I shook my head. ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Neither in the one sense nor the other.’
‘That could be something?’ She gave me a sort of forbidden look. ‘An Alain or a François.’ She stretched her hand out and mimed a clawing cat. ‘Rooaar.’
I looked around. People seemed to be having their coffee in peace, no one was taking any notice of us. I breathed out.
‘I have lived in France,’ I said. It was an attempt to subtly move focus from her amorous insinuations to something that actually had relevance for the work in question.
‘How romantic!’ said Schmidt. She raised her eyebrows playfully: ‘So maybe after all you have tried…’
‘I studied there,’ I interrupted, to avoid any further pronouncements on the intricacies of love-making. ‘I read literature. It was tough at the start, with the language. Especially with all the nineteenth century authors. Hugo. Flaubert. It’s hard enough in Swedish, with all the outdated vocabulary. But you get into it. Although the worst is probably still the twentieth century philosophers. They’re incomprehensible, but for completely different reasons.’
Schmidt had picked up her mobile, looked at it distractedly, then looked round, stamped her feet on the floor. She sighed deeply and nodded.
‘So!’ she suddenly burst out. ‘Speaking of books! Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I answered curiously, as if I wanted to hear more.
‘Do it!’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘Speaking of…’
I interrupted her again. ‘I’ll have to remember that one.’
I drank a little of my coffee, this had to be far too much by now, the third cup, but what could I do?
‘But it’s not a matter of literary translation in other words?’ I continued. ‘I’ve actually never worked with that, but at some point it would be exciting to have a go.’
‘What were you saying? Work with what?’ She fingered her phone again.
‘With translation of literature.’
‘Ah yes. No, no. Nothing like that,’ she said mutedly and put her phone down on the table. She looked around the room, fiddled with her hair. She clearly swung between complete boredom and extreme enthusiasm. Which is to say, boredom when the subject was mine and enthusiasm when the initiative was on her side. She asked interested questions but when the answer came it was as if she turned off. We were twin souls, she had claimed, but I was obviously the little sister in some way, a little sister who was occasionally allowed to tag along with her older sister on her adventures, but a permanent number two at her side.
‘Where do you live Milla?’ she asked.
‘I live in a flat a quarter of an hour from here.’
She nodded quickly. ‘I live in a villa, in Bymarken. I don’t think I could manage to go back to living in an apartment,’ she said.
‘It works well for me,’ I said.
‘Not being able to play music as loud as you want, no garden. Booking the laundry room. Who plans doing laundry a week in advance anyway? What kind of a life is that?’ She shook her head. ‘No, no. Villa life, that’s what you need. You’ll have to visit sometime, sample it.’
‘Love to,’ I said. Why, why?
‘What are you doing on Saturday? I was thinking of using the slow cooker. What kind of wine do you drink?’
‘Oh, right, Saturday?’ I thought and thought. ‘Let me see.’ No, no, no, my mind had gone completely blank. Did I have a sister visiting? An ice-hockey game? Nothing seemed plausible, I couldn’t lie. I couldn’t lie, and felt myself dying inside. This was the end.
‘I’m not doing anything special,’ I whimpered.
‘Favourite wine?’
‘I’ve never really thought of it.’
‘Something French, I’m thinking? Fruity?’
‘Yes, that works.’ Wine is just wine, I thought.
‘I knew it. We have the same taste, you and I!’ She got her mischievous look back. ‘Get something French inside you.’
I smiled again. Oh, how I smiled, during the last hour I’d smiled more than I usually would in a week. So false, so hollow! Dinner, sure, would love to! A beret, haha! Please let me die before Saturday!
‘Is it a big do?’ I asked.
‘We’ll see. You’re the first one I’ve invited. Worst case, it’ll be just you and I sitting there, us bores, haha.’
I tried to laugh but ended up mainly just blowing air out my nose.
‘That sounds fine,’ I said.
