The Dark Path: The dark, shocking thriller that everyone is talking about

You’re going again?

It’s a callback, I said. A meeting with the executive creative director this time.

She nodded. Good luck.

In the car, I checked the time, then my phone.

10 a.m., I wrote.

I pulled out of the drive and headed slowly past the neighboring houses. Mr. Nilssen was out with the horses. I raised my hand in greeting. He’s supposedly a billionaire. Sells his horses to the Saudis but still drives a Honda. God, I love the Swedes. Gives me a thrill every morning, driving out, seeing where we live and how. The sheer good fortune of it all. Sometimes you get lucky, I guess.

The day was going to be a good one. Sunny and clear. The traffic was smooth.

In forty minutes, I was outside her apartment door, ringing the doorbell.

You’re early, she said when she opened up. She was wearing a dress, ivory satin, tied tightly against her so it looked like she’d been submerged in thick cream. Her hair was loose, long, and blond and softly curled at the shoulders.

Hello, Malin. I smiled.

Come inside, she said.

Later, around the boardroom table, I looked at six young Swedes as they watched my reel. It’s a mix of old footage from the field and some new material I’ve been working on in the studio I’ve set up for myself at home. It’s good work. I know my way around a scene. I’ve been told that I have an excellent eye for framing. That I’m a natural at this.

I sipped an espresso from a mint green cup.

This is great, the creative director commented, very dynamic.

I reckon I have a fresh perspective, I said. With my background.

It wasn’t so difficult, all this self-promotion. Fake it till you make it and all.

It says here you taught at Columbia?

Yes, I said.

Why the career change?

I gave a wry smile. Well, after enough years teaching young people, you realize you’ve got it in reverse. They know it all and you’re just a dinosaur with a piece of chalk.

Oh, and I was fired. I guess I could have added that.

They laughed. A good answer. Endearing, not too cocky. I’ve got it down to an art.

So you did a lot of filmmaking as an anthropologist?

Some, yes. Mostly in the early days of my career, the time I spent doing fieldwork in Africa. But film was always what I really wanted to do. That’s why I’ve returned to documentary now.

They looked at me and I smiled. Not one of them a day over thirty, and all of them so effortlessly self-possessed you’d think they were Fortune 500 CEOs.

Snow tires. The shoot is for a company that makes snow tires.

Great, I said. Sounds interesting.

A mobile phone rang and the producer got up to take the call. Before he left the room, he slipped a business card onto the table in front of me.

Sorry, the creative director said, we’re busy with a big project at the moment; everyone’s a little distracted.

It was my cue to leave. I shut my laptop and stood up, knocking the chair back as I did.

He shook my hand. We’ll let you know.

How was your meeting? Merry asked when I got back home.

It was good, I said, really good.

She beamed. Wonderful.

She had Conor in her arms, freshly bathed and ready for bed.

His eyes were red, like he’d been crying.

Did you two have a good day? I asked.

Oh, for sure, she said. The best.

Merry

Domestic chores aren’t usually Sam’s department, but last night he volunteered to bathe the baby. He emerged from the bathroom afterward holding him in a towel.

Hey, he said, what’s this over here?

He lifted the towel and showed me the child’s thighs. My face flushed. I had not noticed the marks, four little blue bruises against his skin.

That is strange, I said. I swallowed.

I wonder, Sam said, could his clothes be too tight? Could that be it?

Yes, I said, more than likely. I should have bought him the next size up by now.

Sam nodded. Well, you should take care of that in the morning.

Absolutely, I said, first thing.

And so, in the name of new baby clothes, I was permitted the car for today. Sam took the baby and I headed into Stockholm, music blaring, windows open to the warm midsummer air. Exhilarating, the heady feeling of freedom, of leaving the island behind. I had dressed up, a light floral summer skirt, a sleeveless blouse.

In Stockholm, I parked the car and checked my face in the mirror. I loosened my hair and shook it out. I painted on mascara and lined my lips with color. Transformed. I walked a short way to a café in Södermalm I’d read about.

