1. Your father wrote me in Arabic. I have translated the letters to Swedish. That my linguistic tone could not be modified from its foundations in order to PRECISELY capture your father’s phrases is a surprise that we should call entirely expected. I write with those knowledges of the Swedish language which I have at my disposal. My effective time in Sweden was limited and I am aware that I cause certain grammatical glides. It would not raise my eyebrows if you were to find three defects in each document! But it would detach my eyebrows if these defects were to grow your doubt about my honest ambition.
2. But … With the ideal of honesty I must simultaneously admit that you are correct when you write that your father’s letters are not ENTIRELY objective from my influence. Certainly I have SOMETIMES let a little Kadir be injected. For example, I embroidered the text with certain life-giving metaphors (see: your mother’s crying hand likened “as a car’s windshield wipers”). I also amplified the visuality (see: your mother’s shined smile at Central Station). But I have not modified ANYTHING that your father would oppose, I know this with voluminous certainty. That is how well I know his soul. He often talked about how your mother’s smiling lines could placate everyone from social-service ladies to metro inspectors to police to camera sellers. And incidentally this is what he wrote in an e-mail in 2002, just home from a photo session with the Dalai Lama: “But his [the Dalai Lama’s] smiling power could still not measure up to Pernilla’s. Certain smiles shine like suns; others like stars. But only one smile presents its rays with radioactive volume.” If I have amplified your father’s letters in order to truly reflect his opinion, then a streak of fantasy cannot really be called dishonesty. Right?
3. Of course it is now your turn to take over the baton of the narrative. Prior to the triangular section of the book it is delegated wholeheartedly to you, which is perfect because the relationship between your father and me is frozen to stillness during the coming years, a little like a paused DVD.
• • •
Feel free to correspond me your developing text, and I will promise you prominent, not to say exalted, commentary. As inspiration for your continued work I affix to you a text that forms your father’s dramatic return to Tunisia in 1984.
Your charming friend,
Kadir
After a lengthy illness, old Faizal farewelled this earth in the spring of 1984. Abbas returned to Jendouba to participate in the funeral. I myself could not take time off from the Hôtel Majestique because of the tragic poker misfortunes of my latest period. The cards had tortured more than stimulated me, and I was forced to work very harshly in order to be able to pay back my latest losses. Patiently I awaited your father in Tabarka, in the hope that he would convey my loaned economy.
One cold February twilight, a taxi retired outside the entrance to Hôtel Majestique, and out journeyed your father’s silhouette, clad in dark brown Ray-Bans, grown-out hair, and a light blue T-shirt from the magazine Current Photography on which the letters spelled forth: “Photographers make it a memory for life.”
“Abbas!” I cried happily, and our arms hugged each other, accompanied by repeated confirmations of each other’s health. Then we released each other and your father observed me. He was just about to formulate something; his lips circled themselves, but no sound came. In the next second his legs swerved sideways. His body timber-fell toward the sidewalk, and his near fainting was my fact. I supported him into the foyer on shaking legs and parked him in the leather sofa that was actually reserved for guests. His cheeks bore a pale color and it seemed to hurt to separate his adhered lips.
“What has happened to you?” I asked, again and again. “Is it the funeral of Faizal that has ached you so much? Or is it the return visit of Jendouba? Calm my unease, my dear best friend.”
Your father collected his nerves, cooled his throat with a few gulps of water, and began his story. I remember his words like this:
“Excuse me, Kadir. I am very glad to see you again, do not believe otherwise. But to see Jendouba again was a very suffocating process. I really understand why you do not return. To participate in Faizal’s funeral awoke an inexplicably strong emotion in my breast. The tears welled my eyes in rivers, and my leg muscles betrayed me cyclically just like here. That he was not my real father could not comfort me. I do not know why the consequence was so great.”
Your father was interrupted by some drunk Dutchmen who bellowed their happiness from the bar over a soccer goal. He continued with a steadier voice:
“After the funeral I did not find any peace. Of course, I portioned my sorrow with everyone else; of course, it was happiness to see Cherifa again. But every day our sorrow was disturbed by afflicting neighbors and poor families with hopeful expectations that my saved Swedish finances had been maximized to that of a millionaire. They knocked the door and interpellated me about investment aid for taxis, finances for cheese factories or travels abroad, bribes for visas or for supporting their cousin’s children’s study diplomas. Even our old friends from the orphanage days were looking forward to sumptuous presents as a matter of routine. Dhib and Sofiane, Amine and Omar, not one understood that I have my own family and that my finances might not measure up to JR’s in the TV series Ewings. Do you know that TV series, by the way?”
(Your father really did say Ewings but was referring to the series Dallas, of course. I did not want to correct him right then.)
“Anyway, it is a big success in Sweden; Pernilla and I observe it every Saturday evening when Jonas has gone to sleep. It is about JR and Bobby and an alcoholic woman by the name Sue Ellen. The music sounds about like this: daa-da-daaa-dadadadadaaa …?”
“Abbas … weren’t you going to relate the background of your mental imbalance?”
