‘But what national team do you support, then?’ said Hansson, hiding his desperation.
‘What national team? Sweden’s, naturally,’ said Said.
‘Naturally?’
‘Yes. You can’t really support Lebanon. They’re never in the tournament anyway,’ he laughed.
Shit, Hansson thought. Said had managed to elude the inquiry through evasive action. Didn’t it sound as if Lebanon at least hypothetically was his first-hand choice? But he had to return to the job-related questions, if nothing else, then to keep up the appearances. He chuckled a bit, ‘right, right,’ as if to sum up the digression and returned to the topic, whatever it was.
‘Marketing,’ said Hansson, mostly to himself, and then looked up at Said. ‘What would you say is of key importance for a company’s external visibility?’
‘Right. That’s a big question’, said Said and sat up straight. ‘If we’re just talking on a general level, I’d say it’s credibility. Not to promise anything you can’t keep, never to claim things about yourself that sound hollow. So, it really starts at the very core of the business, to offer good services and products. And if you do that, then you have something to communicate. Which I know Ice Consulting has.’
Hansson felt flattered. ‘So, we haven’t done too bad of a job so far?’
‘Absolutely not. But if we’re looking ahead and we see what the media landscape looks like, things have changed significantly in recent years. And are still changing. You have to dare to rethink things. It’s all about carefully working through a strategy based on concrete market surveys. What I mean is that it’s vital to work with business intelligence. Continually.’
‘Very good, very good,’ said Hansson and unconsciously tapped his index finger on the table.
‘It sounds as if you’ve given this some thought, Said.’
Said shrugged modestly.
Hansson was thrown between admiration and suspicion towards the handsome candidate. He seemed knowledgeable and spoke with great poise. He didn’t sound like a fundamentalist, he really didn’t.
‘What’s your experience in web development?’
‘I’ve managed a couple of projects at my current workplace. The last one was when we were setting up a new intranet.’
‘And that went well?’
‘It went very well. You have a description of it in my application.’
‘Right!’
Hansson kept digging in Said’s professional knowledge, asked questions about punctuality, cooperation, computer skills, education, previous experiences, analytic ability, organisational skills, stress management, flexibility, how was his public speaking? To each of the questions Said gave balanced answers, exhibited knowledge and commitment. He was modest but in the know, Hansson noticed. He met and exceeded the requirements of competence. Hansson thought, brushed his cheek. There was a long silence. The hands of the clock hammered in the seconds. The ball was in Hansson’s court, it was his turn to speak. Said waited, made a half-hearted attempt at whistling, but mostly air came out.
‘I have a good feeling about this, I have to tell you,’ said Hansson eventually. ‘What’s your notice period at your current job?’
‘Three months.’
‘February, March... then you could start here at the end of April. I’m not going to promise you anything here and now, but I’ll let you know before the weekend.’
‘Yes’, said Said. ‘I don’t know...’ He looked down at the table.
‘What don’t you know?’
‘I...’ he interrupted himself. ‘You probably don’t have to get back to me. I don’t think this is really for me.’
Said smiled apologetically. Hansson’s forehead was wrinkled. ‘You don’t think this is for you? This?’
‘I don’t think I’d feel at home here. No offence.’
‘No?’ said Hansson.
‘Unfortunately not. I don’t feel entirely comfortable with your description of the workplace and the requirements you have.’
‘You mean our policy on equality? Every person’s equal value? You just said it went without saying!’
Said shook his head. ‘I understand you might find it hard to...’
‘Hard to what?’
‘I mean, perhaps you’d rather not have someone of my... well... sort.’
