Irene. I hope you forgive me, but I’ve already ordered for us. Is grilled Baltic herring all right, followed by plum cake with vanilla ice cream for dessert?”
“That sounds fantastic.”
Irene had only eaten grilled Baltic herring once before. Burned herring with mashed potatoes was what she would call it.
Mona turned to the waiter who had soundlessly materialized at their table. “We’d like two large porters and two shots of Aalborg Aquavit.”
Irene gave a start. That was enough of someone else making decisions for her. “No thanks. I’d like a large pilsner, no schnapps for me,” she said quickly.
A little furrow appeared on Mona’s brow, but she only shrugged and waved away the young man with their orders. She gave a hard, curt laugh.
“Don’t think I sit and drink schnapps every day for lunch. But sometimes it seems like a good buzz is the only thing that keeps me on my feet. Today’s one of those days. You’ll soon find out why. But let’s eat first, before we get down to business.”
The herring was heavenly. Irene found herself practically shoveling in the excellent food. They drank a skål to Old Town, with Aalborg and Pripps pilsner, respectively. Mona was easygoing and unpretentious in her conversation. There were no embarrassing moments, although there were long pauses.
They had just polished off the fabulous plum cake and were drinking a second cup of coffee. Mona had ordered a cognac, but Irene declined. Mona could really hold her liquor. The slight tension across her shoulders may have relaxed a bit, but there was no change in her speech or gestures. Irene concluded that she was used to drinking a good deal. Mona took out a pack of cigarillos from her fashionable handbag, which perfectly matched her light gray jacket of soft wool. Under it she wore a white silk blouse with a straight black skirt. Comfortable gray pumps with a low heel completed the picture of a woman with style, power, and money. The heavy gold chains around her neck further emphasized this impression. She wore no rings.
Mona offered the cigarillo pack to Irene, who declined, and then carefully lit hers, exhaling with pleasure and sending a cloud up toward the ceiling. Squinting slightly through the smoke, she looked around. They were alone in the room. Voices could be heard from the rooms in front as well as the vaulted room, but in here there were none. Pensively, she began her story.
“We met in the spring of ’sixty-four, Richard and I. He blew in like a whirlwind one April evening, as Strindberg writes in The People of Hemsö. I was twenty-two and he was twenty-eight. I had been attending social work college for a year but I didn’t feel at home in Stockholm. If you’re born and raised up north in Härnösand, Stockholm is a real culture shock. Some people thrive and have a blast. Others just get homesick. Like I did.”
Only now did Irene notice the slight lilt of the Ångermanland accent in Mona’s speech. At first she had just heard a nicely enunciated, cultivated Swedish, but the hint of Norrland was there like a pleasant undertone.
“But I had nothing to go back to. Pappa died in a sawmill accident when I was fifteen. Mamma met another man. They got married and she moved to Umeå with him and my two younger sisters. I stayed behind in Härnösand, paying for room and board with Mamma’s cousin and her husband while I finished up high school. In a fit of boldness I answered a classified ad: ‘Young lady with a talent for languages wanted for office position.’ In Stockholm. I almost fainted when they called and told me I could start in August. I found a room in a boardinghouse run by an old lady on Birger Jarlsgatan. A sad little room in back off the courtyard. But it was cheap and suited my modest salary.”
Mona broke off for a coughing fit. She took a sip of lukewarm coffee to clear her throat. After a deep, greedy drag on her cigarillo, she went on. “The job was pure shit work. After a year I had had enough, and I applied to the social work college. Everybody was going there in those days! With my grades it was no problem, I got in. After just one semester I realized that sitting in a welfare office was not what I wanted to do either. Bringing salvation to tattered lives would have to be left to others. I