Unspoken

only once before, during his honeymoon to Israel. One day he and Ann-Sofie had gone on a snorkeling expedition. As they moved below the surface of the silent sea, it was like being in another dimension. Undisturbed, untouched by the constant noise of the rest of the world. That was the only time he had gone snorkeling, but the experience had stayed with him as a pleasant memory.
    He had been working for quite a while when he was interrupted by a discreet knock on the door. Instinctively he froze and listened carefully. Who could it be? It had to be close to midnight.
    The knocking came again, slower and longer. He lifted the photo he was working on from the rinse bath and hung it up to dry as thoughts whirled through his mind.
    Should he open the door? Common sense told him that it would be best not to. This might have something to do with his winnings. Someone who wanted the money. The news about his win certainly must have spread by now. The sound coming from the other side of the door signified danger. His mouth went dry. Although it could just as well be Bengan.
    “Who is it?” he shouted.
    The question hung in the darkness. No reply, utter silence. He sank down onto a stool, fumbled for the liquor bottle, and took several quick swigs. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. He sat totally still and waited, though he didn’t know what he was waiting for.
    Suddenly someone began pounding hard from a different direction, on the windowpane. He gave such a start that he nearly dropped the bottle on the floor. The last of his drunkenness vanished, and he stared up at the cardboard covering the window, hardly daring to breathe.
    Then it came again. Hard, loud. As if the person out there wasn’t using his knuckles but some sort of tool. The ceiling and walls closed in. Terror seized him by the throat. Here he sat, trapped like a rat, while someone out there was toying with him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his guts turned over. He needed to go to the toilet.
    The pounding changed into a rhythmic thudding, a monotonous banging against the basement window. No one in the building would hear his cries for help. Not in the middle of the night on an ordinary weekday. Could the person or persons out there break the window? It would still be impossible to get in because the window was much too small. He had locked the door—he was sure of that.
    All of a sudden there was silence. Every muscle in his body was on edge. He listened for sounds that weren’t there.
    For almost an hour he sat in the same frozen position before he dared to stand up. The hasty movement made him dizzy, and he staggered and saw flashing white stars in the dark. He had to go to the bathroom right now; he couldn’t hold it any longer. His legs could barely support him.
    When he opened the door he realized instantly that he had made a mistake.
    Fanny studied herself in the mirror as she ran a comb through her shiny hair. Her eyes were dark brown, and her complexion was also dark. A Swedish mother and West Indian father. Mulatto, without having a trace of typical African features. Her nose was small and straight and her lips narrow. Raven-black hair that reached all the way to her waist. Some people took her to be Indian or North African, while others guessed that she came from Morocco or Algeria.
    She had just stepped out of the shower and put on underpants and a big T-shirt. Freshly scrubbed with the stiff brushes that she bought at Åhléns department store. They tore at her body and made her skin tender. Her mother had asked her what she needed brushes like that for.
    “For scrubbing myself. They make you a lot cleaner. And it’s good for the skin,” she replied. She explained that the smell from the horses clung to her. The shower had become her best friend.
    She turned sideways and studied her thin body in profile. Her shoulders drooped. If she straightened her back, her breasts stuck out and seemed even bigger. That’s why she always walked slightly bent over. She had developed early. By the seventh grade, she already had breasts. At first she had done everything she could to hide them. Big, baggy shirts helped.
    The worst was in gym class. Even though she wore a sports bra that flattened out her breasts, they still were visible when she jumped or ran. The changes in her body made her feel sick. Why did everyone get so disgusting when they grew up? She shaved under her arms as soon as the slightest sign of hair appeared. Not to