The Family Clause

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  The grandfather heads back out into the square. He dials the son’s number. Since the buttons are so small and the sun has disappeared behind a cloud and the phone’s display is loose, he dials the number using the position of the keys. On his first attempt, he reaches a number that doesn’t exist. He tries again. This time, the son answers on the third ring. The son explains where he needs to go. The grandfather follows his instructions.

  From the escalator he can already hear the carpet-bomb of laughter and shrieking. Why did he agree to this? The first thing he sees on setting foot inside the soft play centre is a big brother running from a slide with his howling little sister. He is carrying her on outstretched arms like a soldier carrying a wounded comrade, and just a few steps later her heart-rending tears have been swallowed up by the deafening cacophony of sound. He’ll never find his son in here. Then he sees him. Their eyes meet. They smile.

  The son looks bizarrely like his mother. They have the same thin body and hairless cheeks. The same black clothes and narrow nose. The father and son hug. The son has aged ten years in the past six months. He is as pale as cement and the bags he always has beneath his eyes have grown from tiny fanny packs into black rubbish sacks. But the father says nothing. He doesn’t want to hurt the son’s feelings. If he does say anything, it’s just a loving joke about how rested and fresh the son looks. Have you been on a package holiday? the father asks. The son doesn’t reply. Instead, he says: what happened? Did you have trouble finding it? Did you sleep in? What do you mean? the father asks. You were meant to be here two hours ago, says the son. Two hours here, two hours there, says the father. Maybe he got lost, says a faint voice from the son’s right leg. The grandfather looks down. There she is. His wonderful grandchild. She is so big. She is so small. She must be somewhere between three and six, and she looks scarily similar to the daughter that no longer exists. The same round cheeks. The same intense gaze. It’s only the clothes that are different. Well, hello there, says the grandfather. Hi, says the grandchild, her face against the father’s denim thigh. Haven’t you grown. I’m four, says the grandchild. But nearly five. Do you know who I am? asks the grandfather. Papi, says the grandchild. Exactly. Papi. I’m Papi. Do you have a birthday present for me? The grandfather searches his pockets. Oh, no, I must have dropped it on the way. But we can go and buy a present for you later. Do you want a present? I’ll get you a present. I’ll get you a doll. A horse. A plane. You can have whatever you want. What would you like? I want football socks most of all, says the grandchild. With shin pads. Then that’s what you’ll get, says the grandfather. I’ll get you ten football socks with ten shin pads. The four-year-old looks up at the father. Is that true or make-believe? Make-believe, says the father. True, says the grandfather.

  They sit down. The children need to eat lunch. The grandfather asks for a coffee. And a Danish pastry. He’s hungry, but he can tell that the son is annoyed and he doesn’t want to be any trouble. You’re not having a bloody Danish pastry, says the son. You’ve got diabetes, you do know that, don’t you? You need to keep on top of your blood sugar levels. A Danish pastry. Unbelievable. Don’t you know what will happen if your blood sugar keeps going up and down the whole time? The son says all this in front of his children. He says it so loudly that the young mothers or possibly big sisters at the next table can hear. He speaks to his own father as though he were speaking to a child. But the grandfather doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t say anything spiteful in return. The son goes over to the till to order. What a grumpy guts, says the grandfather. What’s wrong with your eyes? asks the grandchild.

  The son returns with two plastic trays. He has bought lasagne for himself, pizza for the children and a sandwich for the father. A cheese sandwich. Not even an egg and caviar sandwich. The children start to eat. Eat up, says the son. Sit still on your chair. Don’t rock. Chew with your mouth closed. Use your cutlery. Use the napkin. Don’t throw food on the floor. Jesus Christ, can’t you just eat your food? What are you playing with now? Just eat! They’re children, says the grandfather. And that’s why it’s important that they eat, says the father.

  The grandfather smiles. He changes tack. He tells a few jokes to lighten the mood. The grandfather’s charm is intact. His dimples are where they’ve always been. He knows exactly the right tone and timing to sell anything to anyone. He could sell sand to a beach. He could sell ice cream to an ice-cream van. He could sell wind to a hurricane. And when the mood around the table becomes tense, he knows jokes that could tempt anyone to laugh. Especially the four-year-old. She laughs so hard that tiny pieces of pizza come flying out of her mouth. But her father seems to have forgotten how to laugh. His mouth doesn’t twitch as the grandfather tells the classic about the tomato that crossed the road and got run over. Not even when the grandfather swaps the tomatoes for carrots and carrot juice. And definitely not when the grandfather jokes about how the father walking past with two children desperate for ice cream, who doesn’t want to give his children ice cream, is a Jew.

