2. Black Night, White Light
"The black night is finally over. The white light of the day always makes me feel better."
I try to keep the conversation light. I'm afraid to say the wrong words, but the words I have said so far didn't cause any reaction from the girl on the other side of the table.
Just to fight a deadly silence, I continue: "I like Sweden, but I'm afraid, if I lived here, those long winter nights would…"
I swallow the words «depress me» and regret the words «I'm afraid». I need to be careful with my word choice. Positive images. Courage. Energy. This girl needs help and I'm supposed to give it to her because I need her help in return.
"In the light, it feels good.", I say, and then I feel even more stupid.
On the other side of the window, a pale, cold sun scares the darkness away. I look around. We're the only visitors in a place, called The Breakfast Club. The waiter-owner has disappeared into the kitchen to prepare our sandwiches. In here, there's not much to see. Cold iron and Formica tables. I prefer looking at Frieda. She's nice to look at, much too nice, causing me to stare. It makes me feel uncomfortable, sitting here with such a pretty girl, not able to compliment her on her looks, and not knowing anything else to talk about. I don't want to jump into the Agneta topic yet. Frieda is tense as the strings of a Stradivarius. I want her to relax a bit, I want the conversation to be light and entertaining, I want to give her a good feeling, and I want to see her smile, but all I do is pick the wrong words and stare into her eyes like an idiot. I can't help it. Her right eye is blue like the Mediterranean and her left eye is green like the Nordic light.
"I like your name. Frieda was the Goddess of Love and War of the ancient Vikings. According to the legends, she was strong, wise and beautiful. She motivated people to get the best out of themselves…"
"That was Freyja, not Frieda. I'm not strong, I'm not wise, and I'm certainly not beautiful."
I put my hand on top of Frieda's hand that lies on the table, but she flinches when I touch her, fearing it is him.
"I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this.", I mutter.
I take my hand back and lift it, together with my other hand, turning them around to show Frieda their innocence: "Some hands hurt. Some hands heal. Some hands help. Sometimes, I wish my hands could heal. All they can do is help. I never learnt anything else."
"What have you learnt? What do you do for a living? Why do you want to find my sister? Who are you?"
Frieda is right. If I want her to trust me, I have to give her my trust first.
"If I tell you a secret, can I trust you to keep it? I mean… We can get into some real trouble if anyone finds out the answers to those questions."
"Tell me first. I'll decide later if I will keep the secret."
Show trust. Take a chance on her. Be brave. She won't eat me. She won't sell me and my story to that awful journalist of Tabloidtidningen.
I drop the silk, feminine voice I used so far: "It's my job to help those who ought to be helped. I work for the LSD."
"What does that mean? Love, Surrender and Devotion?"
"Luxembourg Spy Department. I'm a spy. My name isn't Benny, but I prefer we keep using it. I don't want anybody to find out my real identity and take revenge on my loved ones. You probably already guessed I'm not gay, either. I made that up as a silly attempt to gain your trust. That was wrong. Telling the truth shows you can trust me."
I drop a pause, to give my words more impact, and also to avoid the waiter overhearing us when he puts our coffee on the table. When he's disappeared, I continue: "My Boss suspects your sister to be the spider in a dangerous web of international terrorism. My colleagues (#3, The Diplomat and #4, The Agent) found secret information about Agneta leading a lab that's about to spread a mortal and highly contagious virus."
"That's ridiculous. Agneta wouldn't hurt a fly."
I take my spiPhone out of my pocket, search the gallery and show her the proof of my recent nocturnal investigation: "These images say more than a thousand words. I took these photos in your sister's kitchen. Look at all those weapons of mass destruction in the cupboard under the washbasin: Wasp Away, Bug's Bugbear, Anti-Ant, Fly-Goodbye, Mosquito Mortify… There's enough here to start a chemical war. And what did I find in the cupboard in the hall? This looks like a tennis racket, but there's a secret space in the handle for two batteries. When you switch that blue button, the innocent instrument for service-volley changes into a horrible torture device. It will, cute, cute, electrocute anything flying around. The brand isn't Björn Borg's but Burn Bugs. Agneta wouldn't hurt a fly?"
Frieda shows finally some emotions: "This is Sweden, Benny. We have thousands of lakes here. We have millions of square miles of forest and wild nature. In summer, we're eaten alive by mosquitoes if we don't protect ourselves. This has nothing to do with chemical warfare, and neither does my sister. This secret information, the virus you were referring to… Is it about that awful article in Tabloidtidningen?"
