* * *
A sister who is a mother has agreed to meet her boyfriend on the park benches twenty metres from the entrance. She wants them to go in together. She wants the secretaries and nurses and doctors and, above all, the other women in the waiting room to see that there are two people behind this decision. She isn’t alone. I’ll come with you, her boyfriend said when she told him about her decision. Even though I’m asking you to please, please see reason. But she is sure of herself. Getting rid of this baby doesn’t mean they can’t have another one. Further down the line. When they really want it. Welcoming a child is irreversible, removing a child isn’t. And yet on her way to the clinic, doubts start creeping in. What if she regrets it? You’ll never regret a baby, people said to her when she got pregnant the first time and her ex-husband started acting strangely. And they were right. Regardless of everything else that has happened, she has never regretted her decision to keep the baby. Or have there been times when, deep down, she has doubted that she made the right decision? Never. Is she about to make a mistake now? What if she can’t get pregnant again? She needs to talk it through with him one last time, the man who isn’t her ex-husband, but a much kinder, more honest and better person. This is why she sends him a message and asks him to come half an hour earlier. She can picture him being there when she arrives, dropping to his knees and asking her to think it through one last time, reminding her that he loves her, that he wants to be with her forever and that the person they would be making deserves a chance. She reaches the park benches. He isn’t there. He hasn’t replied to her message. She sits down. She sends him another message. She tries calling him. She checks the time. Twenty to. Quarter to. Where are you? she writes as the clock strikes five to. He calls her at three minutes to, his voice gruff. He says that there’s an emergency at work, one of the students has threatened another, the head teacher is here, the police have been called, he needs to stay and take care of this mess. He’s so sorry he can’t be there, but he also doesn’t know how much support he would be, because he feels a bit ropey as it is and has, as she knows, always been a bit funny about hospitals and needles. But he sends her all his good energy and hopes they can see each other soon? She sits perfectly still. She hangs up without saying goodbye. She drops her phone into her bag and goes in through the glass doors. A secretary smiles and asks whether she is who she is. For a moment, she isn’t sure. Then she nods and continues into the waiting room.
* * *
It’s Friday morning, and a grandfather who is a father is getting ready to take the metro to Cityterminalen and the bus to the airport. He packs up everything he bought on sale. There are shirts from Dressman, trousers from Grosshandlarn, blouses and children’s clothes from H&M, children’s shoes from Deichmann. None of it is for him. Everything will be sold on at a good price, without any mark-ups, to his contacts in the other country. He saves the carrier bags. He saves the hangers. He saves the labels, but scrapes off the red sale stickers. He crosses out the second to last day from his homemade calendar and puts everything edible into the bag he will take as hand luggage. He packs the apples, oranges, muesli, soured milk, two packs of beans, half a cucumber, a half-eaten block of cheese, a loaf of sliced bread and a tin of mackerel in tomato sauce. He takes out a plastic tub with a lid and tips four-fifths of the instant coffee into it.
After this, he locks his suitcase with a padlock. The plane leaves at seven. He is ready to leave the flat around lunch. He wants to be there at least four hours early. He doesn’t like stress. There are TVs in the airport, and he has nothing better to do. It’s eleven thirty when he hears a car horn out on the street.
* * *
A son who is a father is sitting in the car outside the office. He doesn’t want to go up. He doesn’t want to discover that his father has left the office in the same state as usual. He doesn’t want to wake the one-year-old in the back seat and carry him up the stairs to see the tower of pizza boxes, the piles of clipped nails on the counter, the flakes from the foot file in the bathroom. Besides, children aren’t allowed up there right now, not while the treatment for the cockroach problem is ongoing. The man from Anticimex specifically asked whether there would be any children in the office, and when the father said no he left some extra cream poison on the floor in the bathroom, on the kitchen shelves, behind the microwave and in the gap between the fridge and the freezer. But. Oddly enough, the father also doesn’t want to go up there and discover that his father has cleaned. He isn’t really sure why. Maybe it’s because it would prove that people can change. Or maybe more because it would show that he had it in him all these years, but was only willing to make an effort when faced with a concrete threat.
The son sounds the horn to announce that he is here. The father comes out onto the balcony. What do you want? the father asks. I wanted to say bye, says the son. Come up, then, the father says. I can’t, the son says, pointing to the back seat where the one-year-old is asleep. Hold on, I’ll come down. Bring your suitcase, says the son. I’ll drive you to the airport. The father hesitates on the balcony for two seconds too long. I’ll be right down, he says. I just need to finish packing.
