Vera’s brief and jumbled book took a fuzzy global perspective. It was suddenly the welfare of all of humanity, and, as if that weren’t enough, even the whole planet’s. In fascination, Peter realized that it was fully possible that the scrawled pencil notes in Green Economics were Vera’s. He therefore made sure that he read everything that was circled, marked and underlined. It started with a quote from some Manfred in the preface, which claimed that we needed to change economic logic. As if logic can be changed just like that! Either it’s logical, and then we already know it, or it’s illogical, thought Peter.
Then came a depressing list of complaints. The Industrial Economy. Rape of the Earth. Exploitation of Women. Destruction of community. Disposable people. Money in trouble. Catalogue of shame. And finally, the question, ‘All for what?’ to which the response was, ‘Above the poverty level, the relationship between income and happiness is remarkably small.’ The richest one per cent who go on Great Escapes would beg to differ, thought Peter, remembering the classic line that people can say what they want about money and happiness, but it was better to cry in a limousine than a bus.
No wonder she’s bitter, if she spends her time reading stuff like this!
He skimmed the pages restlessly and read a clearly circled passage that claimed that half of the world’s population did two-thirds of the world’s work, earned one tenth of all income and owned less than one per cent of all its assets. It was referring to women.
Suddenly he realized how wrong it had been when he said that Vera was expected to ‘do her Duty as Woman in the project’. For him it had been a humorous way to offset the deeply private humiliation of asking someone to dance and getting a no. He realized now that there was a significant risk that, for Vera, it sounded like he was demanding that she conform to a World Order. An order which, if she agreed with the stuff in this mixed-up book, in her eyes put unreasonable demands on women for a remuneration that was entirely too small. Peter also understood that, at least for her, it was a completely different and worse type of humiliation. And, above all, it wasn’t his. With the social gifts that his mother’s nurturing had honed in him from boyhood, Peter knew that one could joke about one’s own humiliation, but never about other people’s.
Peter put down Green Economics. If he carried on reading stuff like this, would he become as gloomy as Vera? And even if Peter was strangely drawn to her, despite that unattractive quality, it certainly wasn’t something he aspired to himself. He lay a long time with his hands behind his head and thought. This could be a really good game. He imagined how he and Vera would debate, and how he would convince her that her pessimism was exaggerated. He was satisfied. Yes, half an hour with Vera’s book had done the job. He thought he understood more about why she was like she was, and how he could get her to change. He was like a spy after a successful mission. He had broken a code and entered, in order to dig out decisive information. He turned off the light with the satisfied feeling of having done his homework.
18
The night before the fifth of November, Vera woke up in a sweat, pulse racing. She had had a strange dream about a doctor who stood sorting people into different lines, injured and uninjured. In the dream, Vera’s aching left knee was a pulpy mess due to a gunshot wound, and she wound up in the line with the injured. After a while a small, furious dwarf in a red cap showed up with a yardstick and declared that the line for the injured was too long, because it was longer than his yardstick! The doctor obediently changed his mind and his decision. Vera was moved to the line for the uninjured, and showing him the gunshot wound to her knee made no difference. When she awoke from the dream her cheeks were wet with tears.
With a pounding heart, Vera hobbled over to her desk and turned on her computer. She did a search on the comforting words Healthcare guarantee. So it was that, at 2:41 in the morning on the fifth of November, Vera realized that, because she wasn’t yet in a queue for an MRI scan, all the time she had waited so far didn’t count, and the healthcare guarantee period had not yet begun. She toyed with a conspiracy theory that pharmacy companies bribed doctors not to treat joint injuries too quickly, so that they would have the opportunity to sell a lot of pills, then rejected the idea.
But there must have been some reason why they wanted to keep her off the x-ray waiting list? The other horrible suspicion was not so easy to reject; it stuck to her like her now ice-cold pajama top. Because there it was on the screen: The guarantee regulates only the period of time within which one is to be offered treatment which has been approved by qualified healthcare professionals. It was obvious that everyone wanted the numbers to look good, so that the Swedish healthcare system wouldn’t fail to meet the guarantee in 30 or 40 per cent of cases! So no decision about treatment means no visible healthcare waiting lists? Or perhaps, in practice, fewer treatment decisions, more acceptable visible healthcare waiting lists?
She didn’t know how much time she had spent staring at the comforting words on the screen. In her obliviousness, they had lulled her into a false security. She realized that now.
After some time, she became aware of the fact that she was chilled to the bone. She forced herself to get out of the chair and went to take a warm shower.
She got all the way to Cat Stevens’ Morning has broken on her playlist of songs to fall asleep to on her cellphone, before she finally drifted off for a couple of hours. Then the alarm went off, and Vera dragged herself out of bed in the November darkness.
This time the orthopaedic specialist was a younger man named Modin. Once again she was asked to lie down on the paper-covered bed, and he felt, pried and pulled on her leg to examine its flexibility and functioning. He was concerned that her knee was still locking and that the muscles in her left leg had lost half of their volume, even though she was trying to practise the exercises that she was able to do. Seeing the large difference between her left and right thighs, he decided that she needed to be put on the waiting list for an MRI.
Yes! Finally! Vera had time to think, before Modin went on, somewhat embarrassed.
‘But, unfortunately, there’s quite a long waiting list. You shouldn’t expect it to happen before late spring.’
Late spring?! Her heart sank again; her voice almost didn’t hold.
‘But that’s impossible! I’ve already waited since May. Do you mean that I might have to live with a smashed meniscus in my knee for a whole year before I even get an MRI?’
‘We mustn’t draw hasty conclusions. If a piece of the meniscus is out of place then we will see it on the MRI. I’m sorry, but unfortunately that’s how long the waiting list is.’ Modin asked briskly if she was still a student and whether or not she needed a sick note – and if she wanted a new prescription for Diclofenac – before he offered her a firm handshake and the appointment was over.
When Vera limped past the waiting room with a disobedient tear running down one cheek, a dark-haired nurse suddenly came up to her. She discreetly pushed a note into her jacket pocket and whispered:
‘Call this number and ask for Erland. Sometimes patients don’t show up, and if you can come on short notice, well…’
‘Thanks! Erland?’ whispered Vera back, and she felt a ray of hope returning.
Apparently there is a secret passage through the wall!
As soon as she reached home Vera locked herself in her room, called the secret number, and said the password. Her call was forwarded, but Erland was at lunch, and when she explained