In Every Moment We Are Still Alive

by Tom Malmquist

  Hans wipes the peanut salt on his jeans and answers: Rubbish, it really does get better, and let’s raise our glasses to that.

  Ammi calls out from the kitchen: Bisse said food’s ready so can you put on Piaf or Baez, none of us want to listen to that screeching.

  With the main course Harriet puts out two carafes of Spanish red wine, and on the other side of the table Ammi laughs so loud that Börje hollers at her:

  Ammi, you can’t see and you can’t hear either, but you can be heard half a mile away. She blows him a kiss. He shakes his head and turns to me: How can you let Karin keep such bad company?

  All right everyone, my mother interrupts. You have to help me now, the beef is ready, the salad’s there, the dauphinoise potatoes are done, I’m working on the gravy now, I think we’re there but is there anything I’ve forgotten?

  Hans rolls up his shirt sleeves and says: I don’t want to be disruptive while the hostess is getting everything ready, but is it a good idea to make the béarnaise sauce in a little cup?

  But Hans, is that a cup? answers Mum and he says:

  You never make less than three litres of béarnaise sauce for a party.

  Even for a party of eight? asks Börje, who in the midst of his conversation with Harriet has picked up on Hans’s comment.

  Yeah, anything else is just silly, says Hans.

  That would be almost half a litre of béarnaise each, says Mum.

  Exactly, says Hans.

  You’re classic, Hans, Börje points out, raising his glass and booming: You over there, the loudmouths in the corner, Ammi, yes, you, silence! I’ll keep this short and sweet, I just want to propose a toast for our hosts, and to Hans, the lawyer, who in his autumnal days has become a cattle breeder, and Harriet, our very own fine artist, you’ve made your way to Stockholm and soon you have to get back to Mellösa and your animals, and in a blizzard to boot, world class, five stars, yes, and then to Tom and Karin, who wanted to take part in this pensioners’ get-together.

  Speak for yourself, Ammi calls out.

  Börje lets his gaze sweep across everyone around the table. Karin, he asks, you won’t let Ammi bring you down to her lamentable level, will you?

  Karin looks at me when she answers: I think Tom and I reduce the average age, which I suppose makes this a meeting of middle-aged folk.

  Jesus, what a lot of nattering, can I ever finish this toast? says Börje.

  Harriet calls out: Carry on, Börje.

  Thanks, Harriet, yes, so this is going to be a heck of a year with countless luxurious parties and millions won on the lottery, no really, he says then stops himself. His eyes are wide open and red-rimmed. I forgot to mention Tom’s starter. He sighs and goes on: Tom, four stars, if you hadn’t boiled away the alcohol in that seafood cocktail you’d have got five of them. He turns to Dad and Mum: Malmen, Superman, and Bisse-bean, always six stars.

  I was the first Expressen journo to ever give anyone six stars, that was to Glenn Hysén, says Dad.

  Malmen, you’re wrong about that, I’ve been giving your wife six stars my whole life, answers Börje.

  Thanks, Börje, says Mum.

  What about that toast? asks Hans.

  Nicely put, Hans, this is the most confused speech I’ve heard since Lindfors went public about how he used to console himself as a child by stuffing his face with cake, says Dad, and when Mum sits down a moment later and says ‘Please start,’ a spasm rolls through Dad’s body, beginning in his heels and disappearing in his white, close-cropped hair.

  How are you feeling, Thomas? asks Karin.

  Fucking awful, he answers.

  Thomas, do you want to lie down for a moment? asks Mum and is about to stand up.

  No, fuck it, I’m fine now, he says, taking a mouthful of water.

  Tom, says Hans.

  Yes, Hans, anything missing, apart from three litres of béarnaise sauce?

  Hans dabs his moustache with his napkin then puts it back on the table. I was thinking, you’re interested in literature, aren’t you, ‘The New Year’s Bells’, who wrote that?

  Tennyson.

  I see, he says, and looks as if he’s thinking about it.

  I was actually asked the same thing last New Year. I answered as confidently then as I have now, except my answer was incorrect, I don’t know who came up with the Swedish version of it.

  What was the original version called? he asks.

  ‘Ring Out, Wild Bells’, I answer.

  It’s a better title, he says.

  Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night, I recite. He pats me on the shoulder on his way to the toilet.

