Everything I Don't Remember
Page 22
As we got closer, I heard sirens and an ambulance sped by in the other direction. There were only fire trucks still at the scene. I was too late. They had had to cut off the roof to get him out, his grandma’s Opel looked like a convertible. I stopped at a distance. The recorded voice was silent, the tourists didn’t know what to do, someone left the train to approach the wrecked car, someone took out a phone and took pictures, someone spoke comfortingly to their children. I wanted to go over there but I couldn’t. From a distance I could see that the car looked pretty okay, except for the skinny tree growing out of the hood. Sure, there was smoke coming from the engine and the windshield wipers were bent out of all shape, but I didn’t want to believe that it was so serious.
*
People say Vandad let Samuel pay for everything. When they moved in together he collected an insane amount of rent just so he wouldn’t have to work. When he took over responsibility for Samuel’s grandma’s house he started extorting money from the people who lived there, he raised the rent every week, he confiscated their passports, he threatened to call the police on those who couldn’t pay.
*
After a while, the guy who had called Panther came up and asked if I was the one he had spoken to. He said that the phone was lying there undamaged and he didn’t know who to call, he just dialed the most recent number. He asked several times how I felt and offered me a ride to the hospital. I didn’t respond, I couldn’t respond, I just kept squatting there and looking down at the grass, there were dirt and ants and a few pinecones farther off, the guy asked again if I was okay, the tourists started going back to the train cars, it was time for me to drive back to Skansen but the guy didn’t want to stop talking, he said he had been a medic in Cambodia and had seen some things. He put his arm around me and said:
“Listen, don’t worry, it’s going to be all right, there there, take it easy, don’t worry.”
It felt good to have his arm there, I felt his warmth, smelled his sweat smell, in the background I heard the guide voice starting over, the actor’s voice welcoming the tourists to this guided tour and when the train was meant to be crossing the Djurgården bridge instead of sitting at the edge of the road in Solberga, the voice said “Stockholm. Look at her. Isn’t she beautiful?”
*
People say that it was because of Vandad that the boy had hidden in the wardrobe.
*
What are you talking about? Who told you that?
*
People say that Samuel’s internal organs were pulverized, his aorta was severed, his heart collapsed, he was crushed by the engine. He died instantly or on the way to the hospital. Because he did die, right? Yes, everyone is in agreement, at least, that he did die. He was born, he lived, he died.
*
Who? I want names.
*
People say that after Samuel’s death, an author started asking questions. He met Samuel’s acquaintances, he said that he had lost someone too and now he wanted to map out what had happened with the people who knew Samuel, he wanted to understand how people had moved on, he wanted to put the feelings of guilt behind him, and every time he heard that it wasn’t planned, that it was only an accident, that Samuel was not at all the type to do something like that and thus he hadn’t done it, the author felt a little better. His feelings of guilt disappeared, he convinced himself that Samuel’s story was his friend’s story, and if the people Samuel knew could move on then he could too. But you can’t move on because deep down you know Samuel’s story isn’t E’s and what might have been an accident was no accident and no matter where you look you see traces of E, in kneecaps, in dimples, in flat rocks, in backseats of cars, in stick shifts, in windshield wipers, in dryers, in laundry rooms, in courtyards, in sunsets, in neon signs, in farewell letters, in regular letters, in missed calls, in unanswered texts, in the name of Grandma’s throat lozenges, in E-major, in em-dashes, in scents, in sugar-free gum, in too-strong perfumes, in water glasses, in jean cuffs, in hoarse laughs, in the backs of park benches, in poached eggs, in American angels, in Berlin dance floors, in Parisian subways, in hotel bars, in made-up constellations, in memories that will soon vanish, in unchanged unending words that can never be erased.
*
They’re lying. Everyone is lying.
*
People say that that’s a lie too, because the author didn’t feel as guilty as he wanted to make it seem. He had other feelings too, he felt furious about being fooled and relieved about avoiding responsibility and happy that his theories checked out because once again here was proof that people could not be trusted, they say they will be there but then they disappear and all that survives is the words and the naïve hope that the next sentence, no the next one, no the next one, will change everything. The crazy thing is that not even his words could be trusted because as he neared the end he realized that every time a hole appeared in Samuel’s story he had used his own memories and it was too late by the time he realized who it was that wrote lists of conversation topics and who collected definitions of love and who panicked over his crappy memory and whose dad had disappeared and whose friend no longer existed.
*
You’re lying.
*
One evening I go back to the dementia home. Guppe shows me into the TV room where Samuel’s grandma is sitting in front of a muted screen with a remote in her hand.
*
You’ve got to understand, it was a symbolic administrative fee. It got bigger because the household expenses grew as more people moved in.
