“Yes, it really has gone too far. Those council officials, the ones who decide how much help we need, have made a list of standards detailing how long it should take to look after somebody. And, you know, the home care givers don’t have many minutes to do their job with each person who has been assigned to them.”
“A list of standards?”
“Yes. The home care personnel now have a list of what they should do and how long it should take.”
“But won’t it take different amounts of time depending on the circumstances?” Martha asked.
“Yes, of course, but now they have decided how many minutes it takes to go on an errand, to make a bed, to shower somebody, to dress them, to clean, to help at mealtimes and so on. And now . . .” The old lady held up her fist in front of her. “And now those idiots have reduced those times even more. Anything to save money. I only get five minutes a week to put my nightgown on.”
Martha felt a rotten feeling inside her. Five minutes? So they were trying to save money on old people who needed support and care? Could that really be legal? Was the council trying to apply business methods like many of those private entrepreneurs that they contracted nowadays?
“They must have lost their minds on the council!”
“Yes, isn’t it crazy! Now I can only shower for a quarter of an hour every week. Who are the dirty old men who decide this? And eating—well, that can’t take more than ten minutes. But you must have time to chew the food too!”
Martha had to hold on to the edge of the table to support herself. She knew, of course, that things were bad, but she got just as upset every time she heard someone describe what was going on. What sort of people were they who could think up such a system? The venture capitalists who cut corners and lowered standards and then transferred the profits to the West Indies, she had heard about them. But were councils now doing the same? The old lady had more to say:
“You know what? Those bureaucrats who decide, they don’t have a clue as to what it is like to be old. They have worked out that we only need five minutes to go to the bathroom. But by then we wouldn’t even have got our clothes off. Do they think we have flies that can be opened and closed with a remote control?” The old lady sighed and wiped her brow with a little white handkerchief. “You know what? I feel so sorry for all the employees who would so like to help us but are not allowed to. If they stay longer than the designated time, then they are reprimanded.”
“So they get reprimanded for being kind and friendly?” Martha went pale and was now finding it hard to breathe.
“Are you all right?” wondered the old lady.
“Just a drop in my blood pressure,” answered Martha and she sank down into a chair. She was close to tears. What was happening in society? Those in charge seemed to have completely lost contact with reality. A bank robbery now and then wouldn’t help much. No, it was a question of basic values—ways of thinking in modern society must be radically changed. Attitudes toward people had become so weird nowadays. Yes, the municipal councils that played at being business enterprises and managers who only cared about profit . . . had they forgotten that real live people were actually affected by their boardroom decisions? Martha opened her waist bag and felt for her asthma spray. Not until she had used the inhaler a few times did she have enough energy to get up again.
“You know, care assistants who work in home care have a monthly wage which is the equivalent to what managing directors have per hour,” she said. “Per hour!”
“Yes, I know,” sighed the old lady.
“It seems that many company directors and politicians have lost touch with reality. Nowadays it pays better to take care of things than of people. It can’t go on like that. I want to try to change that!”
“Ah, now you are going to change society again,” said Rake, who happened to pass by just then. “Good luck to you!”
Martha ignored Rake and turned again to the lady and her daughter.
“The restaurant is treating you to dinner this evening,” she said. “And when you leave, don’t forget the goody bag by the exit, a present that you can open when you get home.” She reached out for the champagne bottle and filled their glasses. “Cheers, and a warm welcome to our restaurant!”
She went on to the other tables, greeted the guests and made sure that they were having a good time. As all those she spoke to praised the food and seemed very satisfied, Martha regained her good mood and didn’t even become angry when she heard the strange birdsong. Christina had her ideas, but the food and the interior decoration seemed to have worked well, so they would have to put up with singing storks or whatever they were. When Martha finally steered her steps in the direction of the coatroom, she was tired, hot and rather sweaty. She needed a breath of fresh air to cope with the rest of the evening. But when she reached the coatroom she stopped abruptly. There stood a beefy, muscular man she had never seen before. He was wearing a leather jacket, his hair was cropped very short and his black eyes were frightening. She was just about to ask him to leave when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Johan Tanto, the Weasel.
“You must meet Kenta, my friend,” Tanto said. “He’s the one who looks after the coatroom. The coatroom fees, that is.”
Martha stared. The mafia and motorcycle gangs were known for confiscating restaurants’ incomes from coatrooms. But here? Among a gang of pensioners on a barge? In a fury she took a step forward.
“Now listen to me, you turnip, pack your bags and get the hell out of here!”
Then she unbuckled her waist bag, swung it around her head and, with a hard centrifugal swing, slammed it directly into Kenta’s crotch.
34
THE GUESTS HAD GONE HOME AND THE LEAGUE OF PENSIONERS had got into their minibus to travel back to Djursholm. Martha turned the ignition key and was about to drive off when Christina prodded her from the back seat.
“Mafia? Is that what you think?” she wondered with an anxious glance toward the rear window to check that nobody was about to follow them. She was utterly exhausted and the makeup from her eyelashes had ended up far below her eyes. The evening had exceeded their expectations, the food had tasted good and the service had worked just like it ought to. She would have been wildly happy if it hadn’t been for that uncouth type who wanted to lay his hands on the coatroom fees. That had ruined the entire evening.