  Karin slices through the filet and makes a concerned face at me. I fetch her plate and fry the meat through.

  Sorry, Karin, sometimes I’m such an idiot, says Mum. No, Bisse, beef filet is really not a problem, says Karin.

  Better safe than sorry, says Harriet.

  Yes, I think so too, answers Karin.

  Mum reaches for the bowl of cocktail tomatoes and olives. She watches me giving Karin her food and, when I sit down again, says in a low voice: Karin is so sweet, I said so earlier to Ammi and Harriet, she has that sort of old-school elegance about her, you were really lucky to meet such a fantastic girl.

  I hope there was a bit of skill to it as well? I reply.

  I’ve been thinking about names, what do you think of Idun, the goddess of love and knowledge? asks Mum.

  Idun?

  Yes, Idun, do you like it?

  The daughter of a dwarf, raped by a giant?

  No, Mum exclaims, you’re making that up!

  It’s a lovely name, thanks, Mum, but we don’t even know if it’s going to be a girl.

  Karin thinks so, you should listen to her.

  I chew for a moment and say: Mum, you’re my favourite cook.

  Do you mean that? she asks.

  Your casseroles are the best.

  Should I have made an ossobuco instead?

  I move my chair a little closer to her and ask: How are things going, Mum?

  She seems to have been expecting that question, and she answers: This morning Dad said he wanted to live a bit longer, he wants to meet his grandchild so much.

  Mum, believe me, he’ll outlast us all.

  Darling, you’re like Börje, so optimistic, no, I really must stop being feeble now.

  * * *

  —

  The dog has tucked his nose under his tail. He’s lying there trembling on the sofa. Mum and Karin sit on either side of him, stroking his brush-like coat. It was Tom who picked him, says Mum.

  Yes, I know, answers Karin.

  You know, one starts repeating oneself when one gets older, says Mum, then looks at me and adds: Do you remember how jealous you were of the cat?

  I thought you were talking about the dog, I reply.

  Wasn’t Bosse the only puppy that didn’t come up to say hello? asks Karin, although she knows the answer perfectly well.

  Yes, we went to a woman in Flemingsberg, didn’t we, and, well, the flat was perfectly clean and nice, it was the top flat in a high-rise, a striking lady although she did look as if she’d been wearing the same clothes for the last six months, she cared more about her dogs than herself and recommended that we take the Cairn terrier that came up to greet us, otherwise there could be something wrong with it, oh right, we thought, all the puppies came up to us, several of them had already been promised to others, oh how they jumped and yapped, they were so sweet, but then there was one miscoloured little wretch who stayed under a chair, chewing the table leg, that was Bosse, there was no way of reasoning with Tom, he was absolutely decided on the dog no one else wanted.

  I would have picked Bosse too, says Karin, taking my hand and pulling it towards her.

  Mum kisses the dog on the nose and says: Every New Year you get like this, well, you don’t like bangers and rockets, no you don’t, oh how horrible New Year’s Eve is and it’s not impr
oved by being an old fellow who wants a bit of peace and quiet.

  Are you tired, my darling? asks Karin, looking at me.

  You want some more cider? I reply.

  I’ve already had four glasses, she says.

  There’s a ludicrously small amount of alcohol in it, it’s not worth thinking about; you want an orange juice instead? I ask.

  Yes, please, she answers, and when I come back with the juice she says:

  Mum and Dad send their best, I had a text message from them.

  Oh right, okay, that’s nice, send them my best back, I answer.

  They’re with some friends, you said? asks Mum and looks at Karin.

  Yes, they go to the same place every year.

  Oh I know all about it, one tends to get repetitious, says Mum.

  Börje lumbers out of the kitchen with a bottle of Rotari and calls out: The music isn’t loud enough, there aren’t enough scandals brewing, and we’re nowhere near midnight yet. Karin stands up and smooths out the wrinkles on her body-hugging dress, the black one with the foliage pattern. She puts her hands on her stomach.

  How are you, Karin? asks Mum.

  I’m fine.

  I turn up the music, switch on the TV showing the live broadcast from Skansen, and go to fetch Karin’s jacket. Dad is sitting in one of the plastic chairs on the balcony, swept up in a thick woollen blanket, and smoking a Marlboro Original with Ammi. Mum folds one more blanket over Dad’s legs and hurries back to the dog.