I didn’t care about the job, I just wanted to get out of this situation. Why was I always done in by this? I was a magnet for all these limited editions, random characters saw in me a potential BFF. All the meaningless social occasions I’ve had to suffer through, so many concerts and cinema trips and barbecue nights and Tupperware parties that I’ve put up with, just because I have never learned to say no. Maybe I could break my leg? Perhaps I didn’t need to die to get out of it? Maybe just whack a sledgehammer into my shin, surely that would do it? ‘I’m sorry, I was really looking forward to it but I’ve broken my leg.’ That had to suffice?
I was seriously thinking all these thoughts, had started to wonder who would have a sledgehammer that they could lend me so I could get it done. It would hurt initially. Then a few weeks with a cast on, that wasn’t a big deal? But she wouldn’t give up because of one little broken leg, Schmidt, no, she would offer to pick me up, give me a lift in her car, make sure that I could stretch my leg out. Take care of her bestie. Give me a neck massage, maybe. She would enjoy it! And I would not be able to say no. It would have to be something worse, much worse.
I wondered for a while about the alternatives, when a towering man came into the café. He was walking over toward the till but stopped when he saw us, changed direction and came, smiling, right over to our table. Schmidt saw him out the corner of her eye, looked in another direction and covered half her face with her hand.
‘Was it a cream bun today?’ said the man, apparently directed at Schmidt. He stood a metre from our table, hung his scarf on the chair at the next table. He appeared to be about fifty, but something in his expression made me suspect that he was substantially younger. He had friendly eyes and a similarly friendly, greying beard. Schmidt didn’t look in his direction. Instead she carried on talking to me:
‘It’ll be really fun. Then you’ll be able to meet the children too. They will be so taken with you, I can just tell.’ She spoke much more quietly now, and forcedly.
‘Have you had any luck with a job yet then? Did anything happen with the Co-Op or what?’ asked the man, while he hung up his coat with his back to us. Now he turned round and his and Schmidt’s eyes met for the first time. She looked at him murderously.
He flung out his arms. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ he laughed and walked off to order.
‘What an idiot, that guy,’ she said and followed him with her eyes. Then she looked at her watch.
‘But wow, how time flies, now we have hardly had time to talk about the job.’ She cast a glance at the till. ‘But we can discuss on Saturday, ok? Chez moi at seven o’clock.’ She got up quickly, hung her coat over her arm, grabbed her bag and strode over to the door. She turned and waved.
‘Au revoir.’
Infectious like Ebola
A scent of soap and hand sanitiser struck Kent Eskilsson when he entered the room. It had been thoroughly cleaned, pedantically even, and was sparsely furnished. There were no textiles in the room, just steel and plastic, polished surfaces, strip lights which were reflected from all directions. White walls, white floor. It was a room designed to create headaches, it seemed, migraines and confusion. Inside the door was a container full of light blue shoe protectors, a pair of which he was clearly expected to put on. He stepped into the shoe covers, every movement he made gave an echo in the blank room. It felt like walking into the inside of a drum, thought Eskilsson. He reached out his hand to the man behind the desk, but he bowed in return instead. His figure was reflected in the highly polish
ed surface of the desk. Eskilsson sat down on the visitors’ seat on the other side of the desk.
‘The role for which you are applying is haunted by bad luck. I want you to know that. Our first general secretary got aids, just like that. The one before him got meningitis and her predecessor was killed by a rare form of glaucoma. We’ve gone through seven general secretaries in four years. It is not good for the organisation,’ the man said. He spoke as if the two of them had already warmed up, were through with the common courtesies and other small talk.
‘That sounds terrible,’ said Eskilsson.
‘It’s really just dumb luck that I’m still here as chairman after ten years. One never knows how long one will stay in good health.’
Åke Hanell, chairman of the board for the Royal Society of Hypochondriacs, took a pen out of the breast pocket on his short-sleeved shirt. Around his wrist was a bracelet in turquoise plastic, possibly a watch, it was hard to tell.
‘Kent Eskilsson, wasn’t it?’ he said and made a note.
‘Yes.’
Hanell looked up. ‘And you have, as far as I can understand, never been ill?’
