s shoulder, and led her to the desk. She pulled out the chair and Sylvia sat heavily. She was still staring straight ahead. Almost inaudibly she whispered, “I usually talk to him.”
“To Henrik?”
Sylvia nodded. Irene was slightly annoyed. It was obvious that they talked often. For one thing, they only lived a few kilometers apart, and for another, there were plenty of telephones in the apartment. But she had a vague, nagging feeling that she was on the wrong track. That wasn’t what Sylvia meant. It had something to do with the brief scene with the photograph. Adoration?
Doubtfully she asked, “Do you mean that you talk to Henrik’s picture?”
Sylvia continued staring stiffly into space as she nodded. The tears were still flowing, though not as copiously. Was Sylvia about to break down again? Maybe it had been too soon to send her home from the psych ward? Best to take it a little easy. Cautiously Irene asked, “Does he answer?”
Sylvia straightened up and said firmly, “This Henrik answers me!”
What did she mean? It felt as though they were walking on thin ice, ice that was cracking beneath them with each step. This was the widow of a murder victim, just released after a nervous breakdown. It was important to proceed carefully, since she still seemed unbalanced. Was Sylvia about to slip into psychosis? But at the same time it was important to nail down her meaning.
Tentatively Irene said, “You said this Henrik. Is there another Henrik besides your son?”
The question was phrased incorrectly. Irritated, Sylvia shrugged and snapped, “Of course it’s Henrik. But the way he used to be!”
Then the penny finally dropped.
“You mean before he got sick? Before the meningitis?”
Sylvia gave her a mute, slow nod in reply.
“Is he very different since his illness?” Irene went on.
“Yes. He was in a coma for eighteen days. When he woke up he was completely changed. He had a hard time reading, difficulty walking, and often got headaches when there was too much noise. He withdrew from his old friends. Didn’t think he could hang out with them anymore. Finally they stopped calling too. Just like Emelie.”
Sylvia fell silent and a pained look passed over her face.
Irene asked in a low voice, “Who was Emelie?”
“His girlfriend. They had found an apartment and were going to move in together when he finished his military service. Much too early, I thought. But he loved her. Although she didn’t love him. It was obvious during the time he was in the hospital. She found herself a new boyfriend, an