offered her a ride, saying she had got Monika’s name and number from course management. And why not? At least that’s what she thought when the matter first came up. Now she wished she could have the time to herself, that she could sit all by herself and enjoy the giddy feeling she was experiencing. Everything was suddenly transformed into a sense of warm, exhilarating anticipation. Things were perfect, she didn’t need anything else. If this was what they called happiness, then she suddenly understood all human striving for it.
She looked at the clock. It was already eight-thirty and the woman had promised to pick her up at twenty past eight. It was almost 200 kilometres to the course venue, and if they didn’t get going soon they would arrive too late for the first session. She always prided herself on being punctual, and she felt a slight pang of annoyance.
She turned round and glanced over at the newspaper kiosk. Involuntarily she scanned the placards with the headlines from the evening papers.
‘13- YEAR-OLD girl held as SEX SLAVE for three months.’
And then its competitor alongside:
‘8 out of 10 diagnosed incorrectly. A COUGH can be a DEADLY DISEASE . Test whether you are affected.’
She shook her head. One might almost imagine that the newspaper publishers were trained in neurophysiology. Appealing directly to their buyers’ primitive alarm systems was a foolproof method of catching their attention. It lay embedded deep inside the ur-brain, and as in all other mammals its purpose was to search its surroundings constantly for possible danger. The placards acted as one big warning signal. A potential threat that had arisen. But someone who was afraid needed to be informed why , not merely how , and especially not in disgusting detail. It wouldn’t put a stop to any fears; on the contrary, and consequently she suspected that the evening papers’ placards had a greater effect on the tenor of society than people realised. No one could avoid them, and what else could the readers do with all the fear that was constantly being forced upon them but hide it away in some nook and let it lie there, to be mixed with a suspicion of foreigners and a general feeling of hopelessness?
The fact that people bought newspapers that used placards like this was the triumph of the primitive ur-brain over the intelligence of the cerebral cortex.
A red van came driving at high speed from the direction of Storgatan, but she didn’t pay it much attention. Painted on the side was BÖRJE'S CONSTRUCTION in big letters. If she remembered correctly, the woman had introduced herself as Åse. The van slowed to a stop with the engine running. The woman behind the wheel was in her fifties and leaned across the passenger seat to roll down the side window.
‘Monika?’
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase on wheels and walked towards the van.
‘I thought it might be you. Hi, I’m Monika.’
The woman shifted back over to the driver’s seat and hopped out. She held out her hand to Monika and introduced herself.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait, but believe it or not my car wouldn’t start. Jesus, what a hassle. I had to take my husband’s van instead, and I hope it’s okay. I’ve tried to shove the worst of the junk off the seats.’
Monika smiled. It would take a lot more than a van to dampen her spirits.
‘No problem at all.’
Åse took her bag and tossed it in the side door of the van. Monika glimpsed a metal rack with carpenters’ tools on it and a firmly secured table saw with a round blade before Åse slid the side doors shut.
‘It’s a good thing there are only two of us. I tried to get hold of some others from around here, but luckily they’d already organised lifts, otherwise they’d have to lie in the back of the van.’
‘So, there are others going from here?’
‘Five of them. All I know is that some are from the Council and some from KappAhl, I think, or one of the big department stores, anyway I
She looked at the clock. It was already eight-thirty and the woman had promised to pick her up at twenty past eight. It was almost 200 kilometres to the course venue, and if they didn’t get going soon they would arrive too late for the first session. She always prided herself on being punctual, and she felt a slight pang of annoyance.
She turned round and glanced over at the newspaper kiosk. Involuntarily she scanned the placards with the headlines from the evening papers.
‘13- YEAR-OLD girl held as SEX SLAVE for three months.’
And then its competitor alongside:
‘8 out of 10 diagnosed incorrectly. A COUGH can be a DEADLY DISEASE . Test whether you are affected.’
She shook her head. One might almost imagine that the newspaper publishers were trained in neurophysiology. Appealing directly to their buyers’ primitive alarm systems was a foolproof method of catching their attention. It lay embedded deep inside the ur-brain, and as in all other mammals its purpose was to search its surroundings constantly for possible danger. The placards acted as one big warning signal. A potential threat that had arisen. But someone who was afraid needed to be informed why , not merely how , and especially not in disgusting detail. It wouldn’t put a stop to any fears; on the contrary, and consequently she suspected that the evening papers’ placards had a greater effect on the tenor of society than people realised. No one could avoid them, and what else could the readers do with all the fear that was constantly being forced upon them but hide it away in some nook and let it lie there, to be mixed with a suspicion of foreigners and a general feeling of hopelessness?
The fact that people bought newspapers that used placards like this was the triumph of the primitive ur-brain over the intelligence of the cerebral cortex.
A red van came driving at high speed from the direction of Storgatan, but she didn’t pay it much attention. Painted on the side was BÖRJE'S CONSTRUCTION in big letters. If she remembered correctly, the woman had introduced herself as Åse. The van slowed to a stop with the engine running. The woman behind the wheel was in her fifties and leaned across the passenger seat to roll down the side window.
‘Monika?’
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase on wheels and walked towards the van.
‘I thought it might be you. Hi, I’m Monika.’
The woman shifted back over to the driver’s seat and hopped out. She held out her hand to Monika and introduced herself.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait, but believe it or not my car wouldn’t start. Jesus, what a hassle. I had to take my husband’s van instead, and I hope it’s okay. I’ve tried to shove the worst of the junk off the seats.’
Monika smiled. It would take a lot more than a van to dampen her spirits.
‘No problem at all.’
Åse took her bag and tossed it in the side door of the van. Monika glimpsed a metal rack with carpenters’ tools on it and a firmly secured table saw with a round blade before Åse slid the side doors shut.
‘It’s a good thing there are only two of us. I tried to get hold of some others from around here, but luckily they’d already organised lifts, otherwise they’d have to lie in the back of the van.’
‘So, there are others going from here?’
‘Five of them. All I know is that some are from the Council and some from KappAhl, I think, or one of the big department stores, anyway I
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