Yesterday's News

by Kajsa Ingemarsson

  “Well?” asked Kalle as soon as she entered the kitchen. “So what’s she like?”

  “Stiff,” answered Agnes honestly. “She was testing me. Asked thousands of questions about everything on the menu before making up her mind.”

  “What kind of questions?” Kalle looked anxiously at her. Agnes repeated the ones she could remember and Kalle lightened up slightly. “Those you could handle, couldn’t you?”

  “I think so.” She said nothing about the close call with the wine. “I have to go back out,” she said. As she was passing through the door she heard Kalle’s voice. “Right, Paolo, it’s make or break time!”

  When the restaurant closed for the evening, they all gathered in the dining room. Kalle opened a bottle of wine and Pernilla fetched four glasses. Paolo declined. He was thirsty, he said, and opened a chilled Coke. They needed to wind down. Lola had calmly and methodically chewed her way through their meticulously prepared and served food, her facial expression concealing her thoughts throughout. After the pannacotta and a small espresso, the woman had paid – cash – and then left the restaurant with a terse “thank you and good evening.”

  Paolo and Kalle went through the meal. Again and again. Had the noodles been overcooked? Had there been too much chili in the salad? Were there bones in the angler fish? Pernilla said that she thought she’d seen their guest extracting a bone from her mouth. Paolo groaned, he was the one who’d filleted the fish. Normally, the odd bone in the meal wasn’t the end of the world. It was, after all, real fish and not fish fingers, but in cases like this, it could be the one thing that made the difference between good and not-so-good.

  Anyway, the dessert they were pleased with. The pannacotta was smooth as a baby’s bottom and faintly pink in color, too, from the strained raspberry concentrate. It had been served with half a passion fruit and some fresh raspberries flown in from Venezuela and purchased for a scandalous unit price at the wholesalers that same morning.

  They sat like a huddle of starry-eyed schoolgirls gossiping about their new substitute teacher, analyzing every word, every gesture. The orders were discussed again and again – even the espresso got its fair share of the scrutiny. Did it have enough crema? Did she take sugar?

  Pernilla was the first one to stand up and say goodnight. The others followed suit. Kalle said goodbye and waved after them before going off to his car, which stood parked a block away. Paolo and Agnes walked away together towards Slussen subway station. There were a lot of people out. Well, it was Friday evening and no later than half past twelve.

  Down in the subway things were rowdy. A group of young guys with greased, combed-back hair were getting boisterous and their girlfriends were standing a bit behind them, trying to make them stop. The train to Aspudden was due in eleven minutes. After three minutes, Paolo’s train pulled into the station from the opposite direction. Paolo opened his mouth as if about to say something, but changed his mind. He took a step toward the train that was now coming to a standstill. Then he turned quickly around to face Agnes.

  “You don’t fancy coming back to my place?” he asked. Agnes was unprepared for the question, and hesitated. A hundredth of a second too long. “Forget I just asked that,” he said, giving a flap of his arms. “Catch you tomorrow.” And with that, he dashed toward the open doors of his train, making it through just before they slid closed. He didn’t wave at her as the train eased away.

  CHAPTER 26

  A VEAL ROAST WITH CREAM SAUCE, boiled potatoes, sliced gherkins, and savory jelly was on the table back at the Edin family home. Maud had laid out the best china and poured the red wine into cut crystal glasses from Czechoslovakia. Although Jonas and Sven drank beer and Madde Coke, Maud and Agnes touched glasses ceremoniously and took a sip of the French wine that was far too throaty to be called good. It wasn’t often they all gathered together for Sunday lunch, once a year perhaps. On the last occasion, Tobias had been there, too. Agnes was convinced that the others were thinking about him; she certainly was, at least.

  “How’s the job-hunting coming?” she asked Jonas to take her mind off things.

  “I’ve applied for two.”

  “Really? That’s great!”

  “But I didn’t get them.”

  “Oh, I see.” Agnes felt foolish.

