Chereads / The Swedish Sex Bomb / Chapter 6 - 6. The Only Star In Heaven

Chapter 6 - 6. The Only Star In Heaven

"Good morning, Miss Larsson. Did you sleep well tonight?", I laugh.

Frieda laughs back: "The late-night program showed the same nightmares as always, but every time I woke up, there were some comforting thoughts: «I've shot my fears», «I've killed my demons», «I've burnt my nightmares», «I'm not afraid», or «I've had a courage transfusion». Those little, bright stars made this night something special."

Mrs Holt doesn't believe her eyes. She stands up behind her counter, points her finger at Frieda and asks me, with the aggression of a predator: "What have you done with my patient?"

I give Frieda a wink and say: "I replaced her with a clone. She looks just like the late Miss Larsson, but she no longer takes shit from anyone. Don't worry, Mrs Holt. She won't kill you, as long as you provide her breakfast, lunch, and dinner on time."

Mrs Holt looks at us like we'll both need urgent therapy and more expensive medication, but she also notices how genuine Frieda's laughter is. She doesn't know what to make of it.

"Don't worry about me, Mrs Holt. My friend here has given me a new kind of therapy and it's… hopeful. Have you ever seen me laughing since I've been here?"

"You better take care. I have little confidence in everything that didn't prove its worth scientifically."

The scientific methods of the Kepler Clinic have proven, during the eight months Frieda spent here, to have no positive result at all, but I don't say that, of course, and laugh back at Frieda: "Today will be another fabulous day. I'll personally take care that nobody makes you cry."

Frieda takes my arm and together we go outside. Away from the Big-Brother's ears of Mrs Holt, she confesses: "I can't guarantee I won't cry, get sick, or suffer a panic attack. I feel better, but I'm not…"

"I know. Don't worry. I understand. We'll be careful with you. Those things take time. There's no use in trying to rush it. Important is feeling better and being hopeful. Time and Mother Nature will do the rest. It's called «patient» for a reason; quality needs time."

As we pass through the gates of the clinic, I remember something: "I bought you a little present this morning. It's nothing, really, just a silly, cheap piece of metal, but…"

I give Frieda a little paper bag. She opens it and looks surprised.

I explain: "It's a star. It's a symbol, bright and shining, something I look up to, something I admire for its beauty and its energy. You're the only star in heaven, Frieda. You're awful bright, you're awful smart, you have lots of wits, and lots of heart. It's great to be you. You're strong, you're young and you're beautiful. People look at you and think: «There goes a supernova». Your nightmares have cost you eight months. That's enough. Go shake your tail. Go make a wave. Live life like a diamond ring. Be the star in somebody's sky. Look at the stars and look at yourself like I look at you: you're an amazing woman."

I won't always be here to cheer you up with my words, but this little token might help you remember how you can keep your light shining, I think, but I don't say that, of course, because I don't want to spoil my little speech.

She hangs the chain with the little smiling gold star around her neck: "I don't know what to say."

"You might say «thank you»."

"I'm not beautiful."

"We're not going to discuss that. The taxi is waiting. We have a train to catch."

* * *

On our trip to the train station, I see the proof of what Frieda told me yesterday: Swedish people are active. It's early in the morning and still dark, but people of all ages run, cycle, or walk around with tennis rackets and sports bags. I could have been there too. When my work allows me, I run ten kilometres a week and visit the gym for one or two hours. Jogging is a great way to discover a city.

"What do you do to relax?", I ask Frieda.

"Most of all, I enjoy dancing. Agneta and I liked to visit a karaoke bar, to sing and dance. Do you like to dance?"

"I don't sing and I don't dance. I like sports better. Do you run? Do you ski?"

"Agneta and I play squash together, three or four times per week. She has a permanent reservation, every morning from 07:00 to 08:00 in Sport-hotel The Bridge."

"Would that be a lead to follow?", I ask.

"I called them twice. They haven't seen her since the last time we were there together."

I'm in doubt. Would it be inappropriate? Would Frieda like to play squash with me? It would help her recovery, it would be a pleasant way to start a day, and… I always do individual sports. It would be great to play a game against somebody else. I'd win easily, of course, but I can play with my left hand. I can challenge her, «the loser pays dinner», and let her win. The idea is tempting, but… No. I'm on a mission. I shouldn't think about something like that.

"Do you like to play squash?", Frieda asks.

"Yes, I like it. I like all kinds of sports, but the last time I played squash is a long time ago. Because of my work and all the travelling I do, I only have time for individual sports like jogging and a few hours in the gym. When I have a few days off, I like hiking and camping too."