The father emerges with his overpacked suitcase. You could really do with a new case, says the son. Buy me one for my birthday, says the father. The son lifts the case into the boot, climbs in behind the wheel, checks the rear-view mirror, signals and pulls away from the kerb. Don’t forget your blind spot, says the father. I checked the blind spot, says the son. You need to check it properly, says the father. They do a U-turn and drive towards the roundabout.
What’s that? the father asks. A temporary phone, says the son. What happened to your other one? It broke, the son says, dropping it into a compartment to avoid having to look at it. The car’s dirty, says the father. I’m going to wash it, says the son. It smells of fish. I’m going to wash it, the son repeats. You have to take care of your things, otherwise they break, says the father. The son turns right, right, and pulls out onto the motorway. That’ll turn into a crack if you don’t get it fixed, the father says, pointing to a chip in the windscreen. You might have to replace the entire windscreen. It’s just a chip, says the son. Now, yes, says the father. But it’ll turn into a crack. Just you wait, we’ll see who was right. The son swings into the right-hand lane. Have you been eating liquorice? the father asks. Why? Whenever your mother ate liquorice, she always got spots. I’ve been sleeping badly lately, says the son. How long? The last four years, says the son. Overtake, says the father. We haven’t got all day. Doesn’t your plane leave in, like, six hours? the son asks. It doesn’t hurt to be there in good time, the father says. Stress isn’t good for the stomach. The son checks the rear-view mirror, indicates and pulls into the left-hand lane. Don’t forget your blind spot, says the father. I’m the one driving, and I checked the blind spot, says the son. You did it too quickly, the father says. You need to check properly. Please please please, says the son. Can we try something? Just for today. This drive takes three-quarters of an hour. Can we try to see whether it’s possible for us to talk to one another for that long without you criticising me? An experiment. Let’s try it. Every time you want to say something, think it through first, and if there’s anything in what you want to say that might seem like a criticism of me, you don’t say it. Shall we try? You’re the one looking for faults in me, says the father. Okay, says the son. Now you’ve criticised me for that, too. Can we try again? Starting now? Neither of us criticises the other. Let’s see if we can manage it. Three-quarters of an hour. We should be able to do it. The father turns to look out of the side window. The son keeps his eyes on the road. Twice, from the corner of his eye, he sees his father open his mouth to speak, but he stays quiet.
* * *
A grandfather who is a father is in shock. For the first time in the history of the world, his son has offered to drive him to the airport! It’s incredible. This must be his lucky day. He should buy a lottery ticket. But, instead, he climbs into t
he passenger seat and tells a few funny jokes. His son doesn’t laugh. He misunderstands. He thinks the jokes are criticism. What happened yesterday? the grandfather asks. What do you mean? says the father. You went to do the shopping and then just disappeared? says the grandfather. I had a few things to sort out, says the father. The grandfather nods. He understands. He has been a father, too. Sometimes there are just things that need sorting out, and that’s what you have to do. Fathers and girlfriends don’t need to know the details. Do you need any money? he asks, patting his chest pocket. No, says the father. Do you need any muscle? The grandfather flexes his biceps. The father smiles. Thanks, but no. It’s all sorted now. They drive on in silence. I just felt like leaving, says the father. That was all it was.
The grandfather is relieved. He likes that the father doesn’t want to tell him everything. It means he’s adult enough to understand that there are certain things you have to keep to yourself.
* * *
A son who is a father sees the signs counting down to the airport. They will soon be there. They’ll soon say goodbye. It will soon be too late. The son indicates right, pulls onto the hard shoulder and comes to a halt. What are you doing? the father asks. The son turns on the hazard warning lights and leaves the engine running so that the silence doesn’t wake the one-year-old. Dad, he says. You can’t park here, says the father. Dad, he says. What are you doing? It’s dangerous to park here, we could be mown down at any moment. Dad, says the son. Listen to me. I tried to run off yesterday, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted to come back. I needed my kids. I understand, says the father. Now drive. You’ve destroyed a lot of things, says the son. But at least I’m not so broken that I could leave my family. Thank you for that. The father sits in silence. We’ve had our differences over the years, says the son. You’ve had your differences, says the father. And we’ve both said and done things that I think we regret, says the son. I regret nothing, says the father. But there’s one thing I want you to know, says the son. I . . . forgive you. Now drive, says the father. We forgive you, says the son. We who? asks the father. Me and my sisters, says the son. The father is silent. He looks away. His shoulders are shaking. He is making strange sounds. The son looks straight ahead until it is over. Now drive, the father says, putting on his sunglasses. And don’t forget your blind spot.
