"Hello, dArling. I'm SO excited to have you. I make you gOrgeous."
Maj Wahlöö is irritated. She doesn't like waiting in line. That's why she made an appointment with her hairdresser at exactly 14:00. She doesn't like surprises either. I'm a surprise.
"Who are you?"
"I'm a surprise. Isn't that exCIting?"
"Where's Liza?"
Liza Marklund, of Liza's Likable Lifestyle, is having a nap. We offered her a nice sum to take over her shop and her only client for the afternoon, but it didn't work. Liza isn't that kind of woman. She is loyal to her clients. They trust her. She's an artist. She's not for sale. We had no other choice but to break a small capsule of Tumble Tornado under her nose and put her in the solarium (without turning the toaster on, of course; those things are dangerous if you stay under the grill too long).
"Liza had an emERgency, with the dEntist. She called ME. I'm Gigi. All the way from Milano, dArling. I know ALL the secrets to make you beAUtiful. I'm SO excited to have you. I have grEAt ideas. And we have one more surprise: TadAAAH…
Frieda enters from behind the curtain. She's black, with a wig of long black curls that jump around like rabbits in a box, a broad, round nose, and a spectacular red set of artificial lips.
"It's Mari, dArling. Mari Jungstead. She did the styling for HILLary during her eLECtion campaign. She makes you gOrgeous."
Maj is hardly impressed: "Hillary lost."
"That's because I, Gigi, did the hair of DOnald, dArling. But now, you have us bOth, togEther. You jUst cAn't lOse. We make you gOrgeous."
"I don't want to be gorgeous. I want Liza, my Spanish Harlem Mona Liza."
"Don't worry. Liza will be back soon. You take your seat and relax.", Mari/Frieda smiles. She opens the curtain and shows Maj the way to the chair, the electric chair, which we prepared for her, with creativity, fantasy, and surprises.
Maj isn't quite convinced she wants this, but nevertheless, she takes her seat, leans back, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, deep enough to inhale the capsule of Tumble Tornado I break under her nose.
* * *
OC-V 340 a.k.a. Tumble Tornado is harmless. When you wake up, you feel depressed, you have a sore throat, and often a slight headache, a few hours of light and temporal inconveniences. But the waking up itself is much slower than opening your eyes in the morning when your alarm clock goes off. It takes about five minutes for the sleeping beauty to realise where she is and what has happened. During that time, her thinking goes rather slow. It's not like waking up from a nightmare; the sleep that Tumble Tornado causes is dreamless. It's more like waking up INTO a nightmare, sitting in a barber's chair, your hands and feet well duct-taped, looking into a mirror that covers the entire wall in front of you, and not believing that the person you're looking at is you.
The alarm clock is me, saying: "Ladies and gentlemen, let me present you: Mrs Maj Wahlöö, possibly the most gOrgeous thing on this side of the world… Look, dArling. It's YOU! Don't you lOve it? Don't you lOve it, Mari?"
Frieda nods: "I love it, Gigi. She wins the elections. I call her President from now on."
I agree: "The hEAd of the nAtion. Isn't it exCIting?"
The head of the nation itself looks puzzled. Every time she looked in a mirror, she used to see the same face: a healthy, round face with a smooth white skin, thick gold-blond hair at the right length (too long makes her look frivolous, and too short makes her look old), a pair of bright blue eyes, and a carefully Botoxed mouth, the Socialist Party leader's favourite tool.
The Botoxed mouth is still there, but her lips are black as Martin Luther King's funeral.
The smooth white skin is still smooth and white, but adorned with twenty tattoos, like the one on her forehead, showing her social security number in big (Broadway 32 pitch) bold blue digits.
And the thick gold-blond hair is still thick and gold-blond, but we have reduced its length to POW camp-style.
The only real alarming assets are her bright blue eyes; they are bloodshot red now, like the peepers of Dracula's bride.
Both Frieda, I mean, Mari, and I are exCIted. We've done a fantAstic job. We're sure she'll lOve it.