  Aren’t you cold, Karin? asks Dad.

  No.

  Dad gives me a shove and says:

  Go and get a scarf for Karin.

  I don’t have time to answer before Karin says:

  Thanks, Thomas, it’s actually nice, I got so hot in there with all the candles.

  Like the goddamn Ice Age out here, Dad answers.

  You’ll only have to put up with it for a little longer, Malmen, says Ammi.

  On Jägaregatan people are clustered in groups, holding champagne glasses, and at the party next door they are throwing streamers from the windows.

  Did Hans and Harriet get back all right? asks Dad.

  Mum got a text, they’re back at the farm, apparently it was tough going on the smaller roads, I tell him.

  They shouldn’t have a farm at their age, says Dad.

  I agree with you, Malmen, says Ammi.

  It sounds like a wonderful life, says Karin.

  They’re not youngsters any more, says Dad.

  Hans works too hard, and then there’s Harriet’s rheumatism to deal with, no, they ought to sell up and move into town, says Ammi.

  They seem happy enough, Karin points out.

  Of course you’re quite right about that, says Ammi and stubs out her cigarette on the balcony railing. I press myself against Karin and place my mouth behind her ear. In the low, leaden sky there’s already a blaze of colours. A smell of gunpowder in the air. Börje steps out, swears about the cold, and then tops up the glasses on the snow-covered fold-down table.

  On the doormat lie two letters. One is junk mail from Enskede Grave Maintenance, which offers a twenty-five-year guarantee on all stone materials. The brochure that comes with it features photos and prices of headstones. Black granite: 18,050 kronor. Blue labrador: 19,500 kronor. The other letter from the Department of Social Services demands that I should account for the liabilities and assets of infant girl Unknown Lagerlöf.

  I place the envelope on the desk and sit on the bed alongside Livia, who’s lying in her basket gazing up at a mobile of soft frogs holding mirrors. They glitter in the afternoon light that streams in through five windows facing onto Lundagatan, one floor above Fahlcrantz Luggage Service and the studio of the ceramicist Eva Sjögren. The bed was moved to the living room by friends of Karin and mine before I even came home from Karolinska with Livia. Karin used to sleep on the left side of the bed. The clear white of the headboard has been worn down only on my side. I have always been a nervous sleeper. What used to be the bedroom has become a guest room for Lillemor and Mum, who are taking it in turns to help me with Livia at night.

  Between the desks, Karin and I have a bookcase made of ash. The books are in disarray. Much of Karin’s and my time together has been spent here, opposite one another, separated by the shelf, working on our books. At the end of every month I would read out the account numbers of the bills, Karin would enter them on the screen, and we’d agonise so much about the next month’s finances that we’d end up regretting past choices and blaming ourselves for how we lived. What encouraged us to keep writing was the dream of becoming a financially independent poet couple, a sort of happier version of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.

  Under Karin’s desk are two cardboard boxes of rejected manuscripts. She stopped writing entirely a few months into her pregnancy after a combination of pelvic girdle pain and sheer exhaustion soured her mood and sapped her inspiration. Until February she’d been working at the Stockholm Art Centre, getting paid by the hour to help children cut and glue, paint, write, sing, and play instruments. Before she was put on sick leave she worked every shift she could get. She was worn out in the evenings. During her morning shifts I missed her desperately; I even missed her when she was sitting on the sofa in the other room, watching television series. The creak of the office chair when she moved, the crunch of her chewing on sesame biscuits, drawers being opened and closed again, the ink jet printer starting up without prior warning, her little high-pitched snorts while she was pondering something, her pencil grating in the sharpener, her tentatively typing fingers and her similarly tentative sighs.

  Livia falls asleep while I’m watching her. I roll her basket into the kitchen, climb the little stepladder below the cupboards, and continue clearing. At the bottom of the spice shelf I find a small key no larger than the nail of a little finger, it’s so small that it gets caught in the Wettex cloth. I’ve never seen it before. It’s too small to fit into the padlocks that Karin used to take with her to the gym. I put it in a metal tin containing paper clips and rubber bands at the back of my desk drawer. I throw most of the contents of the kitchen cabinets into black bin bags: pumpkin seeds, black quinoa, apple and cinnamon muesli, raisins, tins of tomato pulp and white beans, cocoa, vanilla sugar, cartons of green tea, toasted linseed, spelt flour, walnuts, dried apricots, some of the expiry dates go back as far as 2003. Next to the pepper mill is a tube of Herbamare herb salt, it’s almost empty. I preferred flaked salt or smoked cod roe on my breakfast eggs, but not Karin, there wasn’t a morning when she didn’t portion out some Herbamare herb salt by tapping her finger against the tub. It sounded more or less like: tap, tap-tap-tap. Or like a B in the Morse code alphabet: one long and three short. There’s a white, eroded patch on the green label, from Karin’s finger. I put the tube in a transparent bag, seal it with freezer tape, and put it in a plastic container in which I keep everything that matters to me.

