Karin walks in front of me in one of the connecting passages between the wings of the university. On one side: noticeboards and doors leading into lecture theatres. On the other: windows looking out over the north side of Djurgården. She has a piece of chocolate in her hand. Her chewing is as calm as her steps. She stops by a bin and clears her shoulder bag of receipts, folded flyers, and pastry cases. I stand next to her and ask if she’s on her way to the underground.
Yeah, I am, Tom, she admonishes. Are you in a hurry or something? Karin apparently has to stop every time she gets something out of her bag. Throat lozenges, her phone, lip balm, a diary.
No. Sorry, I answer. As we go down the long, steep escalator to the platform I ask Karin about an assignment, a translation of a Sylvia Plath poem. The deafening screech of a train pulling in forces me to repeat the question. She answers that she lives on the other side of Blecktornsparken. It’s a confused conversation, which leads up to our deciding or at least thinking we’re deciding to call each other that evening. Back home on Edsvägen I have some quick-cook macaroni with curry ketchup while reading through the list of course participants. Names, telephone numbers, addresses, and the first six digits of their social security numbers. Karin is twenty-five. I call her three times that evening. She doesn’t answer. The following morning I get a text from her: Hi Tom, did you try to call me, not quite sure what we decided? Karin has a friend with her when we meet that weekend in a bar on Odengatan. Helena is as tall as Karin, but slender. A blonde, younger version of Joyce Carol Oates. Apparently she’s had a few poems published in oo-tal, the magazine. Karin introduces me and explains that we’re on the same creative writing course. Helena is surprised to discover that Karin writes poems.
Secretive Karin, she says.
Helena dresses fashionably, a short pleated skirt, a discreet overcoat, a thin-as-thread necklace in white silver, a designer handbag. Her tights have a serpentine pattern. Karin tells me that Helena lives with a hairless cat on Rehnsgatan. Karin and I drink draught beer. Helena drinks white wine and throws darting glances at tall, dark men in expensive suits who are at least twenty years older than me. She is introspective, buttoned up, as if enveloped in ponderous thoughts. She wrinkles her nose when I talk and stings me with her replies. Karin is unremarkable in comparison, and when they stand next to each other at the horseshoeshaped bar and I can see their hips, Karin looks ungainly. Helena is mundanely desirable, she has a body that I want on top of me. I am disappointed when she feels nauseous and takes a taxi home. Karin and I are left there, by the stand-up table. Karin is sensible and considerate just as in the lessons, but I don’t have any particular desire to stay with her. And yet it’s Karin who takes her handbag off the hook and says:
Now I’ve yawned one time too many, but we’ll see each other at school on Monday, won’t we?
* * *
—
Karin lives at Metargatan 9. The flat has a surface area no larger than my bedsit in Huddinge. A decent flat, cosier than mine, cleaner, a more appealing fragrance about it, higher ceilings, more tasteful furniture. Karin has promised to critique my poems, to give a more personal reading than one can in a seminar room: I have invited myself. Karin sits on the bed, she’s leaning against the wall. I shove aside a big decorative cushion and sit on the sofa, the same Stockholm white denim sofa that is now in Lundagatan. Between us is a kitchen table with a Marimekko tablecloth and a cheap, Californian red wine that I brought with me. I am the only one who drinks it, Karin prefers green tea. First she reads the poems slowly, then more rapidly, but not left to right but right to left and in an upward direction. She holds her breath, puts the sheet she has just read at the bottom of the pile, and picks up another. Karin doesn’t say much in the writing classes, but the few comments she does offer about my own and other people’s texts are always insightful. She makes me realise I am not as good a poet as I had thought, which fires me up, provokes me.
Lovely, she says, gathering up the papers and gazing into the air.
Lovely? I blurt.
Yes, lovely.
I hate lovely.
Okay, how about good, then?
You don’t look like you found them particularly good, I point out.
How am I supposed to look?
It’s a pretty easy thing to notice, I answer.
Oh right, she says in a muted voice and looks down at the floor.