  Please, says the father who is a son. I’m begging you. Don’t say that word. Which word? asks the grandfather. Jew? Are you a racist? Do you think it’s worse to be a Jew than anything else? The father eats his lasagne. The grandfather drinks his coffee. Can I go and play now? asks the grandchild. The father nods. If you say thank you for your food. Thank you for my food, says the grandchild. You’re welcome.

  The father gives the grandfather an encouraging glance. For a start, says the grandfather. A cheese sandwich isn’t lunch. And what do you want? Am I supposed to thank my own son for buying me a cup of bitter coffee and a stale old cheese sandwich? What next? Should I start paying you to keep an eye on my post while I’m away? Are you going to invoice me for doing my tax return? Do you want to be paid for booking my plane tickets? The grandfather trails off. He tries to rise above his son’s stinginess. He wants to set a good example of how real men behave, and real men don’t treat their fathers to a disgusting coffee and mouldy cheese sandwich and expect to be thanked for it. Especially not if they’re the eldest son. The eldest son should see it as an honour to be taking care of his father. The son should be thanking him for being able to do his tax return. But, no, his son doesn’t have the sense to be grateful. Instead, he starts asking questions. He wants to know how the grandfather supports himself, whether he enjoys living in the other country, whether he’s met anyone, whether the political situation has affected tourism and whether the grandfather feels more or less safe now that the country has gone through such huge change in such a short period of time. The grandfather answers the questions. Some of them, at least. But he doesn’t understand why the father is so curious. Or, rather . . . He understands perfectly. The father wants a hold over him, so that he can report him to the authorities. He wants to secure his future inheritance. He wants to work out how to get the most money possible when the grandfather eventually dies. The grandfather stops answering his questions. They sit in silence. How long are you staying? the father asks. I’m leaving on Friday, says the grandfather. That means you’ll miss her party, the father says with a shake of his head. I don’t want to get in the way, says the grandfather. Ten days, the father mumbles. Are you suggesting that’s a long or a short stay? asks the grandfather. You’re the one who booked the tickets for me, aren’t you? The father doesn’t reply. Instead, he says: are you comfortable in the office? The bathroom sink is blocked, says the grandfather. I know, says the father. There’s one of those suction things in the kitchen cupboard. Okay, says the grandfather. How are the pets? asks the father. The cockroaches? asks the grandfather. Cockroaches are nice. They remind you that you’re not alone. They spread disease, says the father. They can crawl into your ear canal and lay eggs while you sleep. Rubbish, says the grandfather. There are cockroaches all over the world. Everywhere but here. They’re not dangerous. You didn’t bring any food with you this time, did you? asks the father. The grandfather doesn’t reply. The father sits quietly for some time.
Then, with his eyes fixed on the table, he says: we need to talk.

  * * *

  A son who has become a father is leaving the toilet in a soft play centre when his phone vibrates. It’s the children’s grandfather. He sounds irritated. He is in the middle of the windy square, he can’t find the soft play centre, there aren’t any signs, it’s raining, there are disgusting beggars everywhere and there were ticket checks on the metro on the way over here, he had to leave the train twice, the first time because the ticket inspectors boarded his carriage and the second because he saw some people who looked so much like plainclothes inspectors that he didn’t want to risk staying put. The son sighs and explains. He uses his calmest, most instructive voice. If you’re in the square with the metro station behind you, take the left-hand entrance into the shopping centre. Go through the revolving doors. Walk past Hemtex, Forex, JC and that makeup company with the stands in the middle. Then turn left towards the car park and take the escalator down. If you see the entrance to Clas Ohlson, you need to turn around and go back. Okay, says the father who is a grandfather, hanging up.

