That was more than enough for her. But there was something else, too. A sadness that he couldn’t handle, that she couldn’t handle, that they couldn’t talk about.
“Green or black?” he asked.
“Black, please,” she said.
She let it live inside her. Sometimes it grew and swelled up, becoming immense, taking so much space that on a few occasions she had been physically forced to throw up. She knew that nothing could make it disappear. It was always there, firmly anchored in every aspect of her life—her guilt. Because the consequences of her actions were the reason why he was sitting in that wheelchair. Her fault.
Indirectly
, a more kindly disposed person would say. But directly or indirectly, the result was the same when it came to her son.
Her fault…
Sophie had been playing a devious game. Imagined she could control the situation. But she couldn’t. On one side she had a police officer, Gunilla Strandberg, who wanted her to inform on Hector Guzman, who was on the other side. Sophie had tried to find a path somewhere between the two of them, had tried to do the right thing. But the police were corrupt. There was no right option. It led to Gunilla’s gorillas driving into Albert when they tried to kidnap him in order to blackmail Sophie. He broke his back, so high up his spine that he would probably never get out of that wheelchair.
Her fault…
Sophie went on leave from her work as a nurse at the hospital to take care of Albert at home. Her guilt and grief went hand in hand, and seemed to grow as time passed. She had figured out that she shouldn’t fight it, just let it grow, as part of her. A sick part that had the paralyzing power to take control of her entire life at any time.
But it was very different for Albert. To start with, after the accident, she had been amazed at the ease with which he seemed to accept his fate. But that had changed as everything became routine and commonplace. When he realized the consequences of his injury. Old friends who kept their distance and became oddly polite. The loneliness, isolation, the feeling of not being part of things.
She could see how vulnerable he was. And finally the inevitable happened. Despair and grief crashed into his life two months after the accident, becoming large and powerful, terrorizing him day and night as he struggled against them in silence. But the battle was unequal and unfair. Albert gave up and surrendered. She wanted to tell him not to give in, to try to hold it all at bay, at a distance. But how could she tell him? He had to find his own way and deal with this himself. Sophie let him be, and suffered in her own inability to help him. And from having put him in this position.
Her fault…
So there she sat, Sophie Brinkmann, with her beloved son, Albert, about to drink tea. Earlier that day she had negotiated a weapons deal, people had been shot around her, and she herself had only just escaped with her life….
There was no longer any logic to life. Everything was upside down.
The kettle whistled on the stove, and Albert rolled over and lifted it off. The whistling soon stopped.
“Do you feel like a game?” he asked as he poured the steaming water into two large cups.
He meant chess. She always lost.
“Definitely.” She smiled.
He was fairly tall and well built, with the particular look of someone who spends his days in the sun. A mixture of lines and wrinkles on his skin, along with an overdose of sun in his eyes—a freshness, a sort of natural joy.
The working day was over and Eduardo Garcia moved along the side of the ship from the bow toward the stern. There he boarded an open boat that was tethered to the larger vessel and pulled on a windbreaker and life jacket. It was January. The daytime temperature was around ten degrees Celsius, but the wind from the sea was hard and biting.
He pulled away and headed at speed over the rolling swell toward the French mainland, and Biarritz.
Eduardo Garcia lived a peaceful life.
“Green or black?” he asked.
“Black, please,” she said.
She let it live inside her. Sometimes it grew and swelled up, becoming immense, taking so much space that on a few occasions she had been physically forced to throw up. She knew that nothing could make it disappear. It was always there, firmly anchored in every aspect of her life—her guilt. Because the consequences of her actions were the reason why he was sitting in that wheelchair. Her fault.
Indirectly
, a more kindly disposed person would say. But directly or indirectly, the result was the same when it came to her son.
Her fault…
Sophie had been playing a devious game. Imagined she could control the situation. But she couldn’t. On one side she had a police officer, Gunilla Strandberg, who wanted her to inform on Hector Guzman, who was on the other side. Sophie had tried to find a path somewhere between the two of them, had tried to do the right thing. But the police were corrupt. There was no right option. It led to Gunilla’s gorillas driving into Albert when they tried to kidnap him in order to blackmail Sophie. He broke his back, so high up his spine that he would probably never get out of that wheelchair.
Her fault…
Sophie went on leave from her work as a nurse at the hospital to take care of Albert at home. Her guilt and grief went hand in hand, and seemed to grow as time passed. She had figured out that she shouldn’t fight it, just let it grow, as part of her. A sick part that had the paralyzing power to take control of her entire life at any time.
But it was very different for Albert. To start with, after the accident, she had been amazed at the ease with which he seemed to accept his fate. But that had changed as everything became routine and commonplace. When he realized the consequences of his injury. Old friends who kept their distance and became oddly polite. The loneliness, isolation, the feeling of not being part of things.
She could see how vulnerable he was. And finally the inevitable happened. Despair and grief crashed into his life two months after the accident, becoming large and powerful, terrorizing him day and night as he struggled against them in silence. But the battle was unequal and unfair. Albert gave up and surrendered. She wanted to tell him not to give in, to try to hold it all at bay, at a distance. But how could she tell him? He had to find his own way and deal with this himself. Sophie let him be, and suffered in her own inability to help him. And from having put him in this position.
Her fault…
So there she sat, Sophie Brinkmann, with her beloved son, Albert, about to drink tea. Earlier that day she had negotiated a weapons deal, people had been shot around her, and she herself had only just escaped with her life….
There was no longer any logic to life. Everything was upside down.
The kettle whistled on the stove, and Albert rolled over and lifted it off. The whistling soon stopped.
“Do you feel like a game?” he asked as he poured the steaming water into two large cups.
He meant chess. She always lost.
“Definitely.” She smiled.
He was fairly tall and well built, with the particular look of someone who spends his days in the sun. A mixture of lines and wrinkles on his skin, along with an overdose of sun in his eyes—a freshness, a sort of natural joy.
The working day was over and Eduardo Garcia moved along the side of the ship from the bow toward the stern. There he boarded an open boat that was tethered to the larger vessel and pulled on a windbreaker and life jacket. It was January. The daytime temperature was around ten degrees Celsius, but the wind from the sea was hard and biting.
He pulled away and headed at speed over the rolling swell toward the French mainland, and Biarritz.
Eduardo Garcia lived a peaceful life.
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