‘Of course I’ve been sick, but very rarely. I’d say maybe four, five days’ absence over the last fifteen years.’
In fact, these days were split across two occasions. In one case, Eskilsson’s sick leave was due to an appendicitis, in the other it was food poisoning. Actually, that time, all his colleagues were ill too, some of them were off for a whole week. Eskilsson himself was back after a day in bed. Hanell seemed impressed.
‘And no signs of illness recently?’
‘No.’
Hanell stuck his pen subconsciously in his mouth, chewed gently on it before he realised his error and took it out again. He looked disgustedly at the pen, then at Eskilsson, at the same time as he dropped the pen into a waste paper basket.
‘There are both pros and cons to employing a hypochondriac for this role. The benefit is that the individual in question understands our fight, wants to take a part in it, is passionate about the job. The downside… well, as I said, seven general secretaries in four years. So we have thought about trying a different strategy. You seem, if I may say so, unashamedly chipper and carefree.’
Hanell opened a packet with a new pen, where the pen was encased in plastic like a toothbrush.
‘I have never been one to worry about things too much,’ said Eskilsson.
‘But do you think that you could help our cause, even so?’ Hanell threw the plastic in the bin and clicked the pen top twice, quickly.
‘I think so, actually. I sit on the board for the Royal Swedish Society for the Deaf and I am not deaf.’
Hanell’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Haha, yes.’
‘Some people are just really good at reading lips.’
‘Yes.’
Hanell covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Can you hear what I’m saying now?’
‘I can hear you.’
Hanell took his hand away from his mouth. ‘Ok, you aren’t deaf. That must feel good? But you’re still of help to the deaf, you think?’
‘Yes, I believe so. I’ve been involved there for two years now.’
‘Good. Good,’ said Hanell. Then he sat in silence and thought for a moment, before he started to make gestures with his hands at the same time as he lip-synced. His lips made a moist, smacking noise.
‘I don’t know sign language,’ said Eskilsson.
‘Me neither. It would have been fun to know what that meant.’
‘What what meant?’
‘This,’ said Hanell and threw his hands up again in wild movements. His face seemed to seriously mean what his hands were saying.
‘Probably nothing,’ said Eskilsson.
Hanell carried on for a moment, completely in character as a sign language interpreter. Eskilsson didn’t move.
‘Never mind,’ said Hanell finally and stopped his performance. Instead, he picked up a brochure and handed it to Eskilsson. ‘We work to draw attention to hypochondria in society. We write discussion pieces, we try to become more visible in different ways, to improve the everyday life of hypochondriacs. Make sure that resources are provided within society to make our lives more liveable. Above all, we want to get people to see hypochondria for what it really is, a sickness. It’s our foremost goal, that hypochondria be recognised as a diagnosis by the National Board of Health and Welfare.’
Eskilsson flicked through the brochure. ‘You mean that hypochondria is an illness?’
‘Of course! It’s incredibly limiting.’ Hanell bristled indignantly. ‘What would you call it yourself?’
‘I thought that hypochondria was where you believe you have illnesses that you don’t have.’
‘Exactly, that is the illness.’
‘But if you’re actually ill, then you aren’t hypochondriacs, as you’re not imagining it.’
Hanell leaned forward. ‘Wait a second there. We’re not imagining that we are hypochondriacs.’
‘No, I understand that,’ said Eskilsson.
‘We believe that we have other illnesses.’
‘But how can you be sure that you are not imagining that you have hypochondria? If hypochondria is a real illness I mean, you said so yourself, then maybe you could just as easily be imagining that you are hypochondriacs. In the same way that you imagine you’re diabetic or, I don’t know, asthmatic.’
‘You mean that maybe I’m not a hypochondriac at all?’
‘I’m just playing with the idea. Maybe you’re imagining it.’
‘Yes, I imagine it. Hence I’m a hypochondriac.’