I can't avoid a stupid grin. Frieda is beautiful when she's angry. Her eyes spit fire. This woman doesn't take «no» for an answer. She'll fight herself to death to defend her sister. I love it when people have a passion for something. Hate is a great motivator.
"What's your phone number? I'll send you the complete interview, and I'll send you the text Tabloidtidningen published. They should fire that awful man from Säffle, that journalist, Martin Beck, and put him in jail for everything he writes. Instead, he received last year's Journalist-of-the-Year award, thanks to his sensational lies, which made Tabloidtidningen again the leading newspaper in Sweden. Do you speak Swedish? Do you want me to translate this? It's over a thousand words of interview and another 250 words of published article."
I take Frieda's phone out of her hand, add «Benny» and my phone number to her Contacts, program the number as #5 into the speed-dial, send myself a message so I have her number too, and return her phone: "Now we can always reach each other. Don't be mad at me. I'm not a bad person. I'm not the enemy either. All I am is a friend who's trying to help you and your sister, and… I'm clumsy, not used to the company of a beautiful, amazing woman like you. Don't expect me to be some kind of James Bond or Jason Bourne. They are actual spies. I'm just #5, The Runner, the pizza delivery boy who runs errands for the field agents, a loser, feeling lost when you look at me like that…"
I'm not playing games. I just try to be honest. Somehow, it works. Frieda calms down: "I'm not amazing and I'm certainly not beautiful."
"Think about how you felt this morning, when you called your sister and I picked up. Look at yourself now. When you woke up, you were a patient, lost in the darkness of the black night, but now you're a Goddess and ready to fight. You are an amazing woman, Frieda. I've never met anyone who could make such a step forward in only a few hours."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better about myself.", Frieda mutters.
"Am I wrong? Don't you feel better now than you have felt for a long time?"
The sandwiches arrive. They look good and taste even better. Sweden is an expensive country for eating and drinking, but they give a lot of value back for that money. I attack my plate with the appetite of a hungry wolf.
Frieda works on her phone, finds the two files she referred to, and sends them to me. When she's finished, she takes a bite of her tuna sandwich, chews it with concentration and confirms I was right: "You're right. I do feel better than I have felt for a long time. But this is just a spark. The darkness is everywhere. I can't make it disappear, and neither can you."
I shake my head while I empty my mouth and say: "Your mind is like a suitcase, full of memories and experiences. Whenever you open your suitcase, you're looking at the terrible memories you left on top. You don't see the wonderful memories because the horror dominates your thoughts and covers the rest. You should repack, put the dark negative thoughts way down and leave the bright positive thoughts on top. Hide the black night, white light in sight. Place Heaven on top and bury Hell below."
"That's easy for you to say. You're confident."
"Not at all, but I'm hopeful and that's something I can teach you too. I can't make the demons in your head go away, Frieda. The only one who can do that is you. Stop running and hiding. Flip the switch. I can teach you where to find that switch. I can even give you the courage to fight back."
Frieda falls quiet again. It gives me the time to read the information she sent me. I feed both files to the MultyTranslate app and begin reading the newspaper article, which gave the world the impression that Agneta Larsson would destroy us with a virus.
«Why do you think Sweden wants you as their new President?»
«I don't think. An idea is like a virus. It infects your mind, you feel how your mood changes, which affects your energy, your health, your behaviour, and your environment. A virus can destroy a society in weeks or perhaps even days.»
«And you plan to destroy our country with this contagious virus you're about to create?»
«Our country is already destroyed. We can choose between Left and Right, and no matter what we choose, it's an awful choice for most Swedish citizens.»
«The majority decides.»
«Exactly. And the majority only think about themselves. I want to go Forward. The Swedish political system gives us the right to vote for the next Big Brother, who dictates what we do for the next four years. That's why Swedish voters will vote for me.»
«We're losing our readers here. Can you give an example of your solutions to some current issues?»
«Governments don't solve problems. They prohibit liberties and raise taxes.»
«You just criticise the current leaders. So far, you haven't given any solution of your own.»
«You're correct.»
«What you say is that you don't have any solutions at all. You just sow doubt and harvest the panic that comes up.»
«If you jump to conclusions by telling me what you think yourself, I suggest you give the answers and let me ask the questions, Mister Beck.»
