Читать книгу The Red Address Book - Sofia Lundberg - Страница 9

Even the smallest movements require mental and physical exertion. She moves her legs forward a few millimetres and then pauses. Places her hands on the armrests. One at a time. Pause. She digs in her heels. Grips the armrest with one hand and places the other on the dining table. Sways her upper body back and forth to get some momentum. Her chair has a high, soft back support, and the legs rest in plastic cups, which raise it a few centimetres. Still, it takes her a long time to get to her feet. On the third attempt she manages it. After that, she has to stand still for another second or two, with her head bowed and both hands on the table, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

Her daily exercise. The stroll around her small apartment. Down the hallway from the kitchen, around the sofa in the living room, pausing to pick any withered leaves from the red begonia in the window. Then on to her bedroom, and her writing corner. To the laptop computer, which has become so important to her. She gingerly sits down, in yet another chair resting on plastic supports. They make the chair so high, she can barely fit her thighs beneath the desk. She lifts the lid of the computer and hears the faint, familiar whirr of the hard drive waking up. She clicks the Internet Explorer icon on the desktop, and the online version of her newspaper greets her. Every day, she is amazed by the fact that the entire world exists inside this tiny little computer. That she, a lonely woman in Stockholm, could keep in touch with people all over the world, if she wanted to. Technology fills her days. It makes waiting for death a little more bearable. She sits here every afternoon, occasionally even in the early morning or late at night, when sleep refuses to co-operate. It was her last caregiver, Maria, who taught her how it all worked. Skype, Facebook, email. Maria had said that no one was too old to learn something new. Doris agreed, and said that no one was too old to realise her dreams. Shortly after that, Maria handed in her notice so that she could resume her studies.

Ulrika doesn’t seem so interested. She has never mentioned the computer or asked what Doris is up to. She just dusts it in passing as she sweeps through the room, ticking off task after task on her to-do list. Maybe she’s on Facebook, though? Most people seem to be. Even Doris has an account, the one Maria set up for her. She also has three friends. Maria is one. Then there’s her great-niece, Jenny, in San Francisco, plus Jenny’s older son, Jack. Doris checks in with their lives every now and then, follows images and events from another world. Sometimes she even studies their friends’ lives. Those with a public profile.

Her fingers still work. They’re a little slower than they used to be, and sometimes they start to ache, forcing her to rest. She writes to gather her memories. To get an overview of the life she has lived. She hopes it will be Jenny who finds everything later, once Doris herself is dead. That it will be Jenny who reads and smiles at the pictures. Who inherits all of her beautiful things: the furniture, the paintings, the hand-painted cup. They won’t just be thrown out, will they? She shudders at the thought, brings her fingers to the keys, and starts to write, in order to clear her thoughts. Outside, white roses climbed the dark-brown wooden walls, she writes today. One sentence. Then a sense of calm as she navigates through a sea of memories.