It was absurd, Hansson thought. Such innuendo! Would he, the anti-racist, the proponent of diversity - did he have an aversion to certain groups of people? He, the philanthropist! It was a cunning way for Said to sweep his real motives under the rug. He simply couldn’t manage to sign up to the ethical rules of the game that Hansson had laid out, regardless of how much he, a moment ago, had asserted that he stood for equality and tolerance. He had only said what Hansson wanted to hear. After a few minutes of reflection, Said had realised that he wouldn’t be able to live such a lie day in and day out, at his desk or at the coffee machine, despite his eloquence and competence. That was what Hansson had suspected from the outset, that something wasn’t right, that this Said had a touch of contempt for Swedish society. Hansson was lucky to have spoken so clearly about values, so that it became obvious to Said that he wouldn’t like it in such a workplace.
‘I hope you find a suitable person,’ said Said and pushed back his chair to get up.
He was polite, and in every way acted dignified – a clear sign, thought Hansson, that an extremist couldn’t be betrayed by his manner, but could adopt any shape or form.
He had been so close to offering him the job, but now jihadism reared its ugly head, the hidden agenda was brought into the light. It was eerie, he had been millimetres from recruiting a terrorist, someone who didn’t hesitate to use bestial violence to end the lives of innocent Swedes. Good Lord! Hansson stayed behind his desk, shocked but grateful for having escaped death by the skin of his teeth.
A sense of style
Jenny Sundin knew her stuff when it came to interior design. Her friends went on at her about how she should start a design blog so that everyone could get to see her geraniums and teak sideboard and String shelves with carefully considered books in the right colours, her Josef Frank wallpaper and abstract work surfaces and Finnish cocktail glasses on tasteful retro table cloths. But she fought against the idea. Home décor isn’t about showing off, it’s about well-being. Symmetry. Balance. Harmony.
She thought about her partner Marcel as she hurried through the streets on her way to the interview. He would definitely not understand her ambitions to change career – from teacher to assistant in an interior design shop.
The problem was not that Marcel wanted to rule over Jenny’s choice of employment, on the contrary, he usually supported her. What annoyed her was that Marcel did not understand the importance of décor. For him, it was a foreign language.
It had taken a while for her to appreciate the breadth of his handicap. When they had just moved in together, he would buy a mug or a footstool or something else for their communal home, completely without asking her first. In the beginning she indulged him, allowed certain trinkets to remain for a short time, before quietly replacing them with something more in keeping with the rest of their home. He usually didn’t notice until much later anyway. For his birthday one year, he had been given a hideous silver Georg Jensen bowl by some well-meaning but clueless neighbours. Marcel was genuinely pleased with the piece of junk and gave it pride of place in the glass cabinet for all to see. Jenny had taken the bowl out as soon as their guests had left and put it in a chest with other objects set aside for giving to a charity shop.
‘So you don’t think silver bowls fit in with our home?’ Marcel had said.
It just showed how narrow minded he was, Jenny thought. Of course there was nothing generally wrong with silver bowls, it was just that this specific bowl didn’t work with their look. What worked or didn’t depended on an intricate combination of so many parameters that it was impossible to explain exactly where the imbalance lay. It was a matter of feeling and could not be learned. It was
like with music: everyone can practice and improve, but something has to be there from the start.
It was the same thing with his clothes. In the beginning he sometimes wore polo shirts. Actual polo shirts. That she in spite of everything fell for him was to do with a number of other qualities which compensated for his defective taste. Jenny had understood that it was important to not confront him openly about it. Instead, she employed a long term strategy whereby he would gradually realise of his own accord that his wardrobe needed updating. It relied on minuscule changes in her facial expression when he put on something that was wrong. Insinuations, the occasional giggle.
‘What is it?’ he’d sometimes ask, when she looked at him in a pair of far too loose jeans. Dad jeans.
‘No, nothing,’ she would say, with a tone that made it clear that there definitely was something.
‘Don’t you like them?’
‘Sure. They’re fine. It’s just that… No, forget it. You keep them on!’
Through a long series of similar situations, she had managed to wear down his self-confidence when it came to both clothes and décor. Step by step, she had made him realise that it was pointless to even try and dress himself. Now she bought all his clothes and everything for their home.