"If you like, we can play squash together, tomorrow morning. The place is reserved and paid for. It would be a waste not to use it. I can use the exercise. It would be good for me to clear my head. What do you think? If you like, I can play with my wrong hand, my right hand, to give you a chance to win."

"Do you really think you have a chance?"

"The loser pays for lunch. With my 55 krona and 8 öre on my current account, that should warn you."

"It will be my pleasure to pay for lunch, but I'm not going to let you win."

"Deal. Tomorrow morning, at 06:30, I'll be waiting for you at the clinic."

Frieda's mysterious smile doesn't make me nervous. Even with my right hand tied to my back, I'm not going to lose.

* * *

We're early. We have to wait for the train. I decide to spend my time usefully and try to learn some Swedish. I connect my earplug to my spiPhone and start the MultiLanguage app. It records sounds and puts subtitles on the screen with their translation. It also sends the spoken translation to my earplug. When I say something, it recognises my voice and translates my words to the speaker of my spiPhone. Swedish – Letzebourg is available.

Frieda looks at a little girl who sits next to her mother, whining non-stop. The mother's busy with her phone, writing messages or something.

"I'm bored.", the child says. Her mother has no time. Frieda invites the blond girl with a gesture and a biscuit: "Come here and sit with me. I'm never bored. Do you know why? Because I have a wonderful toy, the most fascinating toy in the world. I always have it with me. I never go anywhere without it. Do you know where I keep it?"

She taps her temple: "Here. It is called Fantasy. It helps me when I'm sad, I use it to solve problems and… my fantasy helps me when I'm bored because it invents stories and games I can play. Do you know the game «what's your name and what's your work»?."

The little girl is interested. She nibbles the biscuit and shakes her blond curls for an answer.

"I'll teach it to you. First, I'll guess what your name is…" Frieda closes her eyes and moves her hands in mysterious ways: "I think… My Fantasy tells me… Your name is… Rosamunda NO-no-no-no… It's… Cayetana NO-no-no-no… Don't tell me… I feel it coming… It's almost there… Your name is… Annika. And your work is learning how to write and do sums at school. You sing songs, make drawings with coloured pencils, and do other important things."

Annika is flabbergasted and delighted at the same time: "Yes, that's right. My name is Annika. How did you know?"

«Because your mother called you Annika, about five minutes ago.», I think, but I don't say that, of course. I don't speak Swedish.

"Now it's your turn. Can you guess my name? Can you guess the work I do?", Frieda asks.

Annika puts a serious face, moves her hands in mysterious ways, as Frieda did before, closes her eyes, thinks deeply, and says without a blink: "Anna. And you are a baker. You bake bread."

Now it's Frieda's turn to be flabbergasted and delighted at the same time. She puts her hands on her mouth: "That's amazing. Yes, you are right. My name is Anna Frieda Kalsberg von Sachsen Pommern, but my friends call me Anna and… I'm a baker. I get up at four o'clock every morning to make the dough and put it in the oven. My entire village wakes up to the smell of fresh bread. I bake cakes, pies, and muffins too. Do you like that biscuit? I baked it myself. You are fantastic at this game. You have that toy of Fantasy too. Can you feel it inside your head?"

Frieda moves the tips of her index fingers in small circles on both her temples while she closes her eyes and says: "mmmm mmmm." Annika copies her movements and Frieda asks with a whisper: "It's like a little butterfly, with beautiful colours, and it flies around to wake up your Fantasy so you can think like you never thought before. Do you feel it?"

Annika whispers back: "Yes…"

"Okay. Let's see if we can guess the name of that serious man over there, the one with the newspaper. What do you think his name is?", Frieda asks.

Annika has no idea. She is still impressed by her little success in guessing the name of Anna and she is not confident to challenge her luck for the second time. Frieda tries to help her: "It might be Tommy. Or it might be Sven. Or it might be… Arvid. I'm not sure. What do you think?"

"Arvid.", says Annika, determined.

"And his profession is easy: he's a dentist. He likes to torture girls like you and me, telling them to open their mouths, hoping to find holes, so he can drill and hammer and take his big tongs to get all our teeth out, one by one, without anaesthesia. Don't you think so? He has the face of a dentist. He makes me a little scared. Do you feel afraid when you go to the dentist?"

Annika takes her role as the brave one of the two with flair: "No. You don't have to be afraid of the dentist. He gives you an injection and you won't feel anything. The dentist doesn't give you pain. He takes the pain away."

"Oh, that is good advice. I will follow that from now on. Thank you. And what do you think about that young man over there, the one playing with his phone? Do you know his name? It might be… Smurre, or Snerre… or Snotnose."

Annika laughs: "Snotnose? What kind of name is that? Nobody is called Snotnose."