Sometimes I do this, page through travel magazines and imagine all the alternative lives I might be living. Drinks at the newest gin bar in Barcelona, a night in Rome’s best boutique hotel.

I picked up an English newspaper from the counter and sat at a table by the window, pretending to read. I love to peoplewatch in the city. Everyone is so beautiful. Clear skin and bright eyes, hair shining, bodies taut and well proportioned. There is no excess. Nothing bulging out or hanging over or straining at the seams. Even their clothes seem immune to crumpling. It isn’t just Karl and Elsa next door: it’s a whole country of them.

Immaculate Elsa. I should probably invite her over for fika, try to make friends. We could discuss pie recipes and childrearing; I might ask her about her skincare routine. Only I’ve never been very good at it. Female friendships. Well, apart from Frank, I suppose.

Sam keeps asking if I’m excited for her visit. I try to be enthusiastic. I do look forward to it, I think. Showing off our lives, showing her everything I have accomplished. Showing her who is ahead.

But there is another part of me that feels deep unease. Something about the way Frank always sees more than she should. She likes to think she knows me better than anyone – maybe even myself. She considers this a triumph. So she pokes at my life like a child with a stick, prodding at a dead seal washed up on the shore. Waiting to see what crawls out. Peekaboo, I see you!

She is always digging, digging, trying to go beyond the surface. The real you, she says, I know the real Merry. Whatever that means.

At the table across from me, I watched a young woman. She must have been in her early twenties, blond and slim and well dressed. She was eating a cinnamon bun, forking small bites of pastry into her mouth. She kept brushing a finger gently to her lips. She talked with an older man, perhaps in his forties, dressed in a gray cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Like me, he watched her movements closely, followed her fork with his eyes into her mouth; followed her fingers as they danced on those red lips. At one point she touched his arm, casual and friendly and innocent of all desire, but for him I could see it was electrifying.

She was showing him something on a laptop screen, pointing with her long fingers. She wore no wedding band, just a thin gold ring on her index finger, set with a small topaz stone in the center. He nodded intently as she spoke; she wrote something down in a notebook that lay open next to her cup. He watched her take a sip, the way she licked her lips to make sure that no foam lingered. Love or infatuation, who could ever tell.

An older woman walked in alone, ordered a coffee and a sandwich from the barista, and sat down at a table near the window. She was flawless. White trousers, neat leather pumps, pearl earrings. She must have been sixty or more, glowing and beautiful, without anything surgically pulled or plumped. It is a mystery here, how their women are permitted to age with such grace.

I thought of my own mother, her freakish final face and all the ones in between. So many years she spent obsessively trying to ward off the inevitabilities of aging. Every few months, something new. Eyes ironed out at the corners, extra skin pulled back and sewn high into the temples. Fatty deposits sucked out and reassigned, either to cheeks or lips. Breasts lifted, stomach fat suctioned through a pump.

As a child, I loved to watch her getting herself ready to go out. My father was always coming home with invitations to galas and balls; charity dinners or openings of new wings at the hospital. It was an elaborate performance, painting on a face, torturing her hair into some elegant updo, squeezing into a dress two sizes too small and two decades too young.

You’re so pretty, I’d say.

I’m not pretty enough, she always replied.

Or sometimes: I used to be, before you came along.

There were many things for which I was accused and held accountable. The loss of her figure. The thinning of her hair. The sagging of her skin. The absence of my father’s attention.

He never told her to stop the surgeries. Perhaps this was how he punished her.

Sam likes me natural, he says. This means slim. Groomed. Depilated. Scrubbed and lotioned, smooth like a piece of ripe fruit.

He shaved me once, early on in our relationship; made me stand over him in the bath while he took a razor between my legs and slowly carved away. There, he said, that’s how I want you.

I had looked down at my new self with delight. Beloved, I thought, this is what it feels like to be beloved.

Six years in and still, in the early hours of the morning, while Sam lies and dreams, I clean my teeth and shine my face and comb my hair. I shape my eyebrows and tint my lashes and pluck away the stray hairs that plant themselves on my upper lip; I trim my cuticles and buff the dead skin from my heels, I paint my nails to match the seasons. I shave and moisturize and soften my skin, I spray perfume and roll deodorant and use special intimate wipes to make me smell like flowers instead of a woman. All this I do so that when he wakes, I am transformed, when he wants me, I am ready. All yours, I say. I am all yours.