“Mafia folk? Yes, I’m afraid I do think they’re mafia,” said Martha. “They are cunning types, that lot. First they rent out the city’s barge to us without owning it, and now they want the money from the coatroom fees. I didn’t think the mafia would be interested in us retirees. To think that they are trying to squeeze money from seniors!”
“But everybody does that!” Christina’s voice was shrill. “Just look at the banks and those special mortgages they try to get us poor innocent elderly to sign up for.”
“What’s that?” Brains wondered, not having kept up with what happened in the world of banking.
“The banks encourage the elderly to remortgage their homes. ‘To provide that bit extra in your life,’ as it says in the ads. But after ten years when the mortgages must be paid back they charge such high interest that the people who have taken out the mortgages can’t afford it. They must then sell their home. That’s how things can go, it’s another way of becoming homeless,” said Martha.
“That’s a swindle!” exclaimed Brains.
“Yes, and in some ways the mafia is more honest about it. At least there is a clear message and you know what happens,” Rake said.
“True.” Christina nodded, “But, Martha dear, why did you call the mafia thug a turnip?”
“Well, why not, with all the greens on this barge it is natural to think in terms of vegetables.”
“But your waist bag? Was it really necessary to whack the guy right in the crotch?” wondered Brains.
“But I was absolutely furious! They stole from the money we are going to give to the poor. If they were going to give it away, OK, but they
don’t care about anybody else.”
“But they didn’t want to hit an old lady at least . . .” mumbled Brains.
And hearing those words they all started to giggle, because on more than one occasion the League of Pensioners had got away with things just because of their age.
“But I’m worried that he’s going to come back,” said Christina.
“We’ve dealth with the mafia before and we ought to be able to manage them again too. Just as long as we are flexible,” said Martha.
“Like you, then. Heads down, guys, here comes the waist bag!” Rake said and grinned.
Again a degree of jollity spread among them and there was silence for a while before the next comment.
“I think we should continue with the restaurant as planned and see how we’ve done after a month or two. Other restaurant owners have survived despite mafia interference,” said Martha.
Her words sank in, and nobody in the vehicle commented. Then she engaged first gear, released the handbrake and drove off in the direction of Ekedal Bridge and then on to Solna. A quarter of an hour later she slowed down outside their Djursholm villa. It was beginning to become light and the decay in their neighbor’s garden was easy to see. The flower pots were full of garbage and the bushes were untrimmed and looked very scraggly. There was still nobody who looked after the garden. And there was no sign of Bielke.
“Have you thought about something? A garbage truck buried under concrete in the neighbor’s garden and mafia visits at our restaurant! At least we don’t get bored,” said Anna-Greta and she burst into such laughter that all the others ended up joining in. They laughed long and loud even though they were tired, and they immediately decided to have something tasty to drink before they went to bed. But since they had drunk so much champagne, they settled on chilled sparkling water with crackers and caviar as a night snack. Because at that point, just then, they were actually so exhausted that they could have eaten and drunk just about anything. Even if it was nonalcoholic.
IN THE END, THE SILVER PUNK RESTAURANT WAS OPEN EVERY day of the week except Mondays and other than a few complaints that they didn’t serve large juicy steaks, and that the odd guest got drunk and that the cook pinched Betty on her bottom, everything went off surprisingly well. The idea of letting the bonus lottery winners come on board and eat without paying one evening had worked fantastically well, since the guests, in their turn, recommended the restaurant to relatives and friends. The bonus hand-out of one thousand kronor they had been given in their goody bags on their way home, had made them very enthusiastic about the restaurant. The Silver Punk was now always full and during the weekends there was even a line on the quay.
But there was something that worried Martha. The Weasel had returned. A few days after his friend had felt the full force of Martha’s waist bag in his crotch, he suddenly appeared in the coatroom again. This time he asked for a lot of protection money.
“Surely you don’t want anything to happen to your restaurant?” he sneered and looked meaningfully at her. Martha felt something in her heart. It beat irregularly and she was a little out of breath. But she acted as if nothing had happened and everything was as usual. She didn’t even tell Brains. She had got her friends involved in this, and now she would deal with it. So she kept up appearances.
But the Weasel kept after her. He and his acquaintances had also demanded that they should deliver supplies to the restaurant—including meat that hadn’t been checked by the relevant authorities—and Martha had, of course, refused. And they even wanted to collect a higher rent. But there too she blankly refused.
“Mister, you should never have raised the monthly rent payments,” said Martha, putting her hands by her sides. “That put us in a bad mood, so now we’ve bought the barge.”
“Oh yeah, sure. That’s not funny. The rent must be paid by Monday next week at the latest, or else—”
“The barge was owned by Stockholm City, not by you. And we pay rent as agreed until we take over the barge, but not a krona more. If that doesn’t suit you, I’ll contact the police! Here, you can see a copy of the contract for the sale of the barge.”