It wasn't my idea, by the way. I handled the case Per Sjöwall, a man, with a male and liberal way of thinking. When it comes to understanding the mind of Maj Wahlöö, a woman and a socialist, I happily rely on Frieda. Frieda explained to me how important «image» is, for a woman, but also for a political leader of the Socialist Party, with Equality as their main election slogan. Mrs Wahlöö has a completely different image now. We can be proud of ourselves. We've got ourselves a winner here.
"Who's this?", Maj asks, with difficulty.
"This is Maj WAHlöö, the leader of the Socialist PARty, dArling. Aren't you thRILLed?"
Maj isn't fully awake yet. While she stares at the image in front of her, she wonders: "Is this Maj Wahlöö? Please, let me tell you about the way she looks, the colour of her hair, her skin is smooth and white, her eyes are clear and bright, and I'm looking everywhere, but she's not there."
My smile gets wider with every compliment Maj gives us: "No, of course not, dArling. The old Maj was SO much 2017: too pretty, too literary, too much elite. Look what Mari did with your fashion…"
With a wide swing, I remove the light-blue linen that covers Maj's body. She's dressed in a potato bag; rough cloth in a shitty brown colour, with rough holes for her head and each of her arms.
"Finally, Flash Fashion for EVeryone. No more looking dOwn at others because they can't affOrd as much as their rOle mOdel to conceal their nAkedness. Equality has its price, and it's a REAL bArgain.", I laugh.
Frieda fully supports me (the majority always wins): "We understand «equality». You are now equal like everyone. We do away the privacy. We can see. Others earn the same. Have the same. Do the same. We do away with the long hair, the brown hair, and the curls. Gold-blond. Superior. Everyone the same. We do away with the red lips. Men get horny when they see red lips. You're not a stripper. Black is beautiful. Everyone the same. No more #metoo stories either. It's perfect. Gigi and I, we'll get lots of clients. Everyone the same. You're not the follower; you're the trendsetter. Look at you. You're stylish."
Maj can't stop her tears now: "But… But… I'm not like everybody else… I'm a leader. I have to be different."
Frieda shakes her head: "No. A leader is the example to follow. Imagine. All leaders of our cuntry, having affairs. What would happen to families? They follow. They all start screwing around. With nobody to take care of our children. We can't have that. Families First."
Frieda and I, we're like two stand-up comedians. We give each other the cross pass and let our teammate score. It gives me such a glorious feeling, working with her: "No-no-no-no-no-no. She's the exAMple, but she's also the LEAder, dArling. She's POlitics. In politics, your image is EVerything. But don't worry, dArling. Gigi isn't here to write critiques. Gigi is here to bring solutions. Look."
I take my red rubber clown's nose out of my pocket and put it on Maj's nose: "I make you SPEcial, dArling. I am somebody who wOn't make you feel like a clown. I'm an ARtist. Thanks to ME, you'll make people lAugh. You make Sweden hAppy. They vOte you. You're stYlish. You'll be the Pretty President. Thanks to ME, Gigi."
I'm glad I can afford myself a triumphant smile because it helps me to control myself and not burst out in a shatter of laughter. Sorry. I can't help it: I LOVE my job.
Frieda is excited too: "Oh, Gigi. You're a genius. Now, she'll always keep her nose clean. You know how to make a girl feel special."
We both LOVE this job.
"This is pERfect. Politics is IMage. Politics is entertAINment. The former Italian President was a stand-up comEdian, with all his Bunga Bunga pArties; he was the lAugh of the cOntinent. And what about that clOwn with the white hair in DUtch politics? His political activity is a cartOOn-contest, to make us lAugh. And the Absolute winner of this Mickey Mouse competition is, of course, the AmErican President; he's hiLArious with all his funny one-liners. And WHO did their HAIR?", I ask with a broad smile.
"Those are all right-wing politicians. I'm a left-wing politician.", Maj sobs.
I don't let my enthusiasm suffer from some minor damper: "What's the difference? In every country with a parliamentary democracy, politics is just a way to get what you want, for yourself and your friends. For right-wing politicians, those friends are the rich owners of everything with their companies. For left-wing politicians, those friends are the people who get money without working for it. What does the working class get? They produce all the solutions and pay for everything, but they get nothing.