It is a lie; a small part I keep for myself.

It must have been around noon when I realized I was hungry. I left the café and strolled around the cobbled back streets in the glare of the sun. It’s a pleasant city, I suppose. Charming, contained in a way that New York is not, and never can be. Here there is none of that current in the air, the pulse of lust and need and ruthlessness. Of longing and secrets.

Around Götgatan I spied a café with a neat little row of quiches sitting in the window. I went inside and ordered at the counter, sat down at a small table in the corner. The waitress brought over my food and laid down cutlery and a napkin. Tack, I said, and she smiled sweetly. The quiche was delicate, not too heavy. It felt strange and delicious to eat alone; a forbidden delight from another life.

I ordered a coffee after I finished, not wanting it to end just yet. The café was filling up with people; I saw the waitress glance over at me. She came up to the table.

Would you mind? she said. This man would like to eat something.

It was the same man from earlier.

May I? He indicated the free chair opposite me.

I smiled. Of course.

You are American, he said, as he sat.

Yes, I said. Sorry about that.

He laughed. I tried to recall the movements of the woman from earlier, the way she touched her lips, delicate and deliberate. I brushed my fingers against my mouth. I watched him watch me.

What are you doing here, he said, business or pleasure?

Oh. I smiled. Always pleasure.

Again my fingers went to my lips.

You remind me of someone, he said.

Yes, I said, I hear that all the time.

You’re on vacation? he asked.

I hesitated. There was something I had to take care of here, I said.

I wanted to sound enigmatic and mysterious. The kind of woman a man like him aches for. I took a sip of coffee, I touched my lips. I smiled sadly and looked suddenly toward the street, into the middle distance, as though recalling some dark secret or heartache within.

Yes, I had it. I watched him watch me and shift in his seat.

In New York, there were countless days like this. It’s easy in a city that size. You never see the same person twice. Never have to be the same person. Sitting in the park, strolling through the Met, whiling away a few hours in the public library. I was the woman in the red dress, or the blue coat, or the scarf with red lips printed all across it. I was a lawyer, a grad student, a midwife, an anthropologist, a gallerist; I was Dominique or Anna or Lena or Francesca. I was all of these women. Everyone but Merry. It was always a rush, a moment belonging only to me; a spectacle for my own entertainment. My own secret pleasure. Only occasionally did it go too far.

Even as a child, I loved nothing better than to perform in front of the bathroom mirror. Sometimes I’d steal one of my mother’s lipsticks or some of her jewelry. I’d pretend to be a model or an actress, sometimes a lovesick girlfriend or a wife betrayed. I liked to watch myself, the transformation into someone else. I’d try out different voices and accents, different expressions on my face. I could play out scenes for hours on end. It never grew dull. It still doesn’t. Perhaps this is my gift. The ability to slip in and out of selves, as though they were dresses hanging in a wardrobe, waiting to be tried on and twirled about.

I’m Lars, by the way, the man said.

He extended his hand and I let it linger in mine. While he ate his lunch, I entertained him with stories from my recent trip to the Maldives.

Can you imagine, I laughed, two weeks on a tropical island with only the winter wardrobe of Mr. Oleg Karpalov in my possession!

Which island? he asked.

I tried to recall Frank’s email and couldn’t. I glanced at my watch.

I have to go, I said.

He grabbed my wrist.

Wait, he said. Give me your number.

He took his phone from his pocket and wrote down the digits I offered.

I smiled.

I had won.

It was late and I had to hurry to Drottninggatan to find a department store. I needed to be Merry again. In the baby section, I threw piles of clothes over my arm. T-shirts, miniature chinos, cargo shorts with dinosaurs on the pockets, little track pants and pajama bottoms.

The phone rang and my heart sank.

Where are you? Sam asked. I thought you’d be back by now. He sounded irritated.