I mean, quite honestly you look like you’re sitting on a piece of fermented herring and telling me it smells good—I’m not blind, you know, I say. She chuckles and answers:
They’re good, Tom, I’ve just underlined a few sentences I’d say you should think about, just minor things. She hands me the pile and I sit down. How long had you been with the girl in the poems?
Ellie, almost five years, why?
I was only asking.
Karin’s pencilled marks, suggested cuts, are crinkled and thin like burned-out filaments. I put the poems back in my rucksack.
That thing you wrote about her dead father was powerful, she says.
Okay, thanks. She wriggles her toes in her ankle-length socks. Why did it finish? she asks.
We grew apart, or I don’t know, I moved to Stockholm and she stayed on in Uppsala.
Is that where you studied?
Yeah, that’s right, I answer.
So…is it her long eyelashes you miss most of all?
No, I don’t know.
That’s definitely the impression you give your reader, she says.
Okay.
I’m thinking there could be more specific details about your relationship that might be more personal?
Aren’t eyelashes personal? I ask, and I can feel my jaw jutting out and my eyes becoming heavier. It can become…clichéd, is that the right word? she asks.
I take my rucksack into the hall, then stand there facing her. She looks at me and says: I haven’t upset you, I hope?
Sod it, never mind about the damn poems.
Already in the first week of the writing course there was gossip going around that Karin was related to Selma Lagerlöf, and that in the nineties she’d been the chief editor and theatre critic at the Entertainment Guide. I mention the rumour. She answers that she grew tired of the newspaper world and finds it silly that I’m interested in her being related to Selma. She even looks offended by my questions. I pursue my line of enquiry. What was her salary? Her influence? I want to know why at the age of twenty-one she decided to abandon journalism. She puts her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn, stands up, and smiles with genuine kindness, sincerity, and self-confidence, even though she’s screwing up her eyes. I put my empty glass in the sink. She checks the clock on the bedside table.
So, were you up all night discussing the Lumière brothers? I ask.
Sorry, I don’t follow…?
I heard you’re dating a film critic.
Really.
That was just what I heard, someone on the course told me, I say.
Is that so?
Swedish National Television, tall, famous, dark hair, wrinkles around his eyes, somewhere between forty and ninety, pointed nose like a garfish?
God, she exclaims.
Does he bust out of the care home so he can see you? I ask.
Tom…
Sensitive subject, is it?
No.
So you are seeing him, then?
You really are a live wire, she says, staring at me with owlish eyes.
Sorry, I couldn’t resist it, it’s nothing to do with me, sorry, I say, twisting my heels into my shoes and putting on my gloves, before adding: Okay, see you on Tuesday. She stops me:
Tom, thanks for letting me read the poems, they were good.
I’m the one who should be thanking you, and no, I know you didn’t think they were any good. I should become a film critic on TV instead, I’ll get older anyway whatever I do, well, okay, see you.
Okay, bye, Tom, she answers and smiles as she closes the door.
Metargata
n, Ringvägen, I continue down Götgatan, across Medborgarplatsen, past Bofill’s Arch, down towards the railway lines. I can’t stop thinking about how Karin pronounced my name in the hall. She even managed to incorporate a little snap of the tongue on the consonant and she drew out the vowel so it sounded like a sigh. The last train to Södertälje, fifteen minutes through a landscape that always makes me feel gloomy. Apartment blocks, terraced and detached houses, motorways. The track runs parallel to the main road and on both sides of the cutting are kilometres of graffiti-sprayed noise barriers. Not even the passing seasons change this view from the train windows. There’s always an atmosphere out there that empties me without making me feel any lighter. The tallest building in Huddinge has a gigantic H on the roof, the crossbar is a blue heart that shines in the dark, it can be seen from miles and miles away. I yearn to go back to Södermalm whenever I see this sixteen-storey monstrosity, I long for the small artists’ flats around Vita Bergen, Tantolunden, Brännkyrkagatan, anchor plates on the facades, Mickes CD & Vinyl on Långholmsgatan, the cobbles, Pelikan Beer Hall, the kiosks open all night, the busker in a Soviet soldier’s cap by Björn’s Garden, the smoky second hand bookshops by Mariatorget. Huddinge is a proper suburb, everything is empty and silent after ten at night, apart from that constant thundering from the dual carriageway.
