The Family Clause

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  Seven years later, she is standing in the bathroom that they share. The children are sleeping. She can barely remember what they talked about during that date on the rocks. But they met at eleven and five seconds later it was dusk, they had been sitting on the blanket for eight hours. They hadn’t eaten, just drunk coffee, smoked, nibbled sweet things and taken brief pee breaks. Then they had to say goodbye, otherwise it would be weird. They got up on stiff legs. They paused by the car park. They wouldn’t be leaving together. They might bump into someone. Someone might ask questions. They might find themselves in a situation where one of them was forced to explain what was going on, but not even they knew that, because neither of them had ever experienced anything like this before. They lingered. They kissed. They kissed again. They said goodbye. They kissed again. She left first, down the slope towards the tracks. Then she turned around. He was still standing there. She could see his outline. Neither raised a hand. The look they exchanged was enough.

  They were together after that and didn’t sleep apart for six months. It shouldn’t have worked. Everything they had built up with words should have come crashing down when they became real people, with bodies and morning breath, wind when they ate beans, stress mood swings and everyday tiredness. And yet they managed. Somehow, they made their way through pregnancies, sleepless nights, rain-soaked package holidays, winter sickness bugs, family conflicts. They survived when he got so angry that the children wouldn’t sleep that he ran into the kitchen and broke the good yellow salad servers. They survived the fact that she had never loved her family as much as she did when she returned to full-time work after her second maternity leave. They survived it all. And it’s only now, with their daughter aged four and their son one, with the father saying he is going to break the father clause and talking about becoming a stand-up, as she studies her bare face in the mirror, that she doubts, for the very first time, that they are going to make it through this. On her way to the bedroom, she hears his voice. He is saying something about car models. He falls silent, awaiting laughter. Then he chuckles and says: So. Fucking. Good.

  IV. SATURDAY

  A step that is a step has never been anything but a step. Until this particular Saturday morning, when a sister and her boyfriend have transformed it into an icy pillow. They are lying on their backs, watching the dawn sun struggle to break through the grey cloud. Their bodies are cold on the outside, warm on the inside. The bass from the dance floor makes the windowpanes in the warehouse opposite rattle. Their ears are ringing, despite them having put in earplugs before they even stepped inside.

  The party started at midnight. Right up until the very last minute, they didn’t know whether they would actually have the energy to make their way over here; they had been working all week, she had had an important client meeting on Friday morning, he’d had an outdoor day with the rowdy ninth years. They ate dinner at home, dozed off in front of the TV, woke at half twelve, each drank a coffee and jumped into a taxi. The club was half full when they arrived, but just an hour later, sweat was dripping down the walls. There was a bar and balloons: the alcohol for those who wanted to drink and the balloons for anyone who wanted laughing gas. The woman who is a sister drank nothing but water, and the man who acts like her boyfriend bought a cocktail, primarily to support the organisers. He took two sips and grinned when the DJ started playing a track he liked. She stayed behind at the bar to watch him attack the dance floor. Him and his charisma, it caught the attention of everyone in the room. The women first. Then the men. Then the dogs, which for some reason were running around the bar area wearing neon ear protectors.

  He was so unlike her. He never needed to drink to be able to dance. He never seemed unsure of the beat. He just took his short, stocky body and launched straight into the rhythm, the other dancers parted and he merged with the mass in only a few seconds, always in the middle, always surrounded by a group of strangers who were drawn to him like a magnet. She stayed where she was and watched him. Then she put down her glass and gave herself over to the beat.

