The White City E-Book

Karolina Ramqvist

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

SHORTLISTED PETRONA AWARD 2018 Karin knew what she was getting herself into when she fell for John, the high-flying criminal and love of her life. But she never imagined things would turn out like this: John is now gone and the coke-filled parties, seemingly endless flow of money and high social status she previously enjoyed have been replaced by cut telephone lines, cut heat and cut cash. All that remains of Karin's former life is the big house he bought for her - and his daughter, the child Karin once swore she would never bring into their dangerous world. Now Karin is alone with the baby, and the old promise of 'the family' has proved alarmingly empty. With the authorities zeroing in on organized crime, John's shady legacy is catching up with her, and the house is about to be seized. Over the course of a few nerve-wracking days, Karin is forced to take drastic measures in order to claim what she considers rightfully hers. A slow-burning psychological thriller with a sophisticated, dreamlike atmosphere, The White City is both the portrayal of one woman's struggle to pull herself up from the paralyzing depths of despair, and an unflinching examination of what it means to lose control - over your body, your life and your fate.

Leseprobe

THE WHITE CITY

THE WHITE CITY

Translated from the Swedish by Saskia Vogel

KAROLINA RAMQVIST

Grove Press UK

First published in the United States of America in 2017 by Grove/Atlantic

This edition published in Great Britain in 2017 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.

Copyright © Karolina Ramqvist, 2015

English translation copyright © Saskia Vogel, 2017

The moral right of Karolina Ramqvist to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Originally published as Den vit staden by Norstedts (2015)

The cost of this translation was defrayed by a subsidy from the Swedish Arts Council, gratefully acknowledged.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, entities or persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

Paperback ISBN 978 1 61185 519 7

E-book ISBN 978 1 61185 948 5

Printed in Great Britain

Grove Press, UK

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.groveatlantic.com

CONTENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE WHITE CITY

It was the end of winter. Under the sky that had always been there, now dark, the house still looked almost new. It had a sort of shine to it and was surrounded by nothing but silence and snow. Snow framed the large frosted windows and rose from the shadows, piling in high drifts against the walls of the house. Not a shovel had been lifted.

The wind-whipped snow had formed a small drift on the front steps. A frozen wave revealing that no one had come or gone for several days.

The door was bolted shut and secured with several locks from within, and just inside stood a torn paper bag overflowing with white and brown envelopes. Bills and unopened letters. The cold floor was mottled with meltwater and mud splatter, as was the bag.

The hall was dark, as if it weren’t morning at all. A dirty mirror hung askew. Karin, barefoot and naked, stood before it, while propping open the door to the bathroom so its light would fall across her body. Her skin was goose-pimpled from the cold, pale and bluish. Her stomach sagged and her breasts were heavy and unshapely. The left one had swelled during the night, and the skin was stretched so thin a web of veins showed through.

She pulled the skin on her belly until it was smooth and leaned forward to study the stretch marks rising in glossy relief from groin to navel. During her last flight to New York, she’d been woken by the pilot’s voice on the speakers, suggesting they take in the view over Iceland. She’d sat up and gazed down at the island, which was almost entirely covered by glaciers, and had noticed streaks in the ice. Black rivers spreading out like a giant’s mane, thousands of strands running across the frozen ground.

The traces pregnancy had left on her stomach looked just like that. Seeing these marks now, she felt as far away from them as she’d felt from the ice, flying thirty thousand feet above it.

During her pregnancy, she’d convinced herself that if she worried enough about getting stretch marks, she wouldn’t get any.

Now she knew that wasn’t how it worked.

Fear can’t be used like an incantation; it’s an unease that wells up when you know what’s at stake. It’s not true that what you worry about the most isn’t going to happen. Rather, it’s highly likely that it will.

Outside on the lake, plates of ice moved toward each other, in anticipation of freezing into a solid mass. The gray water churned around them in rippling waves. The dark forest rose above the white speckled cliffs on the far shore and the faint outline of a dock could be made out at the bottom of the property, where reeds and brittle blades of grass jutted from mounds of rumpled snow.

The weather had been changeable over the past days, or had it been weeks now? It had grown milder and had even begun to thaw. From her spot on the barstool at the kitchen island—his spot—she’d watched the lake open up like a gray, gaping mouth. Then the chill returned, a kind of paralysis, but the wind blew with such force that the lake couldn’t freeze over.

In the bathroom, the fan was switched off, and as soon as she turned the water on, the mirrors fogged, turning the same whitish hue as the ice. Her back was cloaked in steam when she stepped out of the shower, the water still running, and hurried into the hall to check on the baby. She loathed the feeling of the cold, grimy floor against her bare feet. At this time of day, the house was at its most biting.