* * *
A son who is a father and a father who is a grandfather arrive at the airport. The father parks up, the one-year-old stretches and wakes. They walk over to the check-in desks together. Have you checked in online? the woman behind the counter asks. This is my son, says the grandfather. He drove me here. What a nice son you have, the woman says. Have you already checked in? No, says the grandfather. I can’t check in myself. I’m illiterate. He laughs at his funny joke. The son smiles. The woman helps him check in. Do you want to wrap your suitcase in plastic, just to be on the safe side? This case has been going strong for thirty years, it’ll survive this flight, says the grandfather.
They walk towards security. The one-year-old blinks up at the high ceilings. Mooo, he says when he spots a border guard with a sniffer dog. The grandfather bends down towards his grandson. He kisses him on the cheeks, three times. Then another three. I’m going to miss him, says the grandfather. He’s going to miss you, says the father. Next time, you’ll have to try to spend a bit more time together. Definitely, says the grandfather. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a five-hundred-krona note. For the petrol. That’s too much, says the father. Take whatever’s left and buy some football socks for your daughter. That’ll be a lot of football socks, says the father. She’s worth it, says the grandfather.
The grandfather and the father hug and kiss on the cheek, three times. We’ll stay in touch, says the father. Absolutely, says the grandfather. Promise you’ll send a message when you land, says the father. Of course, says the grandfather. You know how I get otherwise. How do you get? asks the grandfather. Worried, says the father. Don’t be worried, says the grandfather. But I will be, says the father. You think too much, says the grandfather. Will you just promise to send a message? says the father. You’re too sensitive. A short message when you land. That’s all I’m asking. Okay, says the grandfather. I’m serious, the father says, feeling like a son. I’ll send a message, the grandfather says with a smile. If you don’t send a message, I’ll get my revenge, the father says, half joking. How? asks the grandfather. By writing about this, says the father. Do it, says the grandfather. Write a book about a son who kicks his beloved father out onto the street. A story about a father who treats his family like possessions, more like, says the father. They smile at one another. They never say that last part. They just say goodbye. The grandfather walks towards security. The son who is a father stays where he is by the luggage trolley. He waits for the grandfather to turn around and wave. The grandfather doesn’t turn around. The father never takes back the keys. The grandfather never sends a message when he lands. In five months and twenty-eight days, they’ll see one another again.
* * *
That evening, the son who is a father stops by the office. He is ready for anything when he turns the security lock and opens the door. But the rubbish has been taken out. The floors are clean. The toilet has been scrubbed. All the pizza boxes but one are gone. He’s even done the washing-up. Incredible. There aren’t any new cockroach corpses to sweep away, which must mean that the poison and the traps are working. The son is free to open the letters that have been gathered in a pile, to sort receipts, print out bank statements and prepare accounts. It’s just a question of getting started. He’ll do it soon. But first, he goes out into the kitchen and puts on the kettle. He grabs a teabag and takes out a cup. There is a note on the kitchen table. The handwriting is his father’s. He hasn’t written See you soon. He hasn’t written Thanks. Not I love you. Instead, he has written ten dates and crossed out all but the last.
The son throws the note into the bin beneath the counter. His phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times. He answers. His sister’s overwrought voice says that her son has been in touch and that it’s over with the boyfriend who was never a boyfriend and that she had an abortion that morning and doesn’t regret doing it. Where are you? asks the son who isn’t his father. I’m coming.
thanks
K and T
Diane Bimont
Daniel Sandström, Albert Bonniers Förlag
Sarah Chalfant, the Wylie Agency
jonas hassen khemiri is the author of five novels, six plays, and a collection of scripts, essays, and short stories. Among his many honours are the August Prize, the highest literary award for Swedish literature; the Per Olov Enquist Literary Prize; the Borås Tidning Award for Best Literary Debut Novel; and an Obie Award. His novels have been translated into more than thirty languages, and his six plays have been performed by more than one hundred companies around the world. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden.
Read more at his website.
alice menzies is a literary translator from Swedish, and has translated works by several contemporary Swedish writers including Fredrik Backman and Sofia Lundberg. She lives in London, U.K.
house of anansi press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish
the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.
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