  * * *

  —

  The number for the Social Services is at the top of the letter. The case officer, a man with a cool and slightly nasal voice, listens to what I have to say, then interrupts me: What is the child’s social security number? His tone makes me hesitate, I have to rifle through the pile of papers not to give him the wrong serial digits and birth date number. Let’s see, then, he says. I have the impression that he’s reading and familiarising himself with the case. She’s a baby, she doesn’t have any liabilities or assets, I say. Wait, he says. He starts humming. The infant girl Unknown Lagerlöf, it says here, doesn’t the child have a name yet? Of course she has a name, I answer, she’s my child, her name is Livia. Is that name registered with the Tax Department? he asks. Yes, I think so. You think so? Well, clearly it hasn’t been registered, I say. It’s not that I doubt what you are saying, but we have to proceed on the basis of available information, what I can see here is that the child’s mother is deceased. He stops abruptly and continues in a muted voice: The child has a care of address of Lundagatan 46, nothing else, so I have to refer y
ou to the Tax Department. But why do I have to clarify her liabilities and assets? I ask. Well, she’s registered as being in your care, yes? Are you serious? I have to provide information on the liabilities and assets of a four-week-old child who obviously has neither? Will she inherit something? he asks. We haven’t even started thinking about the division of joint property, I point out. Well, you’ll have to inform us of your decision in due course, as I said, we base our enquiries on the information we have. This is absurd, I mean, really, can’t you hear how this comes across? It’s the information we have, he says. So, what, I have to provide accounts of the liabilities and assets of the girl child Unknown Lagerlöf to the Department of Social Services? Yes, that is how it’s done, he answers. Our task is to secure the child’s interests, and that’s what we try to do. Is it? Yes, he answers. You are talking about my child now? I understand that it may sound quite formal, but what I see here is that the child is registered at the same address as you, Lundagatan 46, that’s the information we have, our task is to make sure that the child based on available details is not disadvantaged financially or legally, and for this reason you have to specify her liabilities and assets. The situation now, I say, is that I can’t pay the rent, I don’t receive any parental allowance because I apparently don’t have a child, and I can’t work because in actual fact I do have a child. I can’t comment on that, he says. What I’m getting at is, do you honestly think that the Social Services is helping my child in this difficult situation? I can’t answer that, he answers. You can’t answer that? I’m basing what I say on the information we have, he says. So Livia has no parents, then? What is it you don’t understand, no one is claiming that, look, all you have to do is specify the child’s liabilities and assets, just that. Do you have any children yourself? I ask. I’m not going to answer that question. Have you read Kafka? I think you should call the Tax Department, I can’t do anything else for you, he says.

  * * *

  —

  In the photo on my Toshiba, Karin is standing with another student from the creative writing course she was attending at the time, she seems to be listening to a conversation. It’s the first photo of her I ever took. If I right-click the photo and press ‘Properties’ I can read for myself: Created on 13 October 2002, 13:04:38. It’s ten years ago, almost a third of my life. Karin has a slight curve at the base of her spine, her arms hang down along her sides, her posture is soft, not a hint of coldness or hardness. The jumper she’s wearing is kaolin white, with a pattern of cadmium-red carnations. I’m sure of the colours. Already that winter I had found them with the help of a sales assistant at Kreatima, the art shop on Sveavägen. I liked the names colours went by: Cyprian umbra, caput mortuum, terra di sienna. If I quickly glanced at Karin’s jumper when she passed me on campus or sat in front of me in the lecture hall, it seemed to be plain-coloured. The same colour I felt I could see when I closed my eyes and sort of stared through my eyelids at the turned-on overhead light in my flat in Huddinge. In my diary I called it ‘Karin red’.