  It was eight in the morning when they stepped outside. They ordered a taxi and slumped to the ground with the step beneath their heads. A geologist would have been able to examine that step and explain how the minerals here and lines there revealed the complete history of the stone. But to them, the stone is just stone. A grooved, roughly cut, pale grey stone. They lie there, breathing and looking up at rusty signs belonging to workshops that no longer exist. Ekström’s Carpentry. Stockholm Piano Factory. Gentele & Co. Paint and Varnish. AB Radius. If we have children, we’ll have to get up this early all the time, he says. You have no idea how early children wake up, she says. My son used to wake up at five every morning. Always. At five o’clock on the dot. Like an atomic clock. Do you ever hear from him? he asks. She shakes her head. Rather not talk about it? She doesn’t reply. Our kids might not be top of their class, he says. But they’re going to be bloody good dancers. She nods. And they’ll have a good appetite, she says. They’ll be really hairy, he says, stroking her forearm. And they’ll like balls and excursions, she says. But at the weekends, we’ll let you have a lie-in, he says. I promise. I’ll take the kids out into the kitchen. Are we having twins? she asks. We’ll make pancakes, he says. Sliced fruit. Coffee with foamed milk and natural yoghurt with homemade muesli. Then, when we decide it’s time for you to wake up, we’ll bring you breakfast in bed. The kids will sing happy birthday and shout congratulations even though it’s just an ordinary Saturday. And what will we do then? she asks. We’ll stay in bed, he says. We’ll eat breakfast, we’ll read the paper, you can have the news, I’ll take the culture section, the kids can watch a film. Are they going to like Yevgeni Bauer? she asks. That’ll come later, he says. When they’re eleven or twelve. For now, they can watch Disney’s Fantasia. In the afternoon, we’ll go out, the kids can play in a park, and you and I can do intervals or work out in an outdoor gym. And then? she says. In the evening, we’ll have dinner at a restaurant, the kids will fall asleep in their pushchair, you and I will share a bottle of wine and walk home hand in hand. Is that really how you imagine family life? she asks. Pretty much, he says. And do you have any plans for today? Thought I’d hang out with you, he says. Good, she says. Then we’re agreed. For once. Oh yeah, I’m meeting Dad for lunch later, she says. In, uff, about three hours. They smile. The taxi arrives. They climb into the back seat and head into town. The clouds part as they reach the middle of the Liljeholm Bridge. He is sitting in profile, looking out at the glittering water. She has to bite her tongue to stop herself from saying that she loves him.

  * * *

  It’s the weekend, and a father, a mother and two children are finally able to spend some time together. They get ready to take the metro into town. Two hours later, they are still getting ready to take the metro into town. The nappy bag needs filling, the rotten fruit from their last trip needs throwing away, they need water in the feeding bottles, bags of corn puffs, a change of clothing for the kids, wet wipes and a changing mat, toys for the train journey, extra socks because socks always have a magical ability to disappear, food and spoons and bibs and more wet wipes, just in case. The son who is a father wants the children to wear their good clothes. They might see their grandfather, so it feels important that they aren’t wearing football shirts. Eventually, everyone is dressed and ready. But every time they come close to leaving, someone needs to do a poo, someone else needs to pee, someone’s gloves are missing, someone’s overalls are still damp, the four-year-old refuses to wear anything but shorts, the one-year-old wants to crawl around the stairwell and play the dirty black ventilation grille like a xylophone. Then they are finally ready to go. The mother just needs to pee. Then the four-year-old needs to pee. But how could you do a poo without doing a pee? asks the father. I can do everything, says the four-year-old. I’m a billion times strong. Stronger than the Hulk? asks the father. No one is stronger than the Hulk, the four-year-old replies seriously. The Hulk can lift
entire buildings even though they’re made of metal.

  Eventually, they make it into the stairwell. They roll into the lift. They’ve forgotten the baby carrier. The mother goes back to fetch it. They’ve forgotten the lock for the buggy. You can buy locks there, says the mother. The father heads upstairs to fetch the lock. Has anyone seen my phone? asks the father. It’s in the bathroom, says the four-year-old. The father and the four-year-old get back into the lift.

  Eventually, they make it onto the platform, where they wait for the metro. They have been on their way out since breakfast. Now we can recharge, says the mother. The train will be here in four minutes, says the father, feeling like a good father as everyone on the platform watches him lift his daughter towards the big analogue clock to show her how the thin red second hand moves at a slow, steady pace, only pausing slightly when the long black minute hand needs to hop forward a step. Time moves incredibly slowly as they stand there watching the second hand. I really can tell the time, says the four-year-old. Yes, you’re fantastic, says the father. I can tell the time. I can speak Persian. I can speak Icelandic and French and Swedish, says the daughter. What can you say in Persian? asks the father. Bolbol, says the daughter. It means bird.