» What is your policy? Equality. Does that solve anything, my dear Maj? No. It's just a ridiculous one-liner to make us laugh. Nobody wants to be like all the others. We're all unique individuals. Politics must take care of everyone, not just of those who fit the profile.
» How about a new show? Forget about all this image and looking good. Convince the voters with what you can DO for them. Switch to a new slogan: Togetherness. Sweden doesn't belong to you, or me, or anybody. Sweden belongs to all of us. We, everyone, together, need to work and make it a better place."
Frieda takes over: "You're a mother. Do you cook only for the one who brings in the money, or do you cook for the entire family? Mothers give everyone their share and their tasks in the household. You don't want to be the President of a country, divided between two tribes. When two tribes go to war, one point is all that you can score. You don't want one point; you want to score them all. There's nothing above Sweden. You want everyone in Europe to shout: Twelve points to Sweden! You want to be the mother of everything and you can be it, but only if you unite the two tribes, only when you work together with your former political opponent, Per Sjöwall. Switch off your shield of protection and show the world how much you two love each other. Is this a revolutionary idea or not?"
Maj's tears make our make-up disappear. All our work goes down the drain: "Per Sjöwall will never love me again if I look like this."
I try to cheer her up: "We regret to announce that today's training «How to handle deceptions» is cancelled, again. Your husband and your children will love you more. Beauty is elegance. Beauty is doing the right thing at the right time. Beauty is intelligence and reason. And yes, very often, beauty is expressed in curves. We can add a belt to your dress and accent your full figure."
Frieda steps between Maj and the mirror, takes Maj's chin in her right hand, forcing her to look each other in the eyes and says, with a serious voice: "Do you want a man who only loves you for your looks? Or do you want a man who respects you for what you are, a man who commits himself to do whatever it takes to support you, a man who helps you to fulfil your dreams about making Sweden the number one country, turning Swedish citizens into the happiest people in the world?"
Maj can't see well through her tears: "For you, it's easy to say that. You're beautiful. Look at me. I'm ugly. I'm finished. I've lost my job, my love, my life."
With her left hand, Frieda takes off her wig. I hand her a wet towel with soap, so she can remove the dark make-up from the skin of her face and hands. The round nose and the artificial lips also stay behind in the wipe. She takes out the jaw enhancers and the coloured contact lenses. In less than 10 seconds, she becomes Frieda again: "You're ugly? You're finished? You have lost everything? Do you know who I am?"
Maj's sadness has disappeared. Sudden shock has taken its place: "Yes, I do. You're Frieda Larsson. You're Agneta's sister. Aren't you supposed to be in some kind of clinic, kicking some kind of drug habit?"
"I came out of the medicine cabinet to find my missing sister. A little perakeet lovebird told me you gave the order for her to disappear."
"I know nothing about that.", Maj says, but the way she looks away says she's lying.
I take my place next to Frieda and point my index finger at the destroyed woman in the chair in front of me: "We'll give you a choice, Mrs Wahlöö. If you tell us where we can find Agneta Larsson, dead or alive, we'll undo all the damage we did to you today. We'll even give you the perfect plan to win the elections and become the next President of Sweden. But if you don't… you're finished."
Maj looks from me to Frieda and back to me again. She can't believe we're negotiating. For such an insignificant piece of information, she can get her life back and make her dreams come true? There must be a trick. Nobody sells success for such a low price.
Frieda understands: "My sister means the world to me. Giving you Sweden in return, that's a bargain for me. But if you prefer to stay like you are, I'll take my sister's place and take over her responsibility. I prefer to save our country from this eternal war between two tribes, but if you want war, you can have it. You're already tattooed like a Highlander or a Celt. Will your brutal force be enough to stop the invasion of Roman culture and progress?"
I add: "Everybody is waiting for a new change to come around, waiting for the day when the King of Capital and the Queen of Kindness take each other's hand and step onto the dance floor, to open the ball and lead this country, together. We're waiting for the Queen to say «I Do»."
Maj shakes her millimetred head: "I don't see this happening."
