The Swedish Sex Bomb (LSD, #7)

13. War

War

We're running out of options. Too much time has passed, and still no sign of life from Agneta. We've followed every imaginable lead, but nothing has taken us one step closer to our goal. Apart from wishful thinking, the only reasonable explanations are a fatal accident or murder. Which leaves the question: now, what?

My hands are on the wheel of the Saab, my eyes are on the road to Stockholm, but my thoughts are on their way back to reality: "Where do we draw the deadline...? I mean..."

Frieda needs only half of a badly chosen word to understand what I'm trying to say: "You can't stay here forever. You have a job and a boss, and you wonder..."

"We haven't made much progress... In finding Agneta, I mean. You made a lot of progress, in getting better, far more than anyone could have hoped for."

"And now you want to know when I'm ready to do this on my own?"

I feel so clumsy. I wanted this to sound like a compliment. Instead, it feels like I'm preparing to say goodbye. But Frieda is right: I can't go on much longer, entertaining myself with a pretty girl in a beautiful country. My boss pays me to save the world.

Frieda puts her hand on mine at the wheel: "It's okay, Benny. I appreciate everything you've done for me. You've been there when I needed you most, and you've been the best friend I could wish for. But I'm a big girl, and I've been growing a lot lately. I'm prepared to accept that, soon, I need to stand on my own feet again. It's okay. I can do that. I'm not yet where I want to be, but I stopped crying about the past and I'm hopeful about the future."

I take the bridge to a lighter topic of conversation: "And what will your future look like? What are your dreams? Are you going back to University? What kind of job would you like?"

It hangs in the air, the unspoken "... with or without Agneta..." behind every question, inside every answer, but we both prefer to slalom around it.

Frieda takes her hand away and puts it next to the other in her lap. She looks at the green landscape on her right as if all her answers lie there, among the trees.

"The answer is still the same: my study was an attempt to gain my father's respect by following in his footsteps. It was never my choice and never my passion. If I'd find work as a manager, I'd have to work with people..."

I try to help her: "You're good with people. I've loved working with you on this mission."

"I love to be alone. After the... war in the park... I devoted myself to my thoughts for many months, writing them down. I talked with my doctor and with Agneta. Both advised me to return to society and pick up a normal life among others again, like nothing ever happened. It's not that I can't. If I'd try, I think I could. I can find a job, a house, a future, friends, but... I don't doubt what I can. I doubt what I want. Do I want such a life...?"

"It needs time. You'll think differently in a few months. You've been in a war zone. We have a sense for the discovering of beauty, but we can only see it when our mind is at peace."

"And why did I think the same before the war started?"

"Did you?"

Frieda doesn't answer.

I understand. As a teenager, I fought a similar war: to be a spy or not to be a spy. With a normal grandfather, one that reads fairy tales to his grandchild instead of spy novels, I would be a butcher now, helping my parents in their shop, selling sausages on the street market. After my parents' retirement, I would be the successful owner of a prosperous shop with lots of happy clients. No problems for the rest of my life.