*
Guppe cautiously touches Samuel’s grandma’s shoulder.
“You have a visitor.”
She looks up and smiles.
“At last! I’ve been waiting so long!”
She hugs me and I hug her back, unsure of who she thinks I am.
*
I never betrayed Samuel. I never cheated him out of money.
*
Samuel’s grandma tells me what they had for lunch and asks three times if I’m hungry.
“No, I’m fine,” I say. “I ate before I came over.”
“Wouldn’t know to look at you.”
She asks if my sister is well and how my mom is. I try to explain that I don’t have a sister, and that my mom is fine, but my mom isn’t her daughter and I’m not Samuel, I’m me. Are you sure of that?
*
I never confiscated any passports. I never threatened to call the police.
*
I explain that I was neighbors with a Swedish artist in Berlin who called herself Panther, and that was how I met her grandson Samuel.
“Even though we didn’t know each other very well I’d like to ask you about the last time you saw him.”
“The last time?” she says, her eyes opening wide.
It looks like something is breaking loose inside her.
*
I had no connection at all to that boy in the wardrobe.
*
Once she has calmed down and taken her medicine, we sit without talking.
“Oh dear, oh dear,” she says.
The news is on TV. I want to ask if she remembers anything about the last day. Does she recall what they talked about that afternoon? Did Samuel seem sad? Unbalanced? Was he himself, or someone else? But I don’t ask her any questions. We just sit there. In front of the muted TV.
*
None of it was my fault. Everyone is lying. Just like Hamza lied to the police when he was arrested and the prosecutor lied to the judge when he said that I was behind everything that happened on our rounds. Just like my lawyer lied when she said it could be worse and the prison chaplain lied when he said time heals all wounds.
*
After a while she takes my hand, she hums a tune, her hand is warm, she has elephant-wrinkly skin and brown liver spots that look like they’re about to fall off. Her hands look like Grandma’s.
*
Are we almost done? Do you want to ask one last question?
*
“Vandad,” she suddenly says. “How is Vandad?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I’m going to see him soon. Did Samuel talk about Vandad the last time you saw each other?”
“Oh, did he ever. Samuel always talked about Vandad. Vandad this and Vandad that.”
*
Oh yeah? And what do you want me to do with that information?
*
“Is Vandad a man or a woman?” Samuel’s grandma asks.
“A man.”
“‘Well, look at that,’ said the optician to the fly.”
*
Listen. We were friends. We were brothers. We shared everything equally and we were loyal unto death.
*
“But I’m sure Samuel talked a lot about Laide, too?” I ask.
“Who?”
*
But it was never anything more than friendship.
*
“Vandad,” she says again. “Samuel went on and on about that Vandad. And the way he said that name, I knew it was something more than friendship. You can’t hide that sort of thing. Not from your grandma.”
*
You can decide for yourself who to believe—me or an old lady. The guy with a photographic memory or the woman who can barely remember her own name.
*
“His betrayal hurt him more than hers did.”
*
Why would I feel guilty? Don’t project your feelings onto me. I’m not you. Samuel isn’t you. Your actions are your own, don’t expect me to help you deal with them.
*
“I think he loved him.”
*
Stop. I don’t want to hear any more.
*
She dozes off. I sit beside her. Her breathing is calm. Sometimes a snore comes out. Sometimes she becomes perfectly quiet and doesn’t take a breath for five or six seconds. I look at her, I lean forward, I almost have time to believe that she is . . . when the next breath comes.
*
I’m done with this.
*
As the time nears eight thirty I rise, liberate my hand, and sneak out toward the elevators.
*
I have nothing more to say.
*
I stand there watching her through the pane of glass. And once again it’s as if she is . . . Surely she hasn’t?
*
[Silence.]
*
I go back in to check, I place my hand in front of her mouth, I feel her breath. Warm and damp, like a child’s.
*
Take your money and go.
Acknowledgments
Diane (for everything)
Lotfi, Hamadi, Gudrun
Babak, Soledad, Ignacio, Mohamed
Joel, Karl, Rebecka, Shang
Daniel Sandström, Albert Bonniers förlag
Astri von Arbin Ahlander, Ahlander Agency
Jonas Hassen Khemiri, born in Sweden in 1978, is the internationally acclaimed author of four novels and six plays. His work has been translated into more than twenty languages, and his plays have been performed by over 100 companies around the world and received accolades including a Village Voice Obie Award for best script. His first two novels, One Eye Red and Montecore, were awarded several prizes in Sweden including best literary debut and the Swedish Radio Award for best novel of the year. His most recent novel, Everything I Don’t Remember, was awarded the August Prize 2015, Sweden’s most important and prestigious literary award. He lives in Stockholm with his family.