"You don't see a lot of other things either. It's time to open your eyes. If you tell us what you've done with Frieda's sister Agneta, we'll put you back on top. It's an easy choice."
Maj looks away, again. She needs time to think. I'm not willing to give her that time. I'm playing «bad cop»: "Maj! If you don't give me your answer right now, I'll share the video I recorded with this button camera. If you're not with us, you're against us. You ain't got no one to depend on, except us."
Frieda plays «good cop»: "Give the woman a break. It's a tough decision. She'll have to break with her past, say goodbye to all her former illusions, unlearn all her old skills, forget her old religion of Equality, and start all over again, with Togetherness, with new ideas and ideals, with new and better ways to treat others, giving a new sort of example to the ten million people who see her every day, along with the rest of the world that will be curious to find out. You can't force a woman into loving you or your ideas, you know. If you want her to love you, you'll have to be patient. Trust her to be intelligent enough to make the right decisions for everyone, not only for this moment, but also for the next millennium. Maj is such a woman. She's a mother, a teacher, a nurse, and a hard worker. You can trust her to be perfect for the job. But you should respect her. Give her the time to think this over."
I surrender: "I'm sorry, Frieda. Of course. You're right. Do you want a coffee? In the old days, when cowboy number one was tired of fighting the Indians, the two tribes sat together and smoked some kind of weed to sign the peace. Today, we know smoking is bad for your health (there aren't many Indians left, thanks to that habit), so I suggest a cup of coffee to sign the peace."
"I have my coffee black, no milk or sugar.", Maj says.
"And I don't drink that liquid tar from that machine over there. I suggest you go out and buy fresh beans, Colombian or Arabica, grind them with the coffee grinder you'll find in the kitchen, and prepare the coffee with that little Italian percolator I saw on the stove.", Frieda says.
A smart move. Brewing a peace potion will buy Maj the time she'll need to digest her new insight. Also, Frieda makes Maj feel she's on her side now, giving two women the majority in a world, formerly dominated by angry, aggressive white males. This angry, aggressive white male bows his humble head, submissive to this lioness with her long, beautiful, cherry-red auburn chestnut manes and her cold cold eyes (the blue eye gives me a wink while the left corner of her thin lips slightly curls up into an amused smile: she's having so much fun here).
There's a small supermarket nearby. It doesn't sell Colombian or Arabica beans, but it has excellent ground coffee and fresh milk. With the ground coffee in the grinder, I produce the sound effects to convince my audience in the other room they're getting the real thing, and I make three cups of fresh coffee as instructed. I even thought of buying biscuits. Hey! I'm #5, The Runner, babe, and I'm good at this game.
When the cups are empty, Frieda and I look at Maj, without saying a word because we've already said enough. It takes Maj three deep breaths, two uncertain "But…"s and one hopeless look over her shoulder towards the cavalry that doesn't come to rescue her, but finally, she opens up and confesses her crimes: "Agneta… Your sister… Agneta is with the angels…"
Frieda puts her hands before her mouth: "YOU KILLED HER?"
"No, not those angels. C.H.A.O.S. has her, the Charismatic Hospitality Angels Of Sweden.", Maj explains.
"Who are they?", I ask. I've never heard the name. It sounds like a dirt cheap bikers club that Maj uses for her dirty deeds.
Frieda follows the Swedish news more often than I do: "They call themselves guardian angels, but the Swedish press calls them terrorists. Did you read «1984» by George Orwell?"
I nod. Frieda goes on: "George Orwell explained the three-layer society. Layers one and two are the Rulers and the Opponents, the two tribes that fight for the power to dominate the third layer, the powerless Majority. In the book, Winston Smith makes us think about why the Majority is dominated by two minorities that only think about themselves. The Majority wants to educate their children, but the Rulers and Opponents want the Majority to stay stupid. The Majority wants peace, but the Rulers want war, to destroy the aggressive Opponents and to control the stupid Majority. Big Brother wins. If all the workers and consumers of any country in the world decide to join forces, the power of the Rulers disappears immediately. Imagine: the Rulers declare war and nobody shows up…"
"And what do the Charismatic Angels want? Are they the Opponents?", I ask.