Dream sat on the living room floor in her diaper, facing away from her, playing with a white iPhone charger. She never seemed to tire of the whipping sound made by the thin metal tip hitting the parquet floor, or of the realization that she was in control: her hand was making a fist and she was moving the cable.

She stopped to watch the child amusing herself, unaware of the forces that shaped their existence. Their existence, which seemed so hushed, so spent. She hadn’t yet been able to grasp that this moment in time was also the start of another person’s life.

She took in the chubby body and its irregular, jerky movements. Dream was still something of a mystery to her. Those large, close-set eyes were unfamiliar in a way that made her ill at ease. A lock of hair jutted from the crown of the baby’s head. In the middle of each of her puffy cheeks was a chapped, ruddy patch, which she assumed was from the cold, dry air. Through the baby’s soft flesh, a perfect spine could be glimpsed.

She knew the child would one day become the most precious thing she had, but until then, it was pure luck that Dream was so calm. Perhaps you didn’t get the child you deserved; you got the one you could handle.

She finished her shower with the bathroom door open onto the hall so she could keep an eye on Dream. When she was done, she peered out and saw the little one still sitting there in the living room with her cable. She dried off and slipped into his robe, the only one left after she sold all of her kimonos.

It weighed down her shoulders; it was far too big.

His body had always been red and hot when he’d put it on.

She knotted the belt around her waist, pulled it tight, and leaned against the sink, drinking in the scent of him, which lingered deep in the thick terry cloth. Toothpaste and deodorant and wet, warm male skin.

The promise that everything was going to be okay.

She wished the damp heat wouldn’t dissipate so quickly, but it did. And when she stepped out of the bathroom, it was even colder than she’d expected. She’d shut off the underfloor heating throughout the house, so now whenever the slightest wind blew, an icy draft would find its way in.

She should go into the garage, find the duct tape he kept there, and seal the vents by the windows in the big room—oversize panes of tinted bulletproof glass so large they couldn’t really be called windows.

But she never got around to it.

Though she was tall, the bathrobe practically dragged on the floor. Her slippers were upstairs. Something was stuck to the sole of her foot and when she wiped it on the terry cloth, it sounded like a small stone falling to the parquet.

Dream was ice-cold. On the sofa lay a onesie that was as good as clean, and as she dressed her in it she tried to rub the warmth back into her legs and feet. She carried the baby through the large open room, into the kitchen, and switched on the kettle. The sink had an odor, an intermittent whiff of rot she’d come to know well.

She put Dream down on the floor next to the barstool, closed her eyes. While the kettle boiled, she focused on her breath, visualizing the movement of water and air and paying attention to the flow of air through her nostrils, first left, then right.

The doorbell chimed.

Fuck.

It chimed again. A synthetic triadic chord.

She hadn’t expected the buyer to arrive so soon, but then it hit her: that’s just how this goes. They called and said they’d seen the ad and wanted to come take a look right away.

She knew the feeling. She remembered what it was like to covet something.

She picked up Dream and hurried upstairs, took the bag out of the closet, and ran back down to open the door, sweeping aside the bank of snow on the stoop.

Outside, it was gray and windy.

The wind wailed and the cold rushed in, settling in her wet hair, grabbing hold.

On the steps was a woman her age. Baseball cap, fur coat, black rubber riding boots. They greeted each other and shook hands and she made an effort to smile. She shut the door and made the woman stand just inside.

Held up the bag.

“You wanted to see this one, right?”

The woman nodded and said she was going on vacation and this model was so practical for travel, smiled when Dream waved in her direction, and asked if she was on maternity leave.

“Yes.”

She managed another smile and held out the bag. Even the lining was in good condition; the subtle pattern brought to mind the patios of expensive restaurants and white sand.

“So, are you selling any others?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a few. One lovely 2.55 . . . Chanel.”

The woman nodded. She scrutinized the bag, complimenting her on how well it had been cared for.

“You know what,” she said. “I’ll have to get back to you on this.”

She lowered her outstretched hand.

“Is it the price?”

“No, that’s fine.” The woman looked at the bag again. “It’s just that I would like a certificate of authenticity validated by the store. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but if I ever decide to sell it myself, well, you understand. If you can get me one, I’ll take it.”

The winter air nipped at her as she stood in the doorway, bag in hand, watching as the woman got into her car and set the windshield wipers in motion. A relentless gust pummeled the house and she had to tug with all her might to shut the front door, but the drifting snow still reached her.

She rubbed her feet against her calves; snow and melt dripped down them.