  Maud rescued her. The eternal optimist. “It’s only a matter of time. Come on, you’re so good at what you do.”

  “They want you to have some kind of training, you know.”

  “Can’t you get some, then?” asked Agnes. It was a stupid question and she already knew the answer.

  “No, I can’t study.”

  “OK, but you don’t need to go to a university. You can take one of those courses that Mom and Dad have taken, can’t you? It seemed really good.”

  “You mean a computer course?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I could become an unemployed computer guy instead of an unemployed factory worker?”

  There was something in that. Being able to design a web site was no longer the key to the labor market that it had been a couple of years back. “But…,” she began tentatively. It didn’t feel particularly nice to leave the subject on that conclusion. Jonas interrupted her.

  “Dojan and me have talked about opening a car repair shop.”

  “Have you?” Madde looked surprised.

  “We’ve got to do something. We can’t collect unemployment for the rest of our lives. And we’re both pretty good with engines.” He stopped. Everyone was looking at him. “I mean, cars will always break down, won’t they…?”

  “I think it sounds like an excellent idea,” said Sven, and Maud nodded enthusiastically. “You’re far too young to quit.”

  Madde was still saying nothing and Jonas started eating again. “But where will you get the money from?” she said eventually. She was finding it hard to conceal her skepticism.

  “We’ll have to borrow some, won’t we?” Jonas stuffed a fork loaded with veal, potato, and gherkin into his mouth, making the rest a little inaudible. “An’ ven can get one of vem bivnif ftartup allowanfev.”

  Agnes felt herself a little reluctantly impressed by Jonas’s attitude to the problem. She recalled how floored she’d been when she lost her job. And then she’d been in Stockholm, in a business that was always crying out for people. Jonas was in Länninge, as one of almost four hundred factory workers hunting for work. The prospects were hardly bright. Madde also seemed surprised by Jonas’s announcement. She looked a little suspiciously at him from the side where she sat, but he blithely continued to wolf down his Sunday dinner as if he hadn’t seen a meal for weeks.

  They dropped the subject and Maud started to talk about their newly planted rambler rose – Dorothy Perkins, a “genuine classic, hardy enough for northern climes” – that the deer had decimated during the winter. They’d tried everything to scare away those miserable vermin, she said. Sheep’s wool balls, blood meal, soap flakes, cayenne pepper, streamers, garlic.… Maud had even marched Sven outside in the middle of winter to pee around the bushes. She’d read somewhere that this was effective.

  “But all that happened was that Dad almost got frostbite on his little winky!” laughed Maud. Agnes smiled a little stiffly. That was too much information. The fact that her mother called her father’s… thing his little winky was definitely more than she wanted to know. Luckily, Maud desisted from going any deeper into the subject. “And there’s me thinking we’d get problems with mildew,” she continued instead. “She’s meant to be sensitive to mildew, this Dorothy. We’ve been so careful with the chicken manure, but what good is that when these… bandits come and chew all our plants to bits?”

  “Try hanging out your old fox fur stole,” suggested Madde jokingly. She and Agnes had had it in their dress-up box since childhood. It had originally been their grandmother’s, but Maud had never worn it – she wasn’t fond of fox and anyway, what would the neighbors think if she started to go around wearing furs? Maud looked up.

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sp; “You know, that’s not such a bad idea.… It could be worth trying.”

  “And if it works, you can add it as a gardening tip on your web site.” Agnes looked at Madde and giggled. Maud and Sven seemed oblivious to their daughters’ mockery.

  “Yes,” said Sven. “Good advice should always be shared.”

  “Do you have any visitors to share it with?”

  “Hmm, well I suppose things have been a bit slow, but Maud has emailed Homeowner’s Weekly and Just Gardening to tell them about our web site, so we’ll have to wait and see if anything happens.”

  “I’m sure something will,” lied Agnes. She couldn’t for the life of her understand how they could think that anyone would be interested in visiting a web site made by two amateur gardeners in early retirement. On the other hand, she couldn’t even get her mind around how people willingly spent their free time with mildew and greenfly. Or risk the life of their little winky with nocturnal winter wees.