Your father quieted his song.
“You are right, Kadir. Excuse me. You are truly the only person in the world who sees through my attempts at dodging. Let me instead tell you about the true background of my confusion. It happened this morning … It was the souk in Jendouba. As usual, the city was full of agricultural families who auctioned peppers and figs, apples and pears, wagonloads of golden melons. Salesmen’s throats roared sweetness of peaches, durability of lightbulbs, softness of rugs. Bananas and green cubes of washing soap, veils and spice buckets and extra-fresh goats at the price of the sale …”
(Yet again your father tried to evade in a drawn-out description of the souk. You have, of course, visited Jendouba during the souk? Feel free to inject your own memories of the market—just remember that this is 1984. Subtract consequently all commerce of neon yellow cell phone covers, batteries, Eminem T-shirts, and fake Nike shoes.) Finally I interrupted your father:
“Abbas … get to the point.”
“Yes. Sorry. Here it comes. Anyway, this morning I wandered my steps toward the louage station, happy that I could leave the city. My camera was escorted as usual on my chest. Suddenly I noticed a dispute between a street boy and a potbellied seller of saucepans. Here is photographic potential, I thought, levitating my camera and assuming a perfect angle.”
“Well?”
Your father took his bracing in order to be able to terminate the story.
“I adjusted the focus and discharged the camera at the exact second that a face wandered right in and blocked my motif. His head bore a twisted, worn keffiyeh; his bagging blue jacket was combined with thin drawstring pants. In his hand he transported a foot-borne turkey which gesticulated its arms. I lowered the camera with an insultation ready on my tongue. Our eyes were reflected in each other. A few seconds’ searching, and then my insight struck with the power of a waterfall. ‘RACHID!’ roared my tongue so that the potbellied man shortstopped himself in his kicking series against the shorts-clad rear of the street urchin. ‘RACHID!!!’”
“Your antique neighbor from Algeria?”
“Yes! First he seemed to mistake himself for someone else. He accelerated his steps to running speed and refused to give hearing to his name. But I caught up with him and captur
ed his shoulder: ‘Hello! It is me! Abbas! Haifa’s son. Whom you saved from a sure death!’ Rachid stopped, out of breath, focused me from toe to top, and cracked up his smile.
“ ‘My dear boy, you have been transformed to a man! And you are not angry with me?’
“ ‘Angry? How could I be angry?’ For a long time we hugged each other, teared our eyes, and returned our greetings. All while the turkey cawed confusion and wobbled its throat.”
“Did he look as you remembered him?”
“Well, the tooth of time had munched a festive breakfast on his exterior; the sun wrinkles hung heavy over his furrowed eye corners, his black beard shone gray, and his shoulders had thinned to the boy size.”
“Then when happened?”
“We accompanied our steps to a café, where we shared our résumés. Rachid was very impressed by my life. ‘Who could believe this when we farewelled each other in Cherifa’s yard?’ he said. ‘That you would live in Sweden, have a stately stature and a photographic career?’
“ ‘And that you would bear your exterior with the same youth as always,’ I responsed.
“ ‘Thank you very much, you well-mannered liar.’ We laughed in stereo and the atmosphere was excellent.”
“It sounds like a perfect rendezvous. Right?”
Your father extincted his smile.
“It was a perfect rendezvous. Until I happened to ask Rachid whether he was acquainted with anything about my real father’s news. I interpellated whether my father’s life was ended like Ali Boumendjel’s, or whether he is perhaps living in luxury somewhere in the world. Rachid fixed his eyes on the horizon and let his lungs produce a deep sigh.
“ ‘Your father … dear Moussa. Is your separation not tragic?’
“ ‘Please, Rachid, tragicness exists to be overcome. This is my life philosophy. But are you acquainted with any information about his present existence?’ Rachid’s face looked ashamed.
“ ‘I promised your father, you know … to assist you if anything happened … He had given me the pay of advance … But I didn’t have any chance myself to … Well … Of course I couldn’t take care of you alone … After all the rumors that Haifa had spread. And the economy he left behind was barely enough for … My hope is for your broad and eternal understanding?’
“ ‘Of course, of course … My understanding is wide as a soccer field,’ I noted impatiently. ‘But my father … Moussa … do you know if he survived his journey abroad?’
“Rachid observed the angles of both of his shoulders and then gave a close-leaned whisper.
“ ‘I believe that your father is alive … but under a modified identity in a secret place … ’
“My nervousness throbbed when I asked:
“ ‘And do you know which name is his name now?’
“ ‘According to the rumors, he names himself … What was it now … Ron Arm Stuntech. I think.’
“With the beating of my heart and my tongue sticky, I wrote the name on a scrap. Rachid leaned back and looked like someone who had settled the payment of a long debt. Before we …”
“Speaking of debt and payment …,” I interrupted your father.
“SHUT UP!” your father cried. “Do not interrupt me now! Before we separated our paths, I asked Rachid if he knew why my father had delegated me a chestnut that time we saw each other so many years ago. Rachid observed me with a sorrowful face.