One thing which Marcel on the other hand did have freedom of decision with was day to day shopping, such as washing up liquid and coffee and he was actually really talented in this area. Of course, sometimes he would come home with Serlas toilet paper instead of Lambi, but that wasn’t the end of the world. When that happened she’d say that he was sweet and give him a kiss on the cheek, because these things can happen to anyone. Nobody’s perfect.
It was completely natural that Jenny would sooner or later start working in an interior design shop. She’d secretly thought this for a long time, she had just been waiting for the right occasion. This came when the town’s absolutely best store, Rummet, was looking for a new shop assistant. It was a small business, run by two sisters, and she had been there shopping many times. She had handwritten her application on a Marimekko napkin, to stand out from the crowd. The trick had clearly worked, as they wanted to meet her and now she had arrived. It was nine o’clock in the morning, an hour before opening, when she knocked on the door.
‘Hi! So here you are! You shop here every now and then,’ said Louise, one half of the shop owning duo, when she opened the door.
‘As often as I can,’ said Jenny.
Louise had an interior designer’s look. Her hair was red and playfully scruffy, her specs were reminiscent of 3D glasses and the various necklaces with wooden pendants made a clacking noise as they knocked against one another. As a customer, Jenny had previously asked Louise where she had bought her poncho and had since bought one herself. She found this reasonable, as they did not mix in the same circles and would never cross one another wearing the same clothes. Except in the shop, but if she was going there she would of course leave the poncho at home. Likewise this time. Which was lucky, as Louise had hers on.
Jenny was shown into a small kitchen area behind the till.
‘I’ve never introduced myself by name, but I’m Jenny. Well, of course you know that already.’
‘And I’m Louise. And over there is My.’ My waved from over by one of the shelves, where she was standing arranging a kind of still life.
‘You like our shop, from what I understand?’
‘Love it,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ve actually thought for a long time that I would like to work here. It seems so cosy.’
‘Good to hear. Yes, it’s probably true that we have the cosiest job that there is,’ said Louise. She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘But you’re a teacher, right?’
‘Yes.’ Jenny looked around her. The kitchen was pretty non-descript, presumably left over from some previous shop owner lacking in savoir-faire. Lots of pine, it was quite concerning.
‘Of course we need to fix up the kitchen, we haven’t really had time,’ said Louise, who must have guessed what was going on in Jenny’s mind.
That calmed Jenny down. It would have been terrible if the shop had just been a façade and the owners themselves actually had no idea at all and sat drinking coffee in some sort of rumpus room and were satisfied. But that wasn’t the case. Great.
‘How is it that you don’t want to work at the school anymore?’ asked Louise.
‘I’ve done it for fifteen years now. It’s a good job, it really is, but I want to try something else.’
‘My! Get over here!’ shouted Louise and looked out through the doorway. My wandered slowly over, stretched a limp hand out to Jenny and sat down opposite her, shoulder to shoulder with Louise. She had asymmetrical hair with a fringe – the sort of hair that goes with strong opinions – and was much skinnier than her sister, and slightly hunched over. Jenny guessed that she was younger than Louise.
‘Jenny is a teacher,’ said Louise. ‘What is it you teach?’
‘History and English. For sixth form.’
‘Ah, then you can teach us something or other,’ said Louise. ‘Right, My?
‘Yes,’ said My. She was mainly staring at the table, except when she was spoken to, then she looked up and blushed.
‘I was hopeless at history,’ said Louise. ‘Now I’d love to study it, it’s really fascinating. But you didn’t get that, when you were at school.’
‘No, that’s often the way,’ said Jenny.
Louise prodded My’s arm. ‘Will you make coffee, My?’
‘Yep,’ said My. She got up and took the two steps over to the coffee machine.
‘Heaped spoonfuls!’ said Louise. She turned to Jenny. ‘What experience do you have with work like this?’
