The best parties

There is a family on Mariatorget who throw the best parties.

The reason varies. Christenings or anniversaries.

I go into town on Friday to work and go to the party.

August is almost over.

I've bought an apartment but don't have the keys yet. After walking every street in Östermalm this summer, I've bought on Söder again.

I pass the apartment in the evening. Look up at lit candles. A window stands open. Take a photo. Send it to my parents. The man still living there seems happy enough.

It calms me.

Have a drink on my own in Vasastan, first time in a while.

The card is declined when I go to pay.

“Could it be that I have too much on the card?” I say.

The waitress stares at the card reader.

“There was an old man ahead of me who said it once,” I say. “Thought it was funny.”

Now she gets the joke.

When I'm an old man myself I won't have to explain.

Go to Polhem, then Bambi. Dark inside Bambi. Good mood. People I know from before. Their faces come out of the dark as if out of my own insides.

There's talk of politics. The Left Party. The Centre Party. The Liberals. A girl tells me I'm badly informed. The Centre Party doesn't want us moving out to the countryside at all. Shame. They could have had my vote.

I have a small beer. The party is tomorrow. One quick round is being responsible.

Others here are going to the party. Nobody talks about it.

Saturday. Foul weather. Wake to rain rattling.

Lying in a bed at Hotel Ruth.

I've been to parties that went down in history, for better and worse. I was there when Jean-Claude (the Culture Profile) held his infamous Forum.

All the parties over the years.

Tonight's can’t be compared.

Midday I meet C. He isn't invited and isn't interested. He and I have started writing a novel together. Feelgood. It feels easier being two who write. We sit and talk for an hour.

I walk back to Ruth and change.

Around Mariatorget there are some grand turn-of-the-century buildings, but most of the apartments are plain.

The apartment where the party is held is the exception. Every piece of furniture, every rug, every handle has been sculpted like a work of art.

I remember the hippie bars between Vesterbro and Frederiksberg, the woozy homemade one, mosaic all over the walls. This is something else: artistic, but severe.

Two hours later, still afternoon, the performer crouches in front of us, ear against the bridge of a nylon-string guitar.

The guests have gone quiet. Musicians, actors, politicians, writers, models and diplomats sit on sofas and on the floor.

Outside the day goes on. The half marathon. It's raining.

What happens here doesn't end up on Instagram. Wrong place, like putting your jewellery in a plastic bag.

The guests crowd towards the bay windows. Outside, the leafy Mariatorget moves closer. The music and the noise make it almost impossible to hear each other.

Those who came in pairs split up. New acquaintances stand close together. Faces near enough that lips brush unfamiliar cheeks.

Beauty is so concentrated that it is no longer a currency.

The party always goes on until morning. But the evening is cut short.

Something has happened.

The guests scatter to different afterparties.

The energy is still there. Some go on to a third address.

There were a handful of writers there. They’ve written about the parties before.

But nobody writes it out.