“ ‘When you saw each other?’
“ ‘Yes, my father gave me a chestnut when he afflicted us in my childhood …’
“ ‘But … Your father never afflicted you. You have never spent time at any restaurant. He did not have any lifeguards. You must be remembering wrong. You must have fantasized that … Just like Haifa, you have perhaps been infected with that infection which has always characterized your family—the one where the forms of fantasy are given life in excess and in dangerous cases collide with reality.’
“ ‘But … then how do you explain this chestnut?’ I roared in desperation, and tore the chestnut from my pocket.
“ ‘Hmm … perhaps you found it yourself in your yard?’
“These words lurched my entire existence. Suddenly all the details of my life seemed to be suspiciously slipping and uncertain. What else could I have fantasized? What else can be untrue that is reality in my thoughts? In a last effort to find assurance I quieted my questions, localized Rachid’s body near mine, and eternalized us with a sequence of photos. After this we said our good-byes. Rachid wandered his steps back up toward the souk, waving a humoristic farewell with one of the turkey’s wings. Then he was gone. And I was alone with my confusion.”
“But not totally alone!” I placated.
“Actually, yes, Kadir. Totally alone.”
“But you have your family. And me!”
“Yes, but … who knows … Perhaps you are not real, either?”
We reflected each other’s pupils and then broke the silence with a tension-breaking laugh attack.
“HA HA! That was a humor that we can call extremely comical.”
Your father stuffed the paper scrap with his father’s alias in his wallet.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” your father said tiredly. “But if this is Moussa’s new name I should try to localize him. Sometime. In the future. A son and a father must never separate their relationship, no matter what the magnitude of conflict.”
Abbas and I passed four days’ nostalgia in Tabarka. We afflicted restaurants, summarized memories, joke-uttered our antique pickup routines. Your father did not sexualize any touristettes. Even if frequent invitations were given. Then your father informed me that he still lacked the capacity to repay me my economy. Then he said:
“But feel no doubt, Kadir. Success is waiting ‘around the corner,’ as one expresses in Swedish.”
Then we said our farewells.
You can conclude metaphorically:
“Without his family, Abbas felt holey in symbolic form. A little like the cheese that the Swiss eat on mountaintops in the company of yodely watch sellers and professional chocolate designers. Kadir noted a parallel emotion from never recovering his finances.”
As a farewell gift, your father delegated me a sagging envelope with photographs. In it were numberous photos of your steadily growing body, your cramped apartment, your mother with those gigantic seventies eyeglasses and her hippie shawl, your father’s growing record collection, your Swedish relatives’ country cottage. As well as a portrait where your father shared his company with his colleagues at the metro company SL. He was standing straight-backedly positioned in a coldly shining coffee room in his metro getup with a blue suit and pointed hat with the silver logo. The last photo made me a bit sorrowful. Your father’s mouth showed the sort of smile that most resembles a grimace.
Now it is up to you. Do you feel prepared? My hope is for your emphatically positive YES! So that you do not stray yourself in sidetracks, I propose to you to structure your memories as follows: Begin with your father’s homecoming and the information about your mother’s pregnancy. Then possibly something about “the dynamic duo.” What was this phenomenon, exactly? Your father mentioned it, but I never understood its exact meaning. Terminate the triangular section with the description of your brothers’ delivery and your grandfather’s tragic death.
PART THREE
So now you’re sitting there, just back from a reading in Södertälje, with a paper-wrapped bouquet and a book about rune stones by a local author. You read Kadir’s commentary and feel an aching sinking feeling in your stomach, the kind of sinking that says that this will never work, that you’re not ready, that instead you should concentrate on working more on one of the other projects. The ones where you devote time to thinking up plots, where the characters are just inventions, and a moderate amount of peripety can be injected in just the right place. And you have just finished writing the sentence when you realize that “inject” is Kadir’s word and not yours, th
at it’s his language that has started to influence you, and then your doubt gets even stronger. Because how good an idea is actually a collaboratively written book?11 You read his latest mail again and decide to give it yet another try. You take a deep breath and make use of his instructions …
Dads’ homecomings. There are so many. But this one must be when they came home in the spring of 1984. Moms have taken time off from their jobs as stewardesses even though of course they’re really “airborne people’s representatives of the overexploited service sector.” On the same day that Dads are supposed to come home you borrow Grandpa’s car and have a winter picnic by the lake Trekanten. You slide around on the ice together and play Bambi and drink hot chocolate way too fast from the thermos and so you get that special rough tongue that in Khemirish is called “picnic tongue.” Even though it’s wintery cold, Moms have green sunglasses, which are as big and round as boat windows, and over their hair are the thin shawls, which you can borrow and put over your eyes so the smell is Moms’ and your nose is coldly rough and the world is light blue with gold stripes. You can still see Moms’ contours where they’re standing farther away against the light, the world’s most beautiful Moms, who are taller than regular Dads and who have purses as big as hockey bags and always have to have their seats in the car as far back as they go to have room for their legs.
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