I’ve stolen your name.
When Victoria filled in the forms applying for a protected identity, she had expected someone else to have responsibility for choosing a new name, that it would somehow be allocated to her along with her new ID number. But on the bottom line of one of the forms there had been three empty boxes where she had to suggest a first name, a surname and a middle name if she wanted one.
Without really thinking about it she had written ‘Sofia’ in the first box, skipped the second because she didn’t know what Sofia’s middle name was, and in the third box she had written ‘Zetterlund’.
Before the clerk had even collected the documents she had started practicing her signature.
Victoria sat down on the bench at the bus stop and waited for the bus that was going to take her into the city, to her new life.
Harvest Home Restaurant
SHE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING now. The meetings with Sofia and the medical examination at Nacka Hospital.
Her cleansing, her healing process, has moved into yet another phase. She’s starting to get used to her new memories, and no longer reacts to them as strongly.
To the left of the bar’s entrance they find a free table by the window, and as they are about to sit down Jeanette points to a little brass sign on the wall above the table. ‘Maj’s Corner?’
‘Maj Sj?wall,’ Sofia says absent-mindedly. She knows that the author visits the bar almost every day.
The Dutchman who owns the bar with his Swedish wife comes over to the table, welcomes them and hands them the menu.
‘This is your place, so you can decide,’ Jeanette says, smiling.
‘In that case, two pints of Guinness and two V?sterbotten cheese pies.’
The owner compliments them on their choice, and while they wait Jeanette tells Sofia that Johan has got himself a girlfriend.
Sofia asks questions, and soon realises that although she’s the one handling the conversation, Victoria is doing the thinking. She doesn’t even need to take part in the conversation, it’s taking care of itself, and it’s a very peculiar, synchronous experience. Like having two brains.
Sofia is talking to Jeanette, and Victoria is thinking about her daughter.
This synchronous state stops abruptly. Sofia is completely focused on Jeanette again, and feels ready to talk about the perpetrator profile. But she makes up her mind to hold back on her theory about castration and cannibalism while they’re eating, and decides to start by talking about shame and the murderer’s desire to be seen.
She looks around. The tables closest to them are empty, and there’s no one who might overhear their conversation. ‘I think I’ve come up with something about the immigrant boys’ murderer,’ she says, as Jeanette starts to eat. ‘I might be wrong, but I think we might have missed a number of important things about the perpetrator’s psyche.’
Jeanette looks at her with interest. ‘OK?’
‘I think that the combination of castration and embalming is actually entirely in line with the perpetrator’s logic. Through mummification, the young boy’s childhood is permanently preserved for posterity. The murderer sees himself as an artist, and the corpses are his self-portraits. A series of artworks where the motif is his shame about his own sexuality. He wants to show who he is, and the lack of genitals is one way of marking this.’
Sofia considers what she’s just said, and realises that she might have been too categorical.
Him? she thinks. It could also be a her. But it’s easier to talk about a him.
Jeanette puts her knife and fork down, wipes her mouth and looks intently at Sofia. ‘Maybe the murderer wanted the bodies to be found? After all, he hasn’t made much of an effort to hide them. And artists always want attention and appreciation, don’t they? I mean, I used to be married to one.’
She understands me, Sofia thinks, and nods. ‘He wants to put on a show, be seen. And I don’t think he’s finished yet. He won’t stop until he gets caught –’
‘Because that’s what he’s after,’ Jeanette concludes. ‘Subconsciously. He’s got something to tell the world, and in the end he won’t be able to bear doing it in silence.’
‘Something like that,’ Sofia says. ‘And I also think the murderer is documenting what he does.’ She thinks about her own bizarre exhibition space at home in the apartment. ‘Photographs, notes, a compulsive collection. Are you familiar with the concept of l’homme du petit papier?’
Jeanette eats some more of the pie while she thinks.
‘Yes, actually,’ she finally says. ‘While I was training I read a Belgian police investigation into a man who murdered his brother. The newspapers called him “L’homme du petit papier”, the man with scraps of paper. When the police searched his home they found piles of paper that reached all the way to the ceiling in places.’
Sofia’s mouth feels dry, and she pushes her pie aside, not even half finished. ‘Then you understand what I mean. He’s collecting himself, if I can put it like that.’
‘Yes, something along those lines. Every word, every sentence, every single piece of paper was important to him. I remember that the amount of evidence was so extensive that they could hardly put together a coherent case. Even though everything they needed to convict him was in his little flat, right in front of their eyes.’
Sofia takes a sip of the dark, bitter beer. ‘According to one theory, an unhealthy or stunted libido will express itself through various forms of deviant behaviour. Such as unusual sexual fantasies. If the libido is directed inward, towards the individual himself, it leads to narcissism and –’
‘Stop!’ Jeanette interrupts. ‘I know what libido is, but can you explain in a bit more detail?’
Sofia can feel herself becoming cold and distant. If only Jeanette could understand how hard this is for her. How much it’s taking out of her to talk about someone who enjoys tormenting others, and who can only feel contentment from other people’s mortal terror. What she’s saying isn’t just about other people, it’s also about herself.
About the person she thought she was. About what she herself has suffered.
‘Libido is motivation, what you long for, lust after, what you want. Without it humanity wouldn’t exist. If we didn’t want anything in life we’d just lie down and die.’
Sofia glances at her half-eaten pie. If she’d had a hint of an appetite earlier, it’s completely vanished now. ‘One common belief,’ she goes on mechanically, ‘is that the libido can be disrupted by destructive relationships, particularly with your mother and father during childhood. Just think of all the irrational compulsive disorders, like a fear of germs or manic handwashing. In those cases the most important thing in life, its dream and desire, has become cleanliness.’