«Thank you for your time, Miss Larsson.»
The second file contains the entire interview. Martin Beck had just quoted a selection of Agneta's words and left out the rest.
«Why do you think Sweden wants you as their new President?»
«I don't think they want me, personally. I think they like my positive ideas. An idea is like a virus. It infects your mind, you feel how your mood changes, which affects your energy, your health, your behaviour, and your environment. A virus can destroy a society in weeks or perhaps even days, but a good idea might have a positive impact on everyone in our country for years or perhaps even centuries.»
«And you plan to destroy our country with this contagious virus you're about to create?»
«Our country is already destroyed. First, we've had years of socialist leaders, who did many good things for the lower class, forcing the middle class and upper class to pay for it. Then, we've had years of liberal leaders who did many good things for the upper class, forcing the middle class and lower class to pay for it. We can choose between Left and Right, and no matter what we choose, it's an awful choice for most Swedish citizens.»
«The majority decides.»
«Exactly. And the majority only think about themselves. The majority votes to get promised benefits for themselves. The winners get what they want and send the invoice to the losers, the minority. There is an alternative. I'll give you an example.
» The Swedish women were an ignored minority until January 1921, when they required the right to vote. After that date, life got not only better for Swedish women, but for everyone in our country. Women are like that. Women, mothers and wives, are used to think not only for themselves but also for others. When the majority is selfish, they use politics to make life better only for themselves. When the majority has the responsibility to take care of others, life gets better for everyone.
» We can choose between Left and Right, but I want to go Forward. I want to show Sweden where Forward is and how it looks when we get there.
» Left and Right have no meaning: Heaven is above and Hell is below. Why are we forced to choose one leader, who only takes care of his own party? That's elected dictatorship. The Swedish political system gives us the right to vote for the next Big Brother, who dictates what we do for the next four years. Sweden is a democracy. We are the leaders, WE, every citizen of our beautiful country. Together, we decide about what's important for every one of us. Why don't we vote on topics? All that Left-or-Right selfishness caused so many problems to our society. We should vote for the best solution and solve matters together. That's why Swedish voters will vote for me. I'll offer better solutions and the right to choose what they think is best for everyone.»
«We're losing our readers here. Your bombastic words about heaven and hell sound like an American priest who tries to convince his church that the Qur'an is better than the Holy Bible. Can you give an example of your solutions to some current issues?»
«Governments don't solve problems. They prohibit liberties and raise taxes. The problem of unemployment was 'solved' by raising taxes on the income of the working people so they could give money to the jobless people for doing nothing. Our national health problem was 'solved' by raising taxes on tobacco and alcohol. The problem of wasting the Earth's natural resources was 'solved' by raising taxes on petrol and electricity. The international financial crisis was 'solved' by raising taxes in general, letting the working class pay for the financial mismanagement of banks and governments. Sexual abuse and violation were 'solved' by a law that prohibits potential lovers from having sex unless both confirm explicitly, in writing, to agree with the act. Does that stop rapists? Or is it just a stupid bureaucratic attempt to have people sign a contract before kissing each other? When our leaders complicate making love, it will only push more rapists towards violence, because that's an easier way to get what they want.»
«You just criticise the current leaders. So far, you haven't given any solution of your own.»
«You're correct. I have many ideas, but I don't want to be the dictator who tells others what to do. I would like voters to influence every political decision. We should take important decisions together. I want everyone to share responsibility. I—»
«What you say is that you don't have any solutions at all. You just sow doubt and harvest the panic that comes up.»
«Don't you have the education to let me finish? If you jump to conclusions by telling me what you think yourself, I suggest you give the answers and let me ask the questions, Mister Beck. You're really the most awful journalist I've met in my entire life. But I'm not here to wait for your apologies. I'm here to talk about solutions. A good leader should inspire people to do the right thing. Do you want to hear my ideas? I would stop giving unemployed people money for doing nothing; instead, I would make use of all the qualities they have, give them a job in healthcare and homes for the elderly, in recycling and preservation of nature, in education and social projects of integration, and I would finance those jobs with higher taxes on the import of cheap goods from Third World countries, and by saving money on the military. Instead of advertising the 'good' life that drinking and smoking promise, I would prefer to show the results of those habits, and I would use the taxes on those products to pay for the treatment of the victims. Why doesn't our media show more love and less violence? Apart from math and biology, I would encourage schools to teach our children human qualities and social behaviour. I have many, many other ideas, but when I'm interrupted by one macho journalist who decides what makes it into the news and what not…»
«Thank you for your time, Miss Larsson.»