"No. The Rulers and the Opponents are the leaders of the left-wing and the right-wing political parties. Every four years, they go to war. They call it «elections» and fight with words, but they fight for the power and the winner takes it all. When the Opponents win, they become the Rulers and the former Rulers become the Opponents. And then the complete circus starts again.
» The Charismatic Angels form the political side of the Majority. They are against democracy, against political leaders, against elections, against everything. They want Society to rule itself."
"That's impossible. People need leaders.", I object.
"Impossible is nothing. Do you know wattpad.com? It's a community of writers and readers. They don't have leaders, they don't have left or right, they are just millions of individuals who rule their own community, together, based on some simple rules of trust, respect and commitment, and they give millions of free stories to the rest of the world, for entertainment and to learn from. Do you remember the ants? They work together without anyone telling them what to do and how to do it. People don't need leaders to tell them what to do. People need teachers, who show us that education is more profitable than destruction. People need nurses, who take care of the ones who need help, so they can get better and help others. People need mothers, who give everyone in their household one of the tasks that need to be done. Every mother is a manager who motivates her family to give it their best and let each one do what she's good at."
"And the Charismatic Hospitality Angels Of Sweden are those lovely caring mothers?", I wonder.
Now it's Maj who fills in the blanks: "Not exactly. They are terrorists. They are invented by… eh… by Mister Sjöwall and myself, to avoid people from getting the wrong ideas. That's why they have kidnapped Agneta Larsson. Agneta was giving society the wrong ideas."
"I don't follow you.", I say.
Maj switches to «teacher mode»: "Traditional politics gives society the choice between Left and Right, or, like Frieda and George Orwell see it, the Majority can choose if they want the Rulers or the Opponents to tell them what to do. Both Left and Right have a chance against each other, but they would lose every battle if the Majority understood there is a third option. So we, Per and I, filled in that third option, and coloured it as «terrorism». We created an enemy to get the country behind us. Sow fear and harvest power. That would keep things simple again: Left or Right, because any alternative is unthinkable.
» The Americans use «Communists» for that reason, by the way. They start wars in Vietnam and Korea to show their voters why the rich invaders are the good guys and the poor victims all deserve to die. In Europe, we invented a humane way of keeping control of the situation.
» But then Agneta started to explain how the Majority could easily take over the power, even without elections, just by making the choice between Good and Bad instead of Left and Right, by voting topics instead of democratic dictators, by spending their time, money, and energy to do well in silence instead of paying all their attention to the shouting of the violent. Agneta was a threat like our world hasn't seen in the complete history of humanity. We couldn't let that happen. She had to disappear. But… we are civilised leaders, Per and me. Killing her would not be acceptable. So we… well… I… because Per lets me do all the work… because I'm the working class, he says… I contacted our man in Malmö and he handled the rest."
"Don't you feel guilty? Don't you have a problem with that policy?", Frieda asks.
"Per and I have an affair. I love him. I do everything for him. Of course, I also love my husband and my children, but Per… He likes it when I wear a leather suit and whip him, cuff him, humiliate him, spank him… I like it too, you know. I never played erotic power games with my husband. He's not bad, he's my spouse, but in bed, he's a mouse. He never satisfies me as Per does."
We're living in a land where Sex and Horror are the new leaders…
Maj sees my body language and the expression on my face. She feels the necessity to defend herself and her behaviour: "In the old days, girls were educated with the obligation to be sweet and kind to others. We had to put our own desires and emotions aside, so we could serve the world and its white male leaders, in politics and at home. Most modern women still find it difficult to admit that such a life doesn't make us happy, but I enjoy dominating a man, spanking him when he doesn't do what I tell him, and that man likes it too. Nobody knows. Nobody gets hurt. We're not doing anything wrong."
"You hate being slapped, so now you start happy slapping others instead? You hated it when others treated you like shit, and you solve the problem by treating them in the same way? If you punish your family with fried boogers for dinner, you forget you're eating at the same table. Do you want to be right? Or do you want to be happy? It's time you take your responsibility, lady.", I snap back.
Frieda stays cool and efficient: "Where can we find CHAOS's headquarters? Do you have an address and a name?"