  After dinner they retired to the sitting room to have coffee. Agnes had told them how things were at the restaurant, omitting the bit about their lack of guests. It would be a pity to worry them unnecessarily. Maybe it would be better now, what with the review and all. She told them about Lola, too, but as expected it made little impression on them since no one in her family had ever heard of her, let alone read any of her reviews. But they nodded interestedly when Agnes explained that Lola’s opinion could turn The Yellow Lemon Tree into the success it deserved to be.

  Then it was time to go home. Jonas and Madde had come by car, a battered old Ford Fiesta, but Agnes managed to persuade Madde to walk with her to the station. Agnes was full and needed to stretch her legs before it was time to board her train.

  Spring was very much in the air and the evenings were, if not mild, then at least not bitingly cold. The sun was going down and its reddish light was reflected against the tin roof of the Länninge factory, which could just be glimpsed on the other side of the road. The enormous industrial chimney stood black and inert against the evening sky, like the mast of a sinking ship, and it suddenly struck Agnes that this was the first time she’d seen it without smoke billowing out of it. The factory used to be active around the clock with shift-work; people even worked during the main holiday periods. Operational minimum, it was called back then. It was an erroneous term.

  Operational minimum was what she was looking at now. A huge, lifeless mass of bricks with a tin roof and a chimney, surrounded by a head-high fence. There was no longer anything inside. The machinery had been shipped to Tartu in Estonia, the management with it. Only the workers were left in Länninge. Although now they weren’t workers any more.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Madde.

  “The factory.” Agnes nodded towards the building. “It’s tragic, somehow.”

  “Pah, what’s so tragic about it?”

  Agnes was surprised. What did she mean, what’s so tragic? Of course it was tragic. A closed-down factory, unemployed people. “What do you mean?”

  “The factory has paralyzed the whole town for, what, sixty years? And everyone’s been so goddamn grateful. But what have they actually gotten from it? Jobs, sure, but also broken backs, ruined lungs.…”

  Agnes interrupted her. “But they stopped using those solvents ages ago.…”

  “Sure, but what good is that to the ones who already had all that shit in their systems?” She continued without waiting for a reply. “It’s ruined the environment, too, that damn factory! Swimming’s been banned from Lillberga Lake for the past four years, did you know that?”

  “But are they sure that.…”

  “Of course, what do you think caused it? That little kids have been pissing in it? Don’t think so.” Madde looked rebelliously at her big sister. “But the worst thing is that the factory has turned people into gangling idiots. No one’s had to make any effort. No one’s reflected on what they want to do with their lives. Nope, just to the factory they go. Wage slaves, that’s what Länninge’s been full of!”

  “So what, isn’t everyone a wage slave?” protested Agnes. “You’re also a wage slave, even though you work in a daycare center.”

  “Maybe I am, but at least it was my own choice. Conscious choice. I want to work with kids. How many people there do you think actually wanted to be factory workers?”

  “Presumably more than those wanting to be unemployed.…”

  “Oh, you know what I mean!”

  “OK, maybe I do. Though I think you’re being a bit hard.”

  “If I am it’s because I’ve lived with factory workers my whole life. I’ve seen what happens. To Jonas, to all his friends, to Mom and Dad. They shuffle in through those gates and then shuffle out again forty-five years later. And in between nothing’s happened.”

  “What do you think should have happened, then?”

  “They should’ve experienced something, used their imaginations, taken a few risks!”

  “Like you’re doing at the crèche?”

  That rankled Madde. “If you won’t understand then let’s just fucking drop it.”

  They walked on in silence, Agnes thinking about what Madde had said. She’d never seen things like that. She’d always looked upon the factory as the heart of the town. The thing that everything revolved around, that made sure there were shops, schools, people.… The more she thought about it, the stranger it felt. Of course there couldn’t be people because there was a factory. Surely it had to be the other way round. Otherwise it was exactly as Madde said: that the people were there for the sake of the factory, like some kind of fuel. It was a horrible thought.