  Twenty minutes later, the father arrives at the soft play centre. He is stooped over, as if he is walking into the wind. He squints like it is raining indoors. He has a limp. He walks straight in without ringing the bell, without paying the entrance fee, without noticing the signs telling him to take off his shoes. He spots his son and smiles. The father’s beard is dotted with patches of grey. His teeth are yellow. His pullover is white, but as stained as the inside of his shirt collar. Good grief, this weather, the father says with a shake of his head. They hug. He says hello to his grandchildren. He sits down and says he wants a coffee, ideally with something sweet, like a Danish pastry or a chocolate biscuit. The son fetches a high chair for the one-year-old and heads over to the counter. When he returns with the food, the grandfather is playing with the one-year-old. He has a scrunched-up napkin in one fist, and he rotates his hands, crosses his arms and lets the grandchild pick a hand. The one-year-old chooses a fist, over and over again; he looks mildly amused, as though he has already worked out that sometimes you just have to go along with boring things to keep elderly relatives happy. Can I go and play now? the four-year-old asks. As soon as you’ve finished eating, says the father. I’ve bought you pizza. The father puts added emphasis on I’ve, so that his children understand that their grandfather had nothing to do with it. I’m not hungry, says the four-year-old. Of course you are, says the father. I don’t like pizza, she says. Of course you do, says the father, starting to cut the pizza into small pieces. I want to eat it like a sandwich, she says. You can’t, says the father. You’re too hard on her, says the grandfather. Where’s my Danish pastry? I got you a sandwich instead. I don’t like sandwiches, the grandfather says in a whiny tone of voice. You don’t like sandwiches? the four-year-old asks with a surprised face. I like Danish pastries more, says the grandfather. Me, too, says the four-year-old. The one-year-old has already eaten half of his pizza. The father eats his lasagne. The grandfather drinks his coffee and eats his sandwich. No one speaks. The father tries to start a conversation. The grandfather replies monosyllabically. The father tries again. The grandfather stops replying. It’s like throwing words into a sinkhole. Like trying to get answers out of a ticket machine. They sit in silence. Two children start crying after they collide on the crash mats, and their parents come running from different directions. The one-year-old has finished eating. He guzzles a bottle of water. The four-year-old has finished eating. She runs off to the area where you can play both basketball and football. Why is she dressed like a boy? the grandfather asks. She loves tops with numbers on, says the father. They sit in silence. The grandfather clears his throat. The father takes a sip of water. Do you have my bank papers with you? the grandfather asks. No, says the father. I need them, says the grandfather. I know, I’ll sort them out, says the father. I also need to get my feet seen to, says the grandfather. Okay, says the father. Bring it up with the doctor. I’ve made you an appointment at quarter past nine on Monday. Will you remember that? Quarter past nine on Monday? The grandfather pulls a piece of paper from his inner pocket. A white envelope, folded in the middle. He has written ten numbers on it, one after another. Next to Monday’s date, he writes the time for the doctor’s appointment. Don’t you have a diary? the father asks. I don’t need a diary, says the grandfather. Diaries are just something the paper industry invented to make more money. When do you leave? the father asks. On Friday. That means you’ll miss her party, says the father. Getting older is nothing to celebrate, says the grandfather. This isn’t working any more, says the father. What isn’t working? asks the grandfather. This. Everything. You staying at my place. Me helping you with everything. But I’m not staying at your place, says the grandfather. I’m staying at your office. Exactly. That’s what isn’t working, says the father. I’m only here twice a year. Twice a year, for two weeks at a time. That means an entire month every year when I can’t do any work, says the father. But you’re on paternity leave, aren’t you? says the grandfather. Now, yes, says the father. But I won’t be in six months’ time. The grandfather stares at his son. I want the keys back before you leave, says the father. So where am I supposed to stay? asks the grandfather. At your flat? It’ll be too cramped, says the father. And I doubt any of us would survive. Am I supposed to check into a hotel? Do you want your own father to stay in a hotel? Is that what you want? For me to pay for a hotel in order to see my grandchildren? Are you throwing me out on the street like an old dog? Keep your voice down, says the father. Don’t tell me to keep my voice down, the grandfather grumbles, thumping his hand on the table. The one-year-old laughs. The four-year-old comes running with an anxious face. Are you fighting? she asks. We can talk more about this later, says the father. When later? asks the grandfather. When the kids aren’t here, says the father.

