Sweden occupies an odd space in the American imagination. As we struggle to make ends meet, Sweden seems no less than a Scandinavian utopia: government-funded healthcare, lengthy parental leave. Yet the Nordic Noir genre depicts the seamy underbelly of this illusion. Think, for instance, of the psychopathic villains in Stieg Larsson’s Millennium novels or Henning Mankell’s Kurt Wallander series.
Marlaine Delargy’s translation of The Other Woman, Therese Bohman’s second novel, is a far cry from any of these stereotypes. On one level, it takes on an old story. The narrator, a young woman who works in a hospital cafeteria, starts an affair with a married doctor. But she recognizes the pitfalls and power dynamics of this relationship, even as she toils in a dead-end job. Portraying neither an idyllic nor a nightmarish landscape, The Other Woman embues a working-class mentality with sensitivity, refreshing what could otherwise be a stale plotline.
The narrator describes social realism as “depressing,” but a hefty dose of it defuses any illusions about Swedish life here. Wearing an “ugly uniform,” the narrator clocks in at the cafeteria kitchen and drops “yesterday’s leftovers” into a large garbage bag. On the bottom rung of the hospital’s “strict hierarchy,” she is a frequent target of derision. Even as junior staff engage in petty power trips, many of her well-heeled acquaintances regard her with disgust: “…his whole bearing speaks of yachts and tennis lessons and studying abroad…I am uncomfortable in his company, because he seems uncomfortable in mine, he has the ability to make me feel judged.” Her circumstances are more mysterious than they might appear, however. She has attended university and is well-read, frequently alluding to Dostoevsky and other literary works. But her working class roots trouble her, a conviction that she is “vulgar” despite “a couple of college courses.” Her alternating feelings of shame and contempt for elitist concepts of progressivism are incisive, providing her with a unique perspective that I didn’t anticipate.
If her background is painted in shades of elusive gray, then her lover is far more straightforward—and less intriguing. An affluent doctor with a corporate lawyer wife, he comes across as a garden-variety philanderer with dark fantasies: warning the narrator not to wear perfume or makeup in his car, insisting that she be his “little girl” and wear childish lingerie. He pales in comparison to the women who surround him. During this affair, she becomes fast friends with Alex, a free-spirited student who reassures her of a life beyond drudgery and insecurity. But Alex has her own history with the doctor and an ulterior motive in maintaining this friendship. Swept along by Alex’s revenge fantasy, the narrator could easily become a victim. Yet she turns the fallout to her advantage, gaining a financial windfall, a new apartment in Stockholm, and a chance at a new life. The novel ends on a note removed from existential gloom and doom, refusing to indulge in a cautionary tale about a fallen woman.
This edition of The Other Woman was released in 2015, and seems to have met the fate of many works by women in translation: middling reviews on Goodreads, a Kirkus Reviews blurb acknowledging its heavier themes, and relative obscurity. An insightful protagonist and a fresh glimpse into Swedish literature make it worth a second look.
Therese Bohman, The Other Woman, trans Marlaine Delargy (Other Press, 2015)
Photo Credit: Pexels via Pixabay.