  * * *

  A father who is a grandfather has put on a clean shirt. He has shaved. He is on his way into town to finally meet his youngest daughter, his favourite, the one who turned out as perfect as he hoped. Yes, it’s unfortunate that she got together with that idiot when she was younger. She should never have married him. She really shouldn’t have had a baby with him. She should have listened to her dad’s advice. But now she has moved on and can concentrate on her successful career as a PR consultant and take care of her beloved father. The metro passes the station where the father spent half a life, or a whole life, depending on how you look at it. He blocks out the memories. He counts how many Swedes are in his carriage. There are more and more of them with every station. He sees himself reflected in the window of the metro carriage. He looks young. Ordinary Swedes look like half-dead alcoholics by the time they reach his age. Their skin loosens as a result of underusing the muscles in their faces. People in other countries laugh, cry and shout so loudly that the Swedes get jumpy at airports. But the Swedes’ facial muscles are left fallow, and if they do happen to gesture then nine times out of ten it’s nothing but holding a finger to their mouth to hush someone, and that isn’t enough to keep the 250 muscles in the face entertained, the father thinks as he gets up and leaves the train at T-Centralen.

  His phone beeps as he makes his way up the escalator. The daughter writes that unfortunately she needs to cancel their lunch. Something important has come up at work. She wants to invite him over for Sunday dinner instead. The father doesn’t feel disappointed. He completely understands that work has to come first. He goes into McDonald’s on Vasagatan and orders three cheeseburgers and a small Fanta with no ice. He sits down in a window seat and remembers all of the times he saw his children after the divorce. His wife had thrown him out. He was sleeping on friends’ sofas. Still, it was important to him to see his kids. They went to the cinema once. They met at the McDonald’s on Hornsgatan on another occasion. They ordered Extra Value Meals and Fanta with no ice, because everyone in the family agreed that Fanta was the best drink and that ice is just water and if you said ‘no ice’ then they filled the cup right up to the brim. The daughter wolfed down her burger, inhaled her fries, gulped down her soda and asked whether she could go to the play area. Of course, said the father. The son stayed behind. He said that he had got the highest mark in natural sciences. He got thirty-nine out of forty on the latest French test. He had the best scores on seventeen out of nineteen tests that term. What happened in the other two? the father joked. Nerdy Lisa, the son sighed. The father smiled. Grades are important, said the father. But they’re not everything. The most important thing is to be happy. And rich. The son nodded. The father didn’t think that the son was strange. He wasn’t particularly worried that he spent his weekend evenings at home, tracing satellites onto greaseproof paper so that he could glue them into his homemade space book rather than having a kickabout with his friends. The father was proud of his son. Quite proud, anyway. Suddenly, they heard shouting from the play area; the daughter had got into a fight with two other children, and the father went over to defuse the situation. He doesn’t remember exactly what he said, but it wasn’t anything serious. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t give anyone a box around the ears. He didn’t pull off a shoe and start a fight. He didn’t even give anyone a gentle smack on the bottom. When the daughter stopped crying, a fat woman wearing a silver cross on top of her purple polo shirt came over. She smiled and spoke in English: You have to remember that these are children. Pardon? the father said in Swedish. They are small human beings, she said. I know, said the father. They have feelings. They get scared. I know, said the father. Just like you and me, she said, placing a soft hand on the father’s shoulder. The father nodded and smiled. Once she was gone, he had turned to the daughter and started to laugh. The son laughed, the daughter laughed, they all laughed at the fact that the woman thought the father couldn’t speak Swedish (or was she the one who couldn’t?), they laughed at what she had said to him (though he hadn’t even hit anyone!). They laughed at the fact they were laughing, though they didn’t really know why. Once they stopped laughing, the father went over to the counter and bought ice cream, and when he returned with the plastic tray the son had worked out both the total cost and how much change the father had been given. All the way home, the father only had to say: they have feelings for everyone to start laughing, even the daughter, though she was too young to understand what it meant.

