Unspoken

bottle.
    “Take it easy, damn it. Pianissimo.”
    Typical Örjan , thought Henry. He always has to sound so odd. Pianissimo — what the hell is that? The dog bared his teeth.
    All Henry wanted right now was to buy some booze and get out of there.
    “Have you got anything to sell?”
    Örjan dug through a worn bag made of imitation leather. He pulled out a plastic bottle containing home-brewed liquor.
    “Fifty kronor. But maybe you can afford to cough up more than that?”
    “Naw. I’ve only got a fifty.”
    Henry handed over the banknote and reached for the bottle. Örjan kept his grip on it.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yup.”
    “What if I don’t believe you? What if I think that you’ve got more and you just don’t want to pay more than that?”
    “What the hell—let go!”
    He yanked the bottle away from Örjan. At the same time he stood up. Örjan laughed and jeered, “Can’t you take a joke?”
    “I’ve got to go. See you. I’ll be in touch.”
    He headed for the bus stop without looking back. He could feel Örjan’s eyes fixed on his back like needles.
    He was sitting in the living room, comfortably leaning back in the only armchair. On his way home he had passed a kiosk that was open at night, and he had bought some Grape Tonic, which he mixed with the booze to make himself a nice, tasty highball. He studied the glow from his cigarette in the dim light of the room, enjoying his solitude.
    It didn’t bother him that the apartment was still a mess from the party the night before.
    He put an old Johnny Cash record on the stereo. The neighbor woman protested by pounding on the wall, presumably because the music was interfering with the Swedish soap opera on TV. He pretended not to notice because he despised everything that had to do with normal Swedish life.
    During his professional days he had also avoided routines. As the foremost photographer at Gotlands Tidningar he’d had plenty of opportunities to plan his own work hours. When he eventually started his own business, of course, he did precisely as he pleased.
    In moments of clarity he surmised that it was this freedom that had spelled the beginning of the end. It created space for his drinking, which slowly but surely nibbled away at his work, his family life, his free time, and finally took precedence over everything else. His marriage fell apart, his clients disappeared, and contact with his daughter became increasingly sporadic and then ceased altogether after a few years. In the end he had neither money nor a job. The only friends who remained were his drinking buddies.
    He was roused from his reflections by a clattering sound on the patio. He stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.
    Was it one of those damn kids in the area who was going around stealing bicycles and then painting and selling them? His own bicycle stood outside unlocked. They had tried to swipe it before.
    Another clatter. He looked at his watch. Ten forty-five. Someone was out there—there was no doubt about that.
    Might be an animal, of course, maybe a cat.
    He opened the patio door and peered into the darkness. The little patch of grass that belonged to his corner property was lit up in the cold glow of the streetlight. Over by the pathway a shadow disappeared among the trees. Presumably just somebody out walking his dog. Henry pulled the door shut and locked it, just to be safe.
    The interruption annoyed him. He switched on the ceiling light and looked around the apartment with distaste. He couldn’t stand seeing all the clutter, so he stuck his feet into a pair of slippers and went down to his darkroom in the basement to check on the pictures he had taken during his evening at the harness races. He had taken a whole roll of Ginger Star, and a couple of shots just as she crossed the finish line. Her head thrust forward, her mane flying, and her nose ahead of all the others. What a feeling.
    The building superintendent had been kind enough to let him use an old bicycle storage room. He had furnished it with an enlarger, trays for developer and fixer, and a rack for drying the pictures. The basement window was covered with pieces of black cardboard to keep out the daylight.
    The only light source was a red bulb on the wall. In the faint glow of this lamp the work could be done without difficulty. He enjoyed spending time in his darkroom. Focusing one hundred percent of his attention on a task in silence and darkness. He had experienced this same feeling of calm