Maj writes the info on a piece of paper. A long and deep sigh escapes my throat. We're close to the end of our mission. Agneta is still alive. Malmö is only six hundred kilometres from here. It doesn't matter if we go tonight and find a place to sleep there, or we go tomorrow: every possible scenario solves this Mission «Miss Missing» within twenty-four hours.
Frieda's plan worked perfectly. We've prepared well, with the disguises, but also rehearsing the discussion about George Orwell and all the political stuff. The ideas come from Agneta's files. The final reward for Maj is also a product of Agneta's notes.
"We promised to give you your job back. We already have Per on his knees. He's ready to support you, but you'll need to support him back. He accepted to respect you and your political ideas, about the strong taking care of the weak, but you'll need to respect Per and his friends: they don't want to work for leaders that give all their income away to people who do nothing. You two have to trust each other and bury the axe of war. The plan, the solution we promised, is simple: you and Per will both become the next Presidents of Sweden."
"WHAT?" Maj can't believe it.
Frieda explains: "Per will be the father of Sweden, taking care of production and bringing in the money we all need. You're the mother who takes care of us. You're not giving Per's money to your jobless children, letting them take care of themselves, no, you're going to teach them. Money is a valuable thing. Per has to work hard for it and every child should try to learn and do its best, contributing to the entire family with fascinating and fulfilling activities for themselves."
I add some examples: "Old folks are excellent teachers and perfect babysitters. Talk with them, listen to what they need and give them the tools so they can make themselves useful while they provide a priceless (=free) service to all the working women in Sweden. Motivate companies to hire disabled workers and set up an organization that brings those two groups together. We don't want this initiative and this responsibility in the hands of commercial companies. Commercial companies are only interested when they can make a profit. Taking care of each other is an act of love. We want a Presidential Couple that loves us. The Majority doesn't want leaders to take care of them; they want to take care of themselves and each other. They need you two to teach them how. Sweden wants leaders who love them and motivate them. Give them your heart. Make it real."
"How are we going to finance this?", Maj asks.
"There's no money involved. I'll send you the files with ideas and notes we found at Agneta's house. It's priceless, and therefore we trust only our government to organize it for our society, like they handle education, police and healthcare, other important services we don't want to see in the hands of commercial companies. Not Economy but Love should be the force that moves us, and you're an expert in showing Sweden how we can love each other."
"Because you're going to publish my infidelity with Per? Can't we just forget about it?"
Frieda says: "I forgive, but I don't forget, dear. But we can turn the truth into something better: you, my dearest friend Maj, have too much love to give. First, you gave it just to your husband and your children, but they gave you back their love, so now you have even more. You decided to share your love with everyone in Sweden, and you want them to love you back. What you did with Per, that's just training and preparing your combined election campaign. This has never been done before, you know. It needs a different level of communication. Per needed to learn how to listen to a woman, and you needed to teach him that lesson. Okay?"
Maj is surprised: "Do you think so?"
"No, it's complete nonsense, but in politics, you can use any story of fiction, as long as you get away with it."
"Well, I can't get away with how I look. I can't get away anyway because I'm duct-taped to this chair."
With a clean wet towel, Frieda wipes away the black lips and the tattoos while I take off Maj's wig and release her from the electric chair. In less than a minute, the New Maj has disappeared and the Old Maj has returned, although deep inside, she's changed completely.
"I would like another cup of that excellent coffee. This time, I have my hands free to do it myself. Having someone else feeding me is not as nice as being able to take care of myself."
"Is that a political statement of «Togetherness»? It looks a lot like the «Freedom with Responsibility» we taught Per.", Frieda smiles.
Maj smiles back: "I would be delighted to exchange a few ideas with you, my dearest friend Frieda, but we can't do such a thing without at least one decent cup of coffee. I wonder if someone might prepare us a cup."
"I wonder the same, my dearest friend Maj. A good man is hard to find, and one who knows how to make a decent cup of coffee is even harder to find."
I make an educated bow: "At your service, ma'am, Miss. I hope you allow me five minutes to prepare the desired delicacy?"
No man should try to fight two women. The majority always wins.