I apologized profusely. I had a hard time finding what I was looking for, I explained. You know I always get lost here, in the city.

Well, come back soon, he said.

Yes, Sam, I said, apologizing once more before I hung up the phone.

I paid for the baby clothes and slipped into the restroom. In front of the mirror, I wet a wad of paper and wiped off the remnants of my makeup under the bright white light. Inside one of the stalls, a woman was retching. Probably an eating disorder, I thought, though it could have been anything.

I made my way back to the car and did find myself lost – the cobbled lanes, the tasteful storefronts, the quaint boutiques and antiques shops – all of them blend into the same tepid view: spotless streets, polite pedestrians, the too-orderly flow of people and traffic. The heady freedom of earlier was already in retreat. My chest was constricting, the streets narrowing in parallel, closing me in, squeezing it all back down to size. I hate to upset Sam. It fills me with terror, any time he has a reason to find me lacking.

At last I found the parking lot. An old Roma woman sat begging at the entrance. She looked at me, sucked her teeth, and wagged a finger. A witch casting a curse.

I drove home too fast. When I got back, Sam handed me the baby.

He hasn’t eaten yet, he said. And he needs his bath.

He did not kiss me.

Already there was a message waiting from Lars. I deleted it quickly from my phone and went to attend to my child.

Sam

Email this morning from the guys in Uppsala. They’re going with another director for the snow tires. Assholes. Top of the class, I was, graduated cum fucking laude. Fellowships, scholarships. Tenure. Now this.

It’s all right. I’ll get there. Just got to stick it out. Keep at it.

From the studio I could hear Conor whining. He’s been out of sorts for a couple of days.

Teething, Merry says. She tells me it’s normal. She read it in the parenting book I bought her.

Let’s take a long walk, I said. I want to encourage Merry to exercise. Tone up. Lose the baby weight that’s still sticking to her. Discipline, I say, all it takes.

I lifted Con into the backpack and hoisted it onto my shoulders. Merry put sunscreen and a hat on him, and dabbed the back of my neck so I wouldn’t burn.

We closed the door behind us and made for the forest trails that surround the reserve. The day was warm but not too hot, a low hum of insects and birds. We walked in silence.

A sweat will do us good, I said, heading for one of the more difficult routes.

Merry walked behind us. I could hear her breathing.

Beautiful, I said. The summers here are incredible.

Merry was quiet.

Hon?

Sam, I say it all the time, don’t I. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. It’s amazing.

Jesus, I said. Guess you’re not pregnant this month after all.

What?

Take it easy, I said. I’m joking. Clearly this is some heavy-duty PMS, right? Your foul mood. Hormones in a spin.

I laughed. You women, always so sensitive. And you think you want to run the world.

I walked on, leaving her to stew. I won’t indulge these moods; she knows better than to think that I will.

Tuesday morning and I’m taking a hike with a baby strapped to my back. Guess this is life in Sweden for you. Transculturation. In anthropological terms, it’s what happens when you move to a new society and adopt the culture.

Professor. I always liked being called that. Guess it doesn’t work so well out here. Hey, Professor Hurley, can you zoom in on the snow tires?

Conor started to whine and I stopped to check on him.

He’d pulled off the hat and was damp with sweat. Merry caught up to us.

He feels really warm, I said.

He’s fine, Merry replied. Just needs some water. She gave him a bottle and he pushed it away. She poured some water onto a cloth and nestled it against his neck to keep him cool.

Wonder-mom, I said. You know all the tricks.

Sorry about earlier, she said. You’re probably right. It must be PMS.

We looped back along the trail and made our way down toward the lake.

I bent to feel the temperature. Icy, I said. Give it a couple of weeks, it’ll be just right.

Merry stood staring into the endless blue of the water, transfixed.

Thinking about going in? I teased.

Something like that, she said vaguely, and stayed a moment longer, lost in her head.

Back at home, Merry prepared a light lunch, cheese and fresh bread, a salad. She seemed to be distracted still. She forgot the lemon in my soda, the oil for the salad.

You’re not yourself today, I said, and she appeared to shrink.

I’m sorry, Sam, I don’t know what it is.