Martha showed him the signed contract with Stockholm City, amazed at her own toughness. The Weasel read it, and glared at her with his mouth open; in fact, it was so wide open that the tobacco under his lip fell down inside his shirt. Martha gave him a friendly smile and said in a mild voice:
“Well, thank you for everything up to now, but before we go our separate ways, perhaps I can offer you a glass of cloudberry liqueur?”
“Old-lady booze, no way!” said the Weasel with his eyes now dangerously dark, and he turned his back to her and left. And at just that moment she found him threatening and very unpleasant.
“What about another barge so that we can double our profits?” said Anna-Greta a few evenings later when they had been obliged to turn down several guests from the full restaurant. “I have noticed that the city has several barges for sale, including one that was owned by the Asphalt Company,” she said and she held up some photos that she had printed out from the city’s homepage.
“Don’t say we’re going to fix up yet another damn barge,” sighed Brains.
“All in gree-een,” Rake added mischievously.
“We? No, we will delegate the work,” said Martha. “And if we put the new barge next to ours, and turn it into a cafe and a movie theater, then it wouldn’t be so much work. That would be yet another step toward our Vintage Village. We shall show everybody who wants to scare us away from here that we are not going to give in, and that we will become firmly established here.”
“Two barges that we must look after? Aren’t you a bit too optimistic now, Martha?” said Rake.
“But Anders still has no job, so it’d mean an opportunity for him to get regular work,” said Martha. “Perhaps Anders and Emma can run it together?”
Brains too felt little enthusiasm for the idea, but at a meeting up in the tower room the next day the proposal was voted on and the result was three votes for and two against. Brains and Rake looked unhappy. Once more, the old-lady mafia had beat them!
In the evening when they were on their way to bed, Brains spent an extra long time getting ready. He combed his hair and brushed his teeth for so long, indeed, stayed for such a long time in the bathroom, that Martha got really worried.
“Aren’t you feeling well, my friend?” she asked when he came into the bedroom in his creased flannel pyjamas with the toothbrush in his hand.
“Martha, I’ve been thinking about something,” he said and he started to walk around in the room while waving his toothbrush. “Do you have any limits?”
“Your toothbrush, my friend,” Martha pointed out.
“To hell with that. DO YOU HAVE ANY LIMITS, any limits at all?”
“Limits?”
“Yes, you are never satisfied with what you have but always want to start with something new. Can’t you just sit down and enjoy life?”
“Sit down? How much fun is that?”
“Now listen. There is something called meditation. It’s for folks who can’t stop stressing.”
“I’m not stressing.”
“Yes, you are! Betty said that meditation is good, because then you learn to live in the now. To live in the here and now. Perhaps that would be something for you?”
“Oh, I see, Betty said that? Goodness, she is clever, isn’t she, that little doll! You know what? Now is now and I am living just now, do you understand? I don’t intend being either here or there or future or yesterday or anywhere else!”
“But meditation, Martha dear, then you would be here and now.”
“I know perfectly well where I am! Look at yourself. I’m sitting here on the edge of the bed.”
“But Martha, this is about calming down. Being at peace.”
“You don’t say? Well, goodness me! You who are running around waving a toothbrush while I sit here calm and quiet on the bed. With my hands peacefully resting on my lap.
”
Brains grunted and went back into the bathroom with his toothbrush.
He was in there a while and when he came back he was completely quiet except for a humming now and then. He got into bed, struggled with the bedclothes and lay on his side. He smelled of Colgate and shower cream.
“Brains dear, I’ve been thinking about the new barge. What name shall we call it?”
“You what?! Have you already gone through with that deal?” A groan could be heard from the pillow.
“Just wait, we’ll soon have it there. With a larger turnover we’ll have more money to give away.”
“Martha! I proposed to you several months ago, but instead of marrying me you have robbed a bank, filled a garbage truck with cement and opened a restaurant. And now you want to buy another barge. A BARGE instead of a wedding!” With a deep sigh he took her hand and shook his head. “Martha dear, I think it’s quite simply time to break off the engagement.”
“Oh, but Brains!” Martha felt a wave of anxiety rush through her body. “If that’s how you feel, then of course I must reconsider.” She stretched across and stroked him on the cheek. “Perhaps we could have a teeny weeny barge instead?” she said in an attempt at a joke.
Again a groan could be heard and this was followed by a deep sigh as he buried his head in the pillow. Martha looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t laughed, he hadn’t even shown a shadow of a smile. No, he seemed seriously dissatisfied. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling so well? He had, in fact, looked a bit gray and tired recently. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t had time to mess around with his inventions. And she hadn’t managed to talk much with him either. But of course that wasn’t so easy when you had so much going on . . . but she ought, of course, to see that he felt comfortable and perhaps let him do some repairs and maintenance on deck. Then he would feel better. But, on the other hand, he really ought to deal with things himself, not just wait to have everything arranged for him.
“Now listen, Brains, now you really should cheer up. When we rob banks you don’t like it, and when we’re honest citizens and run a restaurant you don’t like it either. Perhaps you ought to do more gymnastics so that you will feel a little better?”
The Little Old Lady Behaving Badly Page 20