"Shhh, or he'll hear us. Yes, his name is Snotnose and… he is the king of the garden dwarves. He tells them where to go, and what to do at night."

Now Annika laughs so loud that even the man with the newspaper looks up: "Garden dwarves?"

"Shhh. Yes. Did it never happen to you? You put your clothes in a neat pile before you go to sleep, but when you wake up the next morning, it's all one big mess. Or you're SURE you still had half a bar of chocolate, but you can't find it anywhere. The garden dwarves do that. They enter our houses at night to make a mess of our clothes, hide our socks, or eat our chocolate. Do you have a little night light in your bedroom?"

"Yes. Then it's not dark when I wake up."

"Oh, that helps. You better leave your light on. The garden dwarves like black nights. They don't like white lights. They prefer to go where it is the darkest dark of darkness. Their eyes can see in the dark, you know. Don't you believe me? Well, there is only one solution: ask that young man and find out if I told you the truth."

Annika's rolling laughter echoes through the empty station, but her curiosity beats her fear, she comes near, and whispers in my ear: "Are you Snotnose?"

I speak the answer to my mobile phone, so the app can translate my words from Letzebourg to Swedish, making it all more mysterious than Annika could ever imagine: "Yes, I am Snotnose the First, king of the garden dwarves. What can we do for you?"

Annika runs back to Frieda, not able to choose between disbelief, amazement, and enthusiasm: "It's true. He is the king of the garden dwarves. How did you know?"

Frieda flashes a mysterious smile and whispers: "My Fantasy told me. It has so many stories. Do you want to hear a story about the garden dwarves? Or do you want to hear the tale of the mountain trolls?"

Annika hangs on Frieda's lips until her train arrives. She wants Frieda to come with her, but Frieda can't, she has to take another train. She promises to tell another story, the next time they meet. Annika hugs her and hurries behind her mother.

"You are amazing.", I say to Frieda after the train has left. She tries to wave the compliment away with a gesture, but I insist: "No, really. Did you ever think about teaching children? Did you ever think about writing children's books? You have something… Kids love you. They look up to you."

"There is no future in teaching. And there is even less future in writing books. People don't read. I'm studying management and I will end my days in an office, telling other people what to do. That's what my fantasy tells me.", Frieda says flatly.

"You should not tell stories for the money, but because you are good at it. Don't you remember Astrid Lindgren, the woman who wrote the stories of Pippi Longstocking? She was just a mother who invented bedtime stories for her little girl. One day, someone convinced her to write those stories down and she became the most famous Swedish person ever."

Frieda smiles: "Well, thank you for liking my story about the garden dwarves. Do you want to hear another one? Or shall I tell you the tale of the mountain trolls?"

"I want to tell you my plan for today, and I want to hear your opinion about it. We'll need a lot of fantasy to find your sister, and we can use the help of King Snotnose the First of the garden dwarves too."

"Did King Snotnose tell you to go to Gothenburg today?"

"Your mother gave me the idea and #2, The Nerd, gave me the information that confirmed my intuition. Who benefits from Agneta's disappearance? I checked her agenda: she reserved this entire week to do a photoshoot for the new Fishion Fashion summer collection catalogue. Your sister gets 25.000 krona per hour for dressing hot and being shot. That's a lot of money. Her photo will be hanging on every train station, bus stop and street corner for three months. That's a lot of exposure. With your sister not available, the job, the money and the exposure go to… Camilla L."

I drop a dramatic pause, meant to impress Frieda with my professional thinking, my training to solve even the most difficult riddles, my intuition, and my superb intelligence. One day, those qualities will make me the best spy in the world.

The train arrives. It takes us five minutes to find our reserved seats. I put my backpack in the luggage compartment above our heads and go to the restaurant wagon for two coffees. When I get back, Frieda concludes: "We're trying to catch a red herring. Models don't kidnap their competition. Women don't think like that. My intuition tells me the government is behind this. Agneta wanted to run for President. In a world ruled by Left and Right, she wanted to go Forward. For a model like Camilla, being the number two also guarantees lots of attention and well-paid work, but for a political leader, there's only one place that counts: number one, the leader, the King, the monkey on the top of the rock. Kings go to war and fight each other to the death. Like Macbeth."

"The King I know sings «Love Me, Tender»."

"Why are you so cynical if I don't agree with you? You asked for my opinion and this is it."

How do I explain this? I'm a professional. Secrets are my daily pastime. I like Frieda and I like to talk with her, but here, we're talking about secret service scientific intelligence vs. very non-scientific female intuition.

The whistle urges us to conclude: "Do you prefer to leave the train and stay here in Stockholm, to interview the local leaders?"