* * *
—
The nurse is from AHACHC, the Advanced Hospital-Affiliated Children’s Home Care, and she comes every week. How are things here, then? she asks, placing her shoulder bag in the hall. She asked me that the last time she stood there in my doorway. She has short wavy hair, square glasses, and darting eyes. The man behind her makes little jerking movements with his head before he takes off his gym shoes. This is Andreas Huhne, our senior physician, she says. He shakes my hand and says: We met briefly at Neonatal. Yes, I remember, I say, even though I don’t. He looks down at Livia, who’s sleeping in the sling. And here we have the little girl, he says, then walks in with his rucksack in his hand. His high forehead and shaved skull emphasise how much his ears stick out, I find it difficult not to stare at them. Are you moving? he asks, looking at the black bin bags in the hall. No, just clearing up, I answer. Can we sit down for a moment and talk? Sure, absolutely, take a seat, I say, and point at the sofa. The nurse and Huhne sit down. They rub disinfectant into their hands. I bring over a kitchen chair. Livia wakes up when I sit down. Huhne explains that he has come along to listen to her heart and then holds forth, gives me a minor lecture on the importance of vitamin D in what he calls the Nordic darkness. Five drops per day up to the age of two, but I think you could carry on for longer than that; in Finland they recommend an additional intake of vitamin D up to the age of eighteen, he says. I’m giving her five drops every day, I answer. He nods, and looks at my fingers, which are playing with Livia’s hands. You’ve got used to it, I see, at Neonatal you weren’t as confident in your paternal role, he says. Maybe that’s to be expected, the nurse cuts in. I haven’t had much of a choice either, I answer. Huhne turns to the nurse and says: I had one patient in his thirties, he had a tough start, that’s the way he put it more or less, a year later he would have stood in front of a train for his kid. I mean I’ve got used to it because I’m on my own, I say. Life never turns out the way you expect it to, he replies and stretches his arms out towards Livia: Shall we have a listen to this little girl now before she falls asleep again? He sits Livia on his lap while clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He prods her stomach, checks her throat, then without warning slaps the palms of his hands together. She screams. Did you see that! he bursts out. Yes, you managed to scare the living daylights out of her. That’s the Moro reflex, it’s from the time we lived in the trees when infants clung to their mothers to avoid falling and getting killed, he says. Okay, that sounds like useful information, I answer. He slides his finger over the sole of Livia’s right foot. And there we have the cutaneous reflex, he says, observing Livia’s eyes. He moves his finger through the air in front of her. Do you have a dummy? he asks. Yes, I answer. Can you get it? I bend over Livia’s basket, pick up the dummy, and hand it over. He gives it to Livia and starts laughing. You could practically fix a couple of these to the wall, then if you didn’t know what to do with your little one, you could just hang her up, she’d stay there because of the sucking reflex, he muses. The nurse finds him funny. Isn’t that just amazing? We retract our hand instantly if we touch a hot ring on the stove, and we blink if something suddenly comes towards us, it’s absolutely amazing; if a neurological command such as the autonomous reflex is not working it’s an indication that something is not right, but this little girl is fully functional, she’s developing exactly as she should be. He glances at the nurse and she stands up at once. He gets out the stethoscope and adjusts the earpieces. The nurse steadies Livia’s head. Slowly he moves the metal disc across Livia’s naked body. Yes, it sounds good, he says at last and hands her over to the nurse. He puts the stethoscope back in his rucksack and adjusts his glasses. I gather you’ve been worried about your daughter’s heart, the doctor at Neo did tell you about ductus, right? Yes, he did, I answer. I can’t hear any abnormalities there now, but you’ll be called into Karolinska in due course so they can have a proper listen to it, ductus usually goes away by itself, he adds, before interrupting himself