  * * *

  A daughter who is a sister who is a mother is making her way home from work on a Friday afternoon, and the entire city stinks. Lifts smell like electrical tape. Escalators like burned rubber. Metro carriages like old chips. She takes two pee breaks in thirty minutes. She feels happy. Proud. Strong. Sad. Gone to the bloody dogs. But also excited and full of energy. Then she dozes off on the metro and misses her stop. When she wakes, she has a sudden craving for cheesecake. It’s all she can think about. Cheesecake, where in this damn city can she find cheesecake? She pops into a café to ask. We’ve got carrot cake, says the bearded man behind the counter. I asked for cheesecake, the sister hisses. Okay, he replies. Sorry, I’m just a bit frazzled, she says. And really craving cheesecake. She keeps looking. She goes into a bakery. She goes into a health food shop. Eventually, she finds some cheesecake in a supermarket; it’s wrapped in plastic and looks dry, but she buys two pieces anyway and eats them there and then, with her hands, as though they were sandwiches. She doesn’t care that people are staring at her. People can stare all they like. She heads home. Her phone rings. Finally, the father says when she answers. I’m the one who’s been calling you, she says. It’s nice to hear your voice, he says. Shall we meet? Grab a coffee? Dinner? I can do any time, but obviously I understand if you’re busy. Calm down, Dad, she says. Has something happened? Not at all, says the father. I just want to see my fantastic daughter. Of course we can meet, she says, checking her diary. Next week is looking pretty busy, but how about lunch tomorrow? she says. What day is it tomorrow? the father asks. Saturday, she says. Should we meet in town around half eleven? Nothing would make me happier, says the father. Farewell, my darling space angel. They hang up. She continues homewards. It isn’t a person inside her. It isn’t a foetus. It’s just a few small cells that divided and divided until they became a millimetre-wide ball that embedded itself in the lining of her womb. There isn’t any skin yet, no nervous system, no ears, no eyes. No muscles, no skeleton, no kidneys, no brain. No intestines, no digestive system, no lungs, no bladder, no genitals, no personality, no name. There is still a long way to go b
efore first breaths, first steps, the terrible twos, the terrible threes, and not forgetting the terrible fours. There are no reports, no police interviews, no legal letters, no pleas, no appeals, no shared custody agreements with handovers in public places, no summonses, no meetings with new case workers who have no idea what has gone on over the past five years, no arguments over which parent should have which weekend, when the handovers should take place, who should get Christmas, who should get the end-of-term production, how many hours the mother should get in comparison to the father, no new custody investigations, no alternating residence, no independent consultants brought in to make an assessment of how much damage has been done to the child as a result of the longstanding conflict between the parents, no final report recommending that the parent who has been most successful in painting a positive image of the other parent should be the primary caregiver. That’s what she does, after all. She does it so well that her son refuses to come home, and now she is all alone. Though she isn’t alone. The man who is her boyfriend is there. And growing in her belly is a sprout that has become an embryo, with a tiny, tube-shaped heart that has just started to beat.

  * * *

  A grandfather who is a father leaves the metro and crosses the square. A café, a food shop, a grill joint, an Indian restaurant, two hairdressers, a shop that sells role-play figurines, a haberdashery and two pizzerias. The grandfather would never dream of going to the Indian restaurant. It doesn’t matter that his son claims the food is good. He refuses to budge even when he hears about the cheap prices. The grandfather doesn’t trust Indians. Indians will put anything in their food. It might say chicken on the menu, but who knows whether it’s actually dog on your plate. He won’t go to the grill place, either. Its owners are Kurdish, and trusting Kurds is like trusting Albanians. Only worse. The grandfather chooses between the pizzeria with the green sign, where the pizzas are more expensive and the accompanying salad costs extra, and the pizzeria with the blue-and-white sign, which only has two employees and more customers drinking than eating. He chooses the pizzeria with the blue-and-white sign today. He almost always chooses the pizzeria with the blue-and-white sign. The electrician from the garage further down the street nods to him. The man who always, irrespective of the time of year, has a pair of mirrored sunglasses perched on his forehead, either to hide wrinkles or a receding hairline, says hello. Frida appears from the toilet, which is inside the kitchen. She has a frayed handbag and a laugh so loud that you can tell she was once much more beautiful than she is now. You look fresh, she says (like always). The advantage of living abroad, he says (like always).