Free The Invoice by Jonas Karlsson Page A

apartment. Which was ridiculous—we were young, after all.
    As time passed our messages became more and more refined. Sometimes the letters contained gifts. Napkins or a box of matches bearing the address of a certain restaurant. That didn’t mean that she and I were going to meet there, but that I was welcome to look in and pick up a signal about what might happen later that evening.
    Sometimes I would find the place and sit down alone at a suitable distance, and watch her dine with one or more of her relatives or whoever they were. If she twisted her bracelet a specific number of times, that was a sign that it was okay to go back to her place afterward, as long as I waited until the coast was clear before creeping in the back way and being let in for a late-night rendezvous.
    As we grew more comfortable with the arrangement, she also became more provocative. Once there was a padded envelope waiting at the reception desk. Inside was a note with a time and the address of a smart restaurant, plus an item of clothing which she wanted me to understand that she wouldn’t be wearing beneath her brightly colored sarong that evening as she ate dinner with three elderly ladies and a gentleman who all looked like they were liable to fall asleep at any moment. I sat five tables away and couldn’t bring myself to order anything but a Coke, which was a blessing seeing as even that turned out to cost three times as much as I thought it was possible for a soft drink to cost. At one point during the evening she glanced in my direction and looked me in the eye for a long moment. Suddenly I began to worry that she had twisted her bracelet and that I had missed it. I was sure I had noticed some sort of movement, but perhaps she had just been checking the time? I sat there for a long while with ice cubes in my mouth, just staring at her in the hope of picking up a more obvious signal. But none came. Just to be sure, I went to her apartment anyway. I stood there on the landing, thinking I could hear her inside, but the door never opened.
    —
    She had an ability to smile with her whole face when she looked at me, as if she could see past the mask, past my ordinary, everyday self. Sometimes when we were lying in bed she would trace the features of my face with her finger. From my hairline, down across my forehead and nose, over my chin and down to my chest. It was like a film.
    I was never allowed to sleep there. When it was late enough, I had to gather my clothes together and get dressed, then creep out the same way I had come in.
    When Sunita had turned twenty-four and finished her degree, the anticipated command arrived from Mexico telling her to move back to Bombay to get married, and Sunita didn’t hesitate for a second. She was conditioned to obey her family’s wishes, and constantly surprised me with her loyalty to a system which—in my world, at least—could only be regarded as oppressive. She was utterly faithful to her father’s wishes, and just got angry if I questioned any part of the arrangements. She was proud of her roots and who she was, and it would never occur to her to want to change anything. And that was something that no arguments about gender equality or fleeting erotic adventures would change.
    On our last night together, we made love and cried the whole time, and the next day we stood at Arlanda Airport separated by a safe distance of thirty meters. Between us we had all her many relatives and hundreds of passing strangers.
    A brief glance, then she was gone.
    —
    It took me several years before I could really think about anything else. I imbued all music with my own heartfelt sorrow, compared every sad lyric with my memories of us. Every so often I would wake in the middle of the night and imagine that she was there beside me. But each time the bed was empty. Sometimes I would walk past one of the restaurants she had sat in and imagine that I could see her, but it was always someone else.
    —
    I slowly sat up