  “Seriously,” she said after a while, “I think I get what you mean. I guess I’ve just seen the factory as the town’s benefactor for so long, it’s hard to let go of the idea.” Madde grunted in reply, still in a huff. Agnes continued. “You’re probably right. I mean, if the factory hadn’t closed down, Jonas would never have hit on the idea of opening his own car repair. Or take Mom and Dad’s web site. Without it, how would the world get to hear about your tip of using a fox fur stole to frighten deer?” Agnes kept a straight face. Madde looked up, gruffly at first, until her face broke into a grin and she burst out laughing. Agnes, too. “Long live the American capitalists!” she shouted.

  “Death to the factory, life to the people!” cried Madde.

  “No,” burst out Agnes in feigned horror, “not LIFE!”

  Madde looked in surprise at her, and then grinned again. “No, of course not. Not LIFE. Death to the factory, love to the people!” They continued to laugh and invent slogans until Agnes suddenly came to a halt and looked at Madde.

  “You know,” she said seriously, “here we are, having fun, when we should be showing solidarity.” She affected a sob. “What’ll become of Estonia, what’ll become of the poor souls of Tartu?”

  CHAPTER 27

  THE NEXT TIME LOLA showed up she wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a man. Nothing strange about that. Agnes had heard that restaurant critics often went around in pairs, perhaps not to arouse too much suspicion. Agnes welcomed them and showed them to the best available table in the restaurant, which wasn’t so hard since all the tables were free. During the short walk across the floor Agnes could hear them talking French to each other. He was slightly older than she was, but just as elegant in a neatly cut suit and a delicately patterned silk tie. Agnes quickly weighed up the situation. Her French was fairly useless, but the months at Le Bateau Bleu hadn’t passed totally useless and she’d picked up a good deal of restaurant-speak. She could at least demonstrate her good will. Once they’d seated themselves she addressed the woman first.

  “May I suggest something to drink before your meal?” And then, immediately upon that, smiling towards the man: “Bon soir, desirez-vous quelque chose à boire en attendant?” If they were impressed by her linguistic skills, they didn’t show it. They declined with a curt No, and asked to see the menu instead. Agnes left their table with a nod. She was feeling embarr
assed and could feel her cheeks burning. What was all that about? Speaking French.… Now Lola would probably think that she was trying to ingratiate herself with her male escort. How clever was that?

  When she returned with the menus, the man addressed her again. He had changed his mind and wanted a dry martini. The woman still preferred to decline. As Agnes was leaving he said something to her. He spoke quickly and she couldn’t keep up.

  “Pardon?”

  “Votre français est excellent,” he repeated and smiled, almost flirtatiously, at her. The woman opposite looked on. She wasn’t looking friendly.

  “Merci.” Agnes hurried away from the table. This was definitely not good. She’d attracted attention to herself, and, what’s more, had done so at the expense of his female dinner companion. Double minus points. Raised to the power of a hundred given that the lady in question was a restaurant critic. She should definitely have known better.

  For the remainder of the evening she was careful to address Lola first and used her French only sporadically. If her efforts were enough, she could but guess. At one point she even got it into her head that they were talking about her. When they thought she wasn’t looking, they leaned in towards each other slightly and started whispering, with the odd nod in her direction. But she could be totally wrong; they could have been talking about something else.

  Anyway, the food that was served was top notch. Nothing, as far as Agnes could tell, was amiss. The dishes were as delightful as small works of art without being contrived or pretentious. They had three courses, naturally, different ones to both, and, as before, asked tricky questions about the wine and the methods of preparation.

  Agnes was bathed in sweat by the time they eventually left the restaurant two and a half hours later. The other guests must have wondered what was going on when the waitress, after having said a straight-backed and smiling farewell to the francophone couple collapsed like a rag doll at the bar, flanked by two glassy-eyed chefs.