The tall woman from Restaurant World hugs him hard and hands him the microphone and a framed diploma.
He tugs at the T-shirt under his jacket to stop his stomach from showing too much. Camera flashes detonate in the darkness.
‘Can you hear me OK? Good … This is a huge surprise,’ Rex says. ‘Because I really don’t know anything about food, I just like trying things out – at least that’s what my professor at catering college in Ume? told me …’
‘He was right!’ his friend from Operak?llaren calls out.
‘And when I was working at Le Clos des Cimes, head chef Régis Marcon came rushing in,’ Rex goes on with a smile, and attempts a French accent: ‘Your services might be asked for at McDonald’s … somewhere outside the borders of France.’
The audience applauds.
‘I love him,’ Rex laughs. ‘But you can understand why this award comes as such a surprise … I would like to thank all my very dear colleagues, and promise that next year I’ll vote for you, not just myself.’
He holds up the diploma and starts to head towards the steps, but stops and raises the microphone again in the midst of the applause:
‘I’d just like to say … I wish my son Sammy could have been here this evening, so he could have heard me tell everyone how proud I am of him for being the person he is.’
There’s scattered applause as Rex hands the microphone back to the woman and leaves the stage. People make way for him and pat him on the back as he passes.
Rex makes his way to the exit, apologising and thanking people for their congratulations, shaking hands with people he doesn’t know and moving on.
It’s cool outside, and the gentle rain forms puddles. He looks at the row of limousines, thinks that he ought to go home, but starts walking towards Gamla stan instead.
Halfway across Str?mbron he launches the diploma over the railing, watches it sail across the fast-flowing water, and just has time to worry about it striking one of the swans below before it hits the surface and disappears into the swirling darkness.
Rex doesn’t know how long he walks through the glistening alleyways before he reaches a bar with a row of coloured lanterns outside. It looks like a small merry-go-round among the dark buildings that surrond it. He stops outside and reaches for the door-handle. He hesitates for a moment, then goes inside.
The bar is warm and softly lit. Rex takes a seat, says hello to the barman and reaches for the wine-list.
‘Congratulations, Rex,’ he says when he catches sight of himself in the mirror behind the bottles.
‘Congratulations,’ a woman sitting a short distance away says, raising her beer-glass in a toast.
‘Thanks,’ he replies, putting on his reading glasses.
‘I follow you on Instagram,’ she explains, and moves to the stool next to his.
Rex nods and realises that DJ has posted something about the award. He leans towards the barman and hears himself order a bottle of 2013 Clos Saint-Jacques.
‘Two glasses, please.’
He tucks his glasses away in his pocket and looks at the woman, who unbuttons her waist-length fake-fur coat. She’s a lot younger than him. Her dark hair is curly from the rain, and she has smiling eyes.
Rex tastes the wine, then fills their glasses and pushes one across to her. She puts her phone down beside the glass and looks him in the eye.
‘Cheers,’ he says to the young woman, and drinks.
He feels the taste in his mouth, then the warmth of the alcohol spreading out from his stomach, and drinks some more. It feels good, not dangerous at all, he thinks as he refills his glass. He got the damn award, and he never really wanted to stop drinking anyway.
‘You’re too quick for me,’ the woman laughs, sipping her wine slowly.
‘Life’s a party,’ Rex mumbles, and takes a large mouthful.
She lowers her eyes and he looks at her pretty face, quivering eyelashes, her mouth and the tip of her chin.
By the time the bottle is finished Rex knows that her name is Edith. She’s more than twenty years younger than him, and she works as a freelance journalist for one of the big news agencies.
She laughs when Rex tells her about his enforced AA meetings, the living dead around the table who can only think about one thing as they confess their sins.
‘Are you supposed to be sitting here?’ she asks seriously.
‘I’m a rebel.’
They’ve finished the second bottle, and Rex has just told her that his grown-up son does all he can to avoid him, and is out every night.
‘Maybe he’s a rebel too,’ she suggests.
‘He’s just being smart,’ Rex replies, picking up her beer-glass.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I need to go home and sleep,’ he mumbles.
‘It’s only eleven o’clock,’ Edith says, licking the tiny red-wine stains from the corners of her mouth.
It’s raining hard as he calls for a taxi and stands by the window, looking out into the alleyway.
‘Are you going to stay?’ Rex asks when the taxi appears outside.
‘I’ll take the bus,’ Edith says.
‘Why not come along, if we’re going in the same direction?’
‘I live in Solna, so …’
‘Well, then you’ll practically be home if you come with me,’ he declares.
‘OK, thanks,’ she says, and follows him out.
Inside the taxi some sort of slow cabaret music is playing. Edith sits with her hands in her lap, a little smile on her lips. She is gazing out through the windshield over the taxi driver’s shoulder.
Rex leans back and thinks how pathetic he is, studying his son’s face and tone of voice for signs that Sammy has started to like him.
They’re never going to be close, it’s far too late for that.
The car turns into Luntmakar Street, slows down and comes gently to a halt.
‘Thanks for this evening,’ Rex says, undoing the safety belt. ‘Time for my beauty sleep now.’
‘You promise?’ Edith asks.
‘Absolutely,’ he says, pulling his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘I thought you said you were a rebel,’ she smiles.
‘An old rebel,’ he corrects in a tired voice.
Rex leans forward to use the card reader between the seats. Edith moves slightly to make room for him, but he is still struck by the warm scent of her body.
‘Shall I come up with you and make sure you get to bed OK?’ she asks.
59
Rex leads Edith through the flat and out to the orangery beside the roof deck. The pale leaves of the olive trees press against the glass roof and the tendrils of the sugar-snap peas have twined around the little marble table.
Edith looks out across the city for a while before sitting down on one of the sheepskin armchairs among all the plants. Rex pours her a glass of red wine, and a large single malt whisky for himself.
He sits down on the other armchair, enjoying the relaxation offered by the alcohol and the knowledge that he can sleep in tomorrow. The Foreign Minister’s funeral isn’t until later in the day, so he can safely allow himself a little more to drink.
‘In this country you end up with a diagnosis the minute you reveal yourself to be the slightest bit human,’ he says, then drinks some whisky. ‘You know … I’m neither anonymous, nor an alcoholic. I only go to those meetings because my boss wants me to.’
‘I promise not to say anything,’ she smiles.
‘What’s your boss like?’ he asks.
‘?sa Schartau … I’ve worked for her for three years, but she’d fire me in an instant if I ever swore,’ Edith admits.
‘If you swore? Why?’
‘She thinks it sounds coarse. Actually, I don’t really know.’
‘Well, you can swear now,’ he says, refilling his glass.
‘No …’
‘Go on, swear away,’ he teases.
‘OK, she’s a fucking cunt,’ Edith says, then blushes hard. ‘Sorry, that’s unfair.’
‘But it felt good, didn’t it?’ Rex asks.
‘It felt unfair.’
‘Then it probably was,’ he says quietly.
‘I like ?sa. She might not have much of a sense of humour, but she’s extremely professional.’
Thoughts of Sammy are thundering through Rex’s head, and he can no longer hear Edith. He’s staring fixedly across at the rooftops.