‘I’m really passionate and usually help friends when they are decorating at home. But I don’t have any shop experience. I would however dare to say that I have a feel for it,’ said Jenny.
She really did. Jenny had an incredible feeling for décor. When she recently bought a candle holder, for example, she knew that it should have been a Klong candle holder, but she still ordered a cheaper version from Store Factory. If one just considered this act from the outside, one could have thought that she bought that one because she didn’t know that it was the Klong one should have, that she bought it, so to speak, out of ignorance. But it was the exact opposite. Was it not the height of sophistication to not choose the one that all the sophisticates had, to walk one’s own path? In so doing, she was not only sophisticated, but also brave. It was quite simply the case that those who knew the rules could break them in an elegant manner. This applied to all forms of art, not least interior design. She explained her logic to Louise.
Louise squinted suspiciously at her in silence. ‘So you don’t have a Klong candle holder?’ she said after a moment.
‘No. Exactly.’ Jenny let her gaze wander back and forth between Louise and My, who took the coffee pot out from the percolator.
‘No Klong,’ said My from under her fringe. She filled up three cups with coffee.
‘No Klong,’ confirmed Louise. She tasted the coffee and tutted irritably. ‘What’s this? Did you use a heaped spoonful?’
‘Yes,’ said My.
Jenny was just about to take a slurp from her mug, but Louise intercepted her. ‘I’ll take that. My will get a new one. Here!’ she said and handed the mug to My who took it and poured the contents down the sink. She emptied out the other two mugs too, as well as the rest of the contents of the pot and started the procedure again with a new filter.
‘Stronger, My, much stronger!’ said Louise. And then to Jenny: ‘So what are your expectations of this job?’
‘That it will be fun. And that we’ll get on with one another. That I can add something, get to bring my own ideas.’
‘What sort of ideas are they?’ asked Louise. She tipped back on her chair and folded her arms.
Jenny felt a discomfort creeping in. How could she get across that she knew what she was talking about? Was the thing about the Klong candl
e holder not clear? She wasn’t entirely sure. Everyone who knew her knew that her taste was unquestionable, but proving it to two strangers in a half hour or an hour – with words alone – it was a challenge. But then she came up with a strategy. A real classic, admittedly, but it always worked. She laughed out loud and looked slightly askance, as if there was something which had amused her.
‘Have I said something odd?’ asked Louise.
‘No, really you’ve not. I just thought of a funny story.’
‘Tell us!’
‘Ach. You’ll probably think it’s nothing,’ said Jenny, ‘But ok. So, do you have boyfriends?’
‘Yes,’ answered Louise.
‘No,’ answered My.
‘But anyway,’ said Jenny. ‘Marcel, my fella,’ she rolled her eyes, ‘he’s not the sharpest knife in the box, as they say.’
Louise laughed.
‘So last week,’ continued Jenny, ‘he was at Ikea. Nothing complicated, right? And he called me and asked if he had carte blanche to buy curtains for our little study.’
‘Haha, I think I understand what’s coming here,’ said Louise. She was clearly excited to hear the rest.
My took hold of the chair seat under her, as if ready for anything.
‘And I thought, I’ll give him a chance. I’ll let him have a go himself. Maybe he needs to feel that I have faith in him,’ said Jenny. She shook her head. ‘I ended up regretting that, I can tell you.’
‘What happened?’ said Louise.
‘He came home, really pleased. He’d got a steal, he said. So he opened the bag…’ Jenny left a dramatic pause, looked at Louise, at My, at Louise.
‘What? What was in the bag?’ said Louise who was approaching a falsetto from the curiosity.
‘Green… velvet… curtains. Haha, green velvet curtains!’
Louise’s eyes got bigger, as if she was about to have a panic attack. She clutched at her chest. My seemed nauseous, glanced around her as if she didn’t know where to look. It looked as if she would rush out to the toilet, kneel down in front of it. Green velvet curtains, Jesus Christ, oh Christ.
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