‘Although you just said a minute ago that…’
Hanell made a stop sign with his hand. ‘Enough about this, enough about this. All that’s a bit convoluted for me. In any case, that’s one aspect, pursuing the lobbying work. The other one, or the main one really, is taking care of our members. We want to give them useful information, spread knowledge about different types of affliction, what the signs are. Our newsletter is well read, I must confess. In the last edition we did a special on meningitis. It was lucky, I have to say, as that’s how the previous general secretary spotted his symptoms.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Knowledge is the key here. We also normally run the most important headlines from other periodicals.’ Hanell picked up a print-out of an article. ‘Here, for example, from yesterday’s newspaper: “Felt tired – had cancer.” Or this one: “Thought it was a mosquito bite – died.” It’s important to keep up with the latest discoveries. Did you know that you can die from eating too much salt? And that you will definitely die if you don’t eat any salt. It’s about getting exactly the right amount. We are constantly balancing on a knife-edge. Death, life, death, life.’ Hanell illustrated a set of scales which weighed life and death with his hands, they went up and down, back and forth.
‘I’ve never thought about it in that way,’ stated Eskilsson, in a tone that made it clear that neither would he ever think about it in that way.
‘In practice, we are saving lives by keeping people updated,’ said Hanell.
‘Is there not a risk that you are fuelling your readers’ concerns by enumerating all conceivable illnesses? It seems more likely to create hypochondria than to help people manage it. Surely what you want to do is to alleviate people’s fears?’
Hanell smiled triumphantly, he seemed to have expected this outcome. ‘The only way to really eliminate their concerns is to succeed in getting rid of…’ He groaned and grimaced. ‘Ow!’
‘What?’ said Eskilsson.
Hanell gritted his teeth and sucked air in between them. ‘There’s a pain in my scrotum. Do you get that sometimes?’
‘I don’t know. Is it like a stabbing pain?’
‘No, more like a dull throbbing. Like it’s vibrating a little.’
‘Vibrating?’
‘Yes. Zzzzz. That’s what it sounds like. Zzzzzz.’ Hanell raised his upper lip and sh
oved out his chin. ‘Zzzzzz.’
‘It’s buzzing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Audibly, you mean?’
‘I don’t think so. Wait, now it’s coming back, quiet. Listen. Come closer. No, not so close. There.’
Both of them sat there in silence, eyes turned upwards, focused. Eskilsson with his hands in his lap, Hanell with his forefinger in the air and hunched shoulders. Then he relaxed his shoulders and his finger.
‘Now it’s stopped,’ said Hanell. ‘Did you hear anything?’
‘No. You?’
‘No.’
‘There’s probably nothing to worry about, I wouldn’t have thought,’ said Eskilsson.
‘Sure?’
‘Fairly.’
‘But not completely?’
Eskilsson considered this. ‘You can never be completely sure.’ Hanell began sweating profusely, drops ran from his hairline and down over his forehead, made their way past furrows and bumps in his skin and finally landed in his eyebrows, which became slick. He took a deep breath through the nose.
‘That’s exactly the problem. You can never be sure.’
He tore off a sheet of paper and wrote down a few words, out of sight for Eskilsson, threw his pen down and stuffed the piece of paper in his breast pocket, where there were already a number of notes. He picked up a tennis ball that was sat on the table and started kneading it with one hand.
‘What would you be able to offer us?’ he asked, but seemed to be somewhere else completely in spirit.
‘Well, to start with, I’ve worked in healthcare for many years. Only in administration, technically speaking, but I am familiar with the environment. But above all I would be able to look at things in an objective light. I do understand that you are fighting a handicap the whole time and that you may need someone who sees a little more clearly.’
‘Sees clearly, you say.’ Hanell nodded. ‘Clear sight is always needed. I would however point out that we see very clearly here, all us hypochondriacs. That may in fact be our principal characteristic. We see a little too clearly for our own good, we see risks to which others appear blind. You cough and you think, yep, that was just a cough. I cough and start to rattle off the ICD-10. No diagnosis is unknown to me. What is the cause of this cough? It could just as easily be COPD as dry air. It’s about being prepared for the worst. I would say that there are probably no other people as well prepared as we are.’
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