Has Frank confirmed dates yet? I asked, trying to brighten her mood.

No, she said, shaking her head. Something about wrapping up work. Apparently she’s taking a sabbatical.

Bread’s good, I said, and she smiled.

It’s a new recipe I tried.

That’s my wife, I said. Always outdoing herself.

Merry beamed. She needs this kind of reassurance, I guess. Or she loses sight of herself, starts to fade.

Hey, I said. I got that job.

Oh, Sam, she said, I knew you would.

After lunch, she laid Conor down for a nap and emerged back outside with a couple of blankets, which she spread out on the lawn.

There, now we can take a little nap too. She smiled, squinting her eyes against the light, looking at me the way she does.

Merry, I said, it’s Tuesday afternoon. I’ve got work to do.

I left her alone on the empty lawn and went inside. In the darkened studio, I sat and watched other people’s videos on the thirty-inch monitor I bought in anticipation of my new career. I read my emails. There was one from Columbia, an invitation to apply for an upcoming grant. Must be an old mailing list.

After an hour or so, I pulled back the blinds to peer outside. Merry was still sitting on the blanket, cross-legged and facing the house. No sign of any particular pleasure. No sign of anything much at all.

How I love this woman, I thought.

Merry

I lay in the bath, submerged in water that had turned too cool. The body under water, the way it is floating a nd weightless and expanded all at once. Corpses they pull from the water are always unrecognizable, aren’t they, bloated inflated creatures, blimplike parodies of their once-human form. I shuddered, and then stilled myself below the surface. So pale. So slight. There is so little of me. I take up almost no space.

In front of the mirror, my mother’s first eyes stared back at me, the ones that were exiled for growing old and sad. Or maybe it was not sadness, but rage that she was trying to disguise. Rage at my father for filling his days with work and his nights with other women.

You marry your father, this is what they tell us. This is what you pray will be untrue. I sometimes think of Sam on all his business trips, so much time to squander while the baby and I are marooned here alone, left to our own devices and wicked ways. He has a history, to put it mildly, a habit of straying. But I dare not mention it. I dare not reveal any concern that he is not what he says – a different man over here, a better man. What do I care, anyway? And what right do I have to judge him. I am no innocent myself.

I am no innocent in anything.

I stood and watched my bare chest heave and shake, the breasts undulating, pendulous. Lower than before, bigger and rounder. Sam strokes them with adoration.

Mother’s breasts now, he says, as though their divine purpose has been revealed at last.

I breastfed the baby for six full months, tortured milk from my cracked, engorged nipples. Sometimes the pain was so great I had to scream. The baby did not notice.

In the hospital right after he was born, the nurses wanted me to hold him, to bond him to me, flesh against flesh. Latching. Suckling. Feeding. Everything primal and exposed. You are an animal like you’ve always been.

Cow, sow, bitch; bloody and ruined.

In my arms, the baby kept rooting for my nipples, pink and downy like a truffle pig.

The milk would not come. The body would not comply. The nurses brought different pumps and a lactation consultant called Eve. She gave me little white pills to swallow. She told me to keep holding the baby close, to keep his skin on my skin, to keep his toothless mouth in proximity to my milkless breasts.

How am I here? Still I don’t quite know. I feel something leaking out of me daily, slow wafts of weightlessness and life. A little here, a little there. Sometimes it’s in response to something benign, like Sam’s ceaseless enthusiasm for these shiny new lives, or his tireless adulation of the baby and his latest smile or almost-comprehensible word. Other times it’s a moment, a glimpse of my life reflected back at me through a window or a mirror. This is you. This is your life. This is your allowance for happiness and joy. There’s nothing wrong with the picture except everything.

If I close my eyes, I see nothing.

No. I see Frank.

So clear, so sure of herself in so many ways. Sharp about the edges. A woman defined. And me, just a blur. A frame that will not hold.

And yet. It is Frank who has always given me shape. A way to see myself clear. Because from where she is standing, the view is spectacular. Something to covet. Something to yearn for, with that deep, guttural longing that knows it can never be properly filled. Best friend. Yes, she really must be.