I've finished my sandwich by the time I finish the reading: "Your sister is a remarkable woman, Miss Frieda. This information completely changed my opinion about her. I'm more determined than ever to find and save her from the dirty hands of her kidnappers. The interview even gave me an intuitive hunch about where we might find her. I promise you, I will do everything I can, although that isn't very much; I'm just a simple spy who works for a small country, with no experience at all in finding beautiful women. Not even in finding ugly women. I'm not married and, with the looks I have and the life I lead, I doubt I ever will."
This is an important moment. I don't expect anything, but… if I don't shoot, I can't score. If I don't ask, I'll never get «yes» for an answer.
"I will do everything I can, but… I can't do this alone. I could use some help. You know your sister and her environment, and you know Sweden… Would you like to help me?"
Frieda stares into her empty cup.
She stands up and walks towards the bathroom, stops, turns her head and says: "I have to think about this. Okay?"
"Okay. Would you like another coffee?"
She doesn't answer. I order two more coffees, anyway. #1, The Boss is paying. With the 1 billion krona from the ransom for the upcoming Swedish President, I don't care about budget cuts.
Frieda returns with a smell of soap. She did something with make-up too, to hide the tracks of her tears. When she sits down and welcomes her fresh cup of coffee, she shows me what's written on her sugar bag: «let your dreams be bigger than your fears».
"I'm afraid.", she says.
"That's something I can handle. Before lunchtime, I can make your fears disappear. I'm not afraid of anything."
Frieda slowly shakes her head and looks outside, as if the solution to all her problems lies there, on the tidy streets of colourful Stockholm: "I can't do it, Benny. It's impossible. I tried, but I can't, and I won't. I'm not good enough. After everything that happened, I will never have a normal life. Those scars on my soul will never go away."
"I never have a normal life, and I like it a lot. When I look at your scars, I see them with my eyes: they look like beautiful paintings by Salvador Dali. The scars on your soul stand for everything you went through and have overcome. Your scars make you stronger and more beautiful. There's nothing to be afraid of. You will overcome this pain. You will defeat this enemy. I believe in you. You are so much stronger than you think. All you'll need is patience and a little courage. If you want, I can help you with that. I can give you a courage transfusion."
"You're silly."
"But I'm also serious. I'm not afraid of anything. I'm not even afraid to make a complete fool of myself. Do you want to give it a try? I promise you it will be a pleasant experience. The worst-case scenario is when it doesn't work with you as it worked with me, but if you don't try it, you'll never find out."
I put my hands on the small table, each one on a side of my coffee cup: "How do you destroy an enemy that's eating you from the inside? Do you nurse him by giving him all your attention? Or do you fight him with everything you have? Let me show you how to fight. Let me give you a courage transfusion. Here and now."
Frieda hesitates, but I touched one of the strings of her soul and it didn't hurt, so she dares to go on.
"What do I do?"
"Put your left hand on the table, open, to receive, like this… And now put your right hand on top of mine, to give, like this…
» That's it.
» Relax.
» This is fun.
» Our right hand wants to give. With my right hand, I give you my courage. Do you feel how it slowly starts to flow? It's warm, gentle and comfortable. I don't push it. You allow it to come in. And with your right hand, you give me your fears, your anger, your nightmares. You have to let them go. I can't take them away from you without your permission. Just give them to me. Don't be afraid. I can handle them. I have so much courage that I can give you part of it, and still, I'll have enough left to fight your nightmares for you and make them disappear. Do you feel my courage? It's already in your blood. It's filling you like that warm feeling you get when you ease yourself into a hot bathtub of vanilla-scented foam. Slowly. Don't rush it. There is time enough. This hot bath will never turn cold. Once this courage is in your blood, once it has filled your veins and your heart, it's there to stay, to grow, to make you stronger, so strong that one day you'll have enough to pass some of it to somebody else, and on that day, you'll see the scars on your soul as beautiful paintings by Salvador Dali. Those scars will never go away, they are part of you, but you can learn how to look at them differently. You can use them to help others, by taking away their fears and their nightmares, by being the white light that scares away their black night, just like I'm doing with you. My friend Shirley taught me this. I trust her and believe in her. My friend Malik taught me how to touch somebody's soul, with words, playing the strings like a guitar plays the blues. My friend Chelsea helped me understand how to change other people. My friend Doc taught me why it's wrong to turn off your feelings, and he also showed me how to dominate them, so they can become part of the team and make you stronger. My friend Scarlett taught me how to overcome my fears; she taught me how to fly. And my friend Rostov taught me friendship, how important it is to have a friend you can trust, someone who makes you laugh, and who's always there to help you out, no matter what it takes, while your friend enjoys himself like nobody, doing anything.
