Europa Blues

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IT WAS AN evening in early May. It was completely still.

Not the slightest of breezes was blowing in over the waters of Saltsjön. Out on Kastellholm, the castle’s flag was hanging limp. The toothed facades of Skeppsbron were like a painted backdrop in the distance. There wasn’t a flutter on the flags over on Stadsgården, not a treetop swaying over on Fjällgatan, and up by Mosebacke, not even the leaves were moving an inch. The only thing distinguishing the dark waters of the Beckholmssund from a mirror was a shifting, rainbow-coloured slick of oil.

For a moment, the young man’s reflection was framed by a nearly perfect concentric rainbow, as though through a telescopic sight, but then the circle dispersed and flowed calmly on towards the Beckholm bridge, its colour changing as it moved. The young man brushed off the momentary unease which passed through him and snorted the first line of coke.

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