Frieda takes a deep breath and watches how the train station moves out of sight: "I don't know. You're the professional. You told me to trust you, and I do want to trust you, and I do hope you're right with your suspicions against this walking coat hanger, Camilla…"

"… or Kjell Eriksson, the CEO of Fishion Fashion. The Nerd found interesting information in Kjell's agenda: he and Camilla are having lunch today in The Rising Star, the most trendy and most expensive restaurant in Gothenburg. After buying your little smiling star as a present, it felt like some kind of prophecy: the rising star of Camilla, the only star in the heaven of modelling now your sister disappeared in a Black Hole."

Still, Frieda is not convinced: "A prophecy, based on a coincidence. That's indeed highly scientific. And how does this star shine her light on the case we're working on?"

"That's easy. Trust me. I'm a professional. I've studied this spy work for years. My teachers are among the best on the planet: Ian Fleming, Robert Ludlum, Alistair MacLean, Jan Guillou, John le Carré, Daniel Silva… The plan consists of three steps: isolation, pressure, and confession. First, we find out which of our two targets is guilty. Then we isolate hor and put hor under pressure until she breaks. The only really difficult part of the process is the decision of what to do with hor after she confessed. Are you capable of killing the killer of your sister in cold blood? Would you lock up the kidnapper and treat her like she treated your sister? But that's something we can solve later. First, we have to focus on how to break hor strength and make hor confess."

"And how do you do that, according to the specialists you studied?"

"It depends on who our criminal is. If it's Kjell—"

"If Kjell kidnapped my sister, he would do that because he wanted to take photos of her. If you suggest that Kjell, a man, a businessman, kidnaps a model, and immediately contracts and pays another model, less attractive, to do the work, you should go back to school and study some other specialists."

I don't know what to say.

Frieda helps me: "You can say: «Sorry, you're correct, that was a stupid idea.»"

"Sorry. You're completely right. Suspecting Kjell was about the most stupid idea I had since I was born. We should focus on Camilla. She's the one who benefits from the situation. How do we put pressure on her? It's easy: she's all image. When we destroy that image, she'll do anything we ask for. When we accuse her of a bigger crime, she'll confess the smaller crime."

"What crime is bigger than kidnapping and perhaps even murdering Sweden's most beautiful woman and upcoming President?"

"It's subjective. For Camilla, kidnapping and murder hardly are matters to worry about. It's her image she'll fight for. Her pride and honour are at stake. When we destroy her image, she'll feel the confession of kidnapping as a minor crime."

Frieda shakes her head: "And how do you destroy the image of the second most beautiful woman in Sweden? Do you want to make her ugly?"

I feel confident again: "I want to make her LOOK ugly. We tell the world she's an alcoholic and a drug addict, or we publish false medical files about her eating disorder, or we promise to send our photoshopped pictures of her, in bed with a married man, to every newspaper and magazine, or we break into her accountant's office and reveal how she's avoiding taxes. There must be something we can find, and we have a four-hour trip on the train to look for it."

Frieda doesn't stop shaking her head: "I thought you wanted to destroy her image. All you do is make her more popular. And how exactly do you get close enough to isolate her?"

This is the best part of my plan. When I cooked it up, last night, I was so excited I couldn't sleep. I worked out every detail and packed everything we'll need in my backpack: "We're going to transform you into a top model. I'm going to act like your manager. Together, we'll convince Kjell you're a far better option for the photoshoot than this horrible Camilla."

With a smile of triumph, I empty my cup. In the heaven of international dark secrets, I'm the only star. I have grit, I have wit, and I have it. I'm even learning to trust my intuition. That's experience, taking over. That's talent, combined with intelligence. I'm good at this game.

Frieda's joy has drowned in her coffee. Her sadness gives me a bad feeling. She looks out of the window and drops her closing argument: "Which brings us back to the unfinished conversation we had earlier this morning: I'm not beautiful. If you think I can compete and win a beauty contest against the number two most beautiful woman in Sweden, you must be out of your mind. I trusted a complete idiot and a blind man as well. It's best to take the first train back as soon as we arrive. We're wasting our time."

I don't understand: "But… I'm not blind. I've seen photos of Camilla, and she's quite attractive with all those curves and her plastic lips and her impressive DD cup, but… you outmodel her with two fingers in your nose."

"My nose is too long. Camilla's nose is perfect."

"Your smile melts the Greenland glacier in seconds."

"My lips are too thin. Camilla's lips are full and healthy."