» The healing ingredient in this courage transfusion is: trust. I believe in you. You're not alone. You can trust me, your friend, the one who takes a bullet for you. I protect you from the hooded claw and keep the vampires from your door. But I can't do that by force. I have to do that with words, with patience, gently playing the delicate strings of your Frankenstein soul, full of scars and scratches. But you have to open the door first. Open your heart, so I can fill it with my courage. Give your fears to me. Say goodbye to your nightmares and make space for all those beautiful dreams I have here, waiting for you to become part of it. You can do all that. Tell me your dreams and I'll tell you where to find them: with me. I'll help you make your dreams come true. I'll help you overcome your fears. You can do it. You are an amazing woman. I believe in you.
» As a spy, living in a hostile world, a jungle of kill or be killed, a world in which I can never trust anybody, I should never say the Three Forbidden Words, and I never thought I would say them to anyone, but I'm going to say them now, to you, and I mean it: … … … … I trust you."
Saying those three words fills me with insanity. Am I crazy? Is it fear? Is it doubt? How can I tell this girl I trust her? I met her an hour ago. I don't know her at all. All I know about her is that she's a mental patient, and she has the most beautiful eyes and the most beautiful hair and the most beautiful smile. You can't trust anyone in this world, and even less when you're a spy, and above all is it against all logic to trust someone this pretty. And the strangest thing of all is… somehow I'm certain I can trust her. Saying those three words… It works like a magic spell. I know I can trust her. I want her to know she can trust me too, I will never allow anyone to hurt her like that creep in that park did. Perhaps I'm crazy. Perhaps it's time to take her back to the Kepler Clinic and ask for a room for myself. They have a psychologically thrilling reputation.
Slowly, I break the contact. I fold my hands in my lap, not knowing what to do with them anymore. Those hands were trained to kill, not to heal. Although I've never killed anyone with them, I'm not sure if I healed anyone with them either. Frieda hasn't moved. The only thing that moves is a little tear. It leaves the corner of her left eye and starts a journey over the glorious landscape of her cheek. I can't stand seeing a woman cry. I take my napkin and wipe it away. She grabs my hand with the napkin before I can take it back: "Thank you."
"I can't help it. You're so much prettier when you smile. I just do what I can to see you smile, that's all, and it's pretty silly."
My silliness is rewarded; Frieda flashes a smile through her tears: "You are crazy."
I guess I am.
Frieda puts her hands back on the table and looks at them: "A courage transfusion? And you learnt that from a friend?"
Suddenly I feel how my face turns hot. Embarrassed, I look away. It was a stupid idea. I guess she's right: I am crazy, thinking that I, without any medical background, training or knowledge, can do something that graduated doctors consider impossible: "I'm sorry. You're right. I am crazy."
Frieda's smile turns into a laugh, one of authentic pleasure: "Tell your friend… Shirley? Tell your friend Shirley that it helped, the courage transfusion. I feel much better now."
I roll my eyes up and think: «Thanks, Shirley. You were right, as always.», but Frieda's laughter fills me with doubt: "Are you serious about feeling better? Or are you just making fun of me?"
"I might be mistaken, but I thought you just told me you trusted me. And one second later, you doubt if my pleasure is sincere? Do you think I lie to you when I laugh? Don't you trust me when I tell you I feel better? You took away some of my doubts, but now I'm afraid you can't handle them. Do you want me to take them back again? I've just learnt how to do that."
She takes my hands and puts them on the table: "Left hand up, to receive, and right hand high, to give… No, wait, we've forgotten something important, you should hold something in that right hand, your credit card, or the owner of this restaurant turns your dreams into a nightmare full of dirty dishes in a bathtub full of hot, soapy water. There's no vanilla scent in this nightmare. Trust me. I know everything about nightmares." She gestures to the waiter and asks: "The check, please?"
I really like it when you laugh.
You have an amazing smile.
You are an amazing woman, Frieda.
I AM crazy.
About you.