mid-sentence and turning his ear towards the window. The bells of Högalid Church are ringing. I also live near a church, he says. In town? I ask. Lidingö, he answers. Lidingö Church? I ask. You know it? It’s where Livia’s mother is going to be buried. Oh right, it’s a beautiful old church, he answers, then raises his eyebrows at the nurse and says: I’m done. On the chest in the hall stand the table-scales, lent to me by AHACHC. They look like meat scales you’d find in a market. The general idea is that I should weigh Livia every other day and make a note on a yellow health card. I’ve done it reluctantly. The nurse takes off Livia’s nappy and lowers her into the bowl. She screams. It’ll soon be over, little one, says the nurse, one hand holding Livia’s legs, then she lets go and reads the display. Just over three and a half, she says. Huhne looks up from his mobile and asks: What was her birth weight? Two and a half, I answer. He puts the phone back in his jeans pocket and says: She had an age correction of five to six weeks, isn’t that right? Seven weeks, answers the nurse. It’s a good weight gain, how much milk replacement are you giving her now? he asks. Eighty millilitres, maybe I should increase it, I’m told she’s been quite unsettled at night; I’ve been getting some help with her, I answer. If I were you I’d go up to ninety or a hundred, what they don’t want they just leave, he says. I hold Livia’s legs while the nurse checks her length. Fifty-three, she says, and sits on the sofa with Livia. She makes a note on my health card and then measures Livia’s head. Is there anything you’re wondering about, or do you have any special needs looking ahead? asks the nurse as I put a new nappy on Livia. Don’t think so, I answer. Nothing? I guess I’m a bit stressed about taking her outside, I’d probably like a bit of support there, maybe if someone could come out with me for a walk, I haven’t taken the pram out yet. I’m sure I can help you with that, she answers. I clip Livia into the sling and accompany them to the door. The funeral is quite soon, I’ll have to take her out then, I say. When is the funeral? asks Huhne. Next Friday, I answer. You’re going to notice that children have an unsentimental relationship to death, my children dance on my mother’s grave, literally, he says. The nurse tries to catch his eye, then squats down and gets out a light blue plastic bag from her shoulder bag, one of those bags they had for used nappies and wet wipes at Neonatal. Tom, she says, these are things we think you left at Karolinska, could that be right? They may well be, thanks, I answer, not daring to look into the bag, instead quickly shoving it up onto the hat shelf, accidentally knocking down a bicycle light and a pile of junk mail. I get down on my knees. Among free newspapers and advertising from Pizza Express is an information sheet from Eken Midwives printed on 23 February 2012. At the top of it is written: Parent
s’ Meeting, 2 April. The nurse and Huhne have gone outside onto the landing. Okay, Tom, if something comes up just give us a ring, she says. Thanks very much, I answer. And we’ll be in touch about that walk, she adds. That would be fantastic, thanks. Huhne smiles broadly at me and adds: Walks might be something for your mother or mother-in-law to help you with; at AHACHC we conduct hospital-affiliated childcare in the home, but I’d say start on a modest scale, take a walk around the house.
* * *
—
Nils Jardesten has a Norwegian accent. I’ve spoken to him on several occasions but never registered it before. He’s called to say that my request to kiss Karin goodbye in church cannot be accommodated. I only ever met him once, at Ignis Undertakers on Sveavägen, with Sven and Lillemor. A face carved in wood, age indeterminate, fifty, may just as well be over sixty. Why not? I ask. It’s just not possible, Tom. Why? Tom, I’m only the messenger here, you have to ask the people at Karolinska, at Pathology. Pathology? Yes, the morgue is in the Pathology Department. I thought it was you and the officiating priest who decided? Tom, I’ve spoken to Pathology, they’ve said no, I can’t do any more than that, if you want an explanation you have to ask them, I don’t know why they declined. Surely it’s not up to Karolinska to decide? Hold on a minute, Tom, I’ll get you their telephone number.
In Every Moment We Are Still Alive Page 11