  The father who is a grandfather leaves the plastic tray on the table and heads for the exit. At tourist information, he picks up a couple of maps and advertising brochures and asks for a blue plastic bag with a crown and logo at the bottom. Vasagatan is the same as ever. Except that the travel agent and the leather shop and the framing store have been replaced by different, more modern shops. There’s a hotel now, a Chinese restaurant, a neon-lit shop selling something, the grandfather can’t quite tell what. Next is the car park, the steps and the Sheraton, where he and his friends used to sneak in to use the toilet before they installed code locks.

  The Tunnel of Sighs is on the other side of the road, down by the water, with views over towards the old town and Centralbron. He was the one who came up with the name. Though he has never been to Venice, he’d heard there was a Bridge of Sighs there, and the Tunnel of Sighs was a perfect fit for the place. This was where they all gathered at weekends. They drank beer and told jokes, their kids threw sticks and empty cans into the water, one of the kids even brought a fishing rod once. But mostly they came down here to get a break from their families. Back then, you could buy anything here. Envelopes, second-hand children’s clothes, security-marked VHS machines, stick insects, canned mackerel in multi-multipacks, hash, ex-library books, plastic-wrapped feather dusters, newly de-tagged windbreakers, and (once) one of those bulky old overhead projectors. Who do you think would want to buy one of those? asked the grandfather who was a father. Maybe him over there, he’s a teacher? said his friend. The father made friends from all over the world and bought things at bargain prices. The Peruvians were looking for workers for their floor-sanding business, the Poles were looking for HVAC jobs, the Yugoslavians had contacts offering cheap summer accommodation in Split, everyone wondered why all Swedish women were called Kerstin. The veterans warned the newcomers about the Swedish flu. What’s that? the newcomers asked. It’s like the Spanish flu but worse, the veterans explained. Spanish flu kills your body, but Swedish flu kills your mind, it gets into your brain. You arrive here a healthy young man with hopes and dreams and a strong belief that anything is possible, but the Swedish flu slowly suffocates you. Let me give you a concrete example, said one of the grandfather’s friends. A young man moves over here. He loves playing guitar. He dream
s of starting a band, making records, going on tour in a limousine. When that doesn’t happen, he downgrades his dreams. He starts to dream of being a music teacher, of finding a nice girlfriend, being able to afford a Volvo 740. He applies to the Royal College of Music, but he doesn’t get in. He applies to a teacher training programme, but he doesn’t get in. When nothing works out, he downgrades his dreams again. He dreams of a job, any old job. He wants to find an okay girlfriend. All he can find is an hourly position at a newsagent’s. He works extra shifts at a sausage factory in Årsta. He can’t afford a car. Can’t afford a girlfriend. The girlfriend he meets isn’t the girlfriend of his dreams. She’s ugly. She’s fat. She’s got an annoying voice, she’s spotty, and she hears voices if she doesn’t take her pills. Her dad’s dead. Her brother’s in a mental hospital. She’s not a good person to be the mother of anyone’s children. The guitar guy knows all this. He knows he’s too handsome for her. He knows he should keep looking. But they become a couple all the same. He’s tired of being alone. They have kids together. She moans that he doesn’t make enough of a contribution to the family. It makes no difference how many jobs he works, nothing is enough. She wants him to sell his guitar. He refuses to sell his guitar. Six months pass. He can’t get any more hours at the newsagent’s. He sells his guitar. Two weeks later, the money is gone. But none of this is Sweden’s fault. The Swedish flu sneaks in when the young man realises that none of the jobs he can get will pay more than the state will give him for free if he isn’t working. The young man realises that his time is worth less than nothing. The state is basically telling him: you’re so worthless that we’d rather pay you to sit around at home, watching the shopping channel, than have you bother us with your working hours. And this is when the Swedish flu starts to infect the man’s brain. It gets into his ears. It whispers that his entire life has been a failure. It convinces him that the only way to do life right is to start over. To end everything. To leave his family and find a new one. So, he leaves his family. He can’t look his children in the eye. All he can do is come down here, to the Tunnel of Sighs, and try to warn people like you, young whippersnappers who still have their spark, to watch out for this country, don’t let it change you, don’t take what they offer for free, because nothing is free. Their free is an addiction. They’ll get your soul in exchange. But the grandfather never listened to the veterans’ warnings. The Swedish flu was something they had made up in an attempt to live with their failures. Now that he is retired, he understands them better.