"Your eyes—"

"I have one green eye and one blue eye. Is there even one model in the world with two different eyes? And you forget the worst, Benny. Did you ever look at me? Did you ever look at my face? Don't tell me you've missed a spot, my tiny little birthmark, covering almost the entire left side of my face. That pretty red spot with the colour of an expensive French Bordeaux. It matches so nicely with the other half of my face, white as a cheap German Riesling. I don't care what you think. When I watch myself in the mirror every morning, I hear how the children at school yelled at me: «Two-Face. Watch out. Batman is coming to catch you.» I'm ugly, Benny, and if you try to tell me I'm not, you're crazy."

I'm not good with words. Everybody who knows me, knows I never, never, never judge people because of the colour of their skin. Neither do I base my opinion about anyone on their religion, their sexual liking, their nationality, or their gender. My friend Scarlett is black, my friend Doc is Cuban, and my friend Malik is Arab. It's true, Frieda's face has something I've never seen with other people: about one-third of her face has the colour of red wine. But I don't think it makes her unattractive. She has so many positive sides, and they outnumber her minor points easily. Her long hair with its broad curls and its spectacular cherry colour. That's attractive. Her smile and that twinkle in her eyes when she's having fun. That's attractive. Her slender figure is athletic, but also female and soft. That's attractive. I like the way she walks. I like how she moves her hand through her hair. She thinks before she says something, and she never says something stupid like I do. I like her energy, her optimism, her intelligence, her kindness, her strength to fight her demons, and her sense of humour. How can I ever tell her she's beautiful and so much more than that?

I can't.

I shouldn't.

Everything I say will be a waste of energy.

I have to solve the problem and I have to solve it fast, or I will lose her trust and her support. This mission is too complicated for me to handle alone. I need her. We're a team. I have to find the right words, for once.

But I'm not good with words.

I'm the «Show, Don't Tell» half of humanity.

I open my backpack and take out a little box that, when you open it, has a mirror on one side and some colours on the other. I have less than ten seconds to save this mission: "How's this?"

"Horrible."

I have a red, painted smile, as big as a scar, all across my face, I have black eyes, and I have a demonic grin: "If you're Two-Face, I'm The Joker. We're a team. You can't do this without me, and I need you because I can't do this alone either. As long as we work together, no superhero can defeat us. When you look in the mirror, my dear, you forget one important thing: as a professional spy, I have everything in my backpack to change you into who you want to be. With this putty and this dark skin paint, I can turn you into Whoopi Goldberg, and with these false teeth and this moustache, I can transform you into Freddie Mercury. Who wants to live the same life forever when you can live the life of another Hollywood star every new day? Do you want to cry until your mirror breaks? Or do you allow me to make you laugh and enjoy the spy game? If you want to play with me, you need to play by my rules, and they say you're beautiful. You're the only star that shines. Enjoy it or get out of the game."

It works. Frieda laughs through her upcoming tears: "You're crazy."

"I'm The Joker, babe. Being brilliant and being crazy are so close that sometimes it's hard to see the difference. But I want to hear an answer. Are we going to use this make-up to make you irresistible? Or do we take the first train back and forget about the whole thing? It's quite a shame to lose a game, but the only way you can fail is by not playing."

Frieda doesn't say anything. She looks out of the window while she moves her right hand through her hair.

"When I found you, you were sad. I like you better when you're laughing. Yesterday, I tried to take away your fears, and it worked. When you looked in the mirror this morning, you thought you were ugly. Let me change your outside today like I changed your inside yesterday. You're not ugly. I'm ugly. We can fix you with a little paint. My looks are lost forever. I have to be the manager. You have to be the model. Together, we can do this. Trust me."

Frieda looks away, with deep thoughts. I'm not sure, but I get the impression she's having doubts: "You don't think it's a good idea."

"No. I know you're the spy and I have absolutely no experience in how to do this, but… Camilla is a woman. She's a model. She's not afraid of bad publicity. On the contrary. She lives from publicity. Bad publicity always draws more attention than anything else… You're not scaring her by telling the world about her secrets; you're doing her a favour. You won't break her by putting a beautiful model next to her; she's too arrogant. She'll keep thinking she's Sweden's most beautiful woman, even when her skin turns green with purple pimples. I like you, Benny, but I don't like this plan. I don't like it at all."

I think about it for a few minutes. Perhaps Frieda isn't a trained and experienced spy, but she beats me easily when it comes to training and experience as a woman. Her point of view is clear and I can't shoot any holes in her theory.

"I guess you're right. The more I think about it, the more it sounds like a stupid idea. But at least it's an idea. As long as we don't have a better idea, it's something we can try."

"And what if I have a better idea? I have this toy called Fantasy, you know. Someone suggested I should do more with it. Do you trust me?"