The Family Clause

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  It’s Friday morning, and a son who is a father reads the text on the sign: Ring the bell ONCE and we’ll come out. Once has been underlined and written in bold capital letters. The father rings the bell once. They wait. The four-year-old tries to run in ahead, but is stopped by the Plexiglass barrier; the one-year-old’s legs dangle from the carrier. The whole place seems empty. The father takes out his phone and demonstratively looks down at the screen, though he already knows that it’s quarter past. There’s no one here, says the four-year-old. Gaaehhh, the one-year-old drools. They should be open, says the father, speaking slightly too loudly so that the lazy people in the staff room, their eyes fixed on the feeds on their phone screens, will hear that they are about to lose a few potential customers. No one appears. On the counter, there is another sign saying that buggies and shoes are not permitted, and nor is food bought off the premises. He knows all this. He also knows that there are six other branches in town, that the first one opened five and a half years ago and the latest last summer. He knows that the name comes from the Canadian owner’s grandchildren, he knows that it costs 179 kronor for children over two and nothing for those under two, so long as you join their kids’ club, which is also free. All you need to do is bring some ID and leave your personal details and email address. He also knows that they have been open for fifteen minutes, because he looked it all up online before they left home, at the same time as he chose an optimal route and prepped the nappy bag with jars of food and bottles and extra clothes, both for the kids and himself, as he filled a ziplock bag with extra nappies, wet wipes and the collapsible underlay that means you can change a baby absolutely anywhere. Places he has changed a nappy over the past month include: on the floor in a library, on the passenger seat of the car, on the roof of a small wooden castle in a park, in the stairwell outside a friend’s sublet in Kärrtorp, when the friend who was supposed to be home was running late.

  Why aren’t they coming? asks the four-year-old. I don’t know, says the father. Are they dead? asks the four-year-old. I hope not, says the father. Leo’s grandpa is dead, says the four-year-old. She stands quietly. The father thinks about ringing the bell again. But it does specifically say only to ring once. He’ll just have to wait for them. Snails can’t die, says the four-year-old. Two mothers, or a mother and her friend, arrive with a small child. They get in line behind him. They look at him. The father shrugs and nods towards the sign. One of the women leans forward and presses the bell once, then twice.

  The man who comes towards them doesn’t seem the least bit stressed. He smiles and says welcome, he takes their personal details to register the one-year-old in the kids’ club and says that there are twelve slides, nine obstacle courses, a special ball pool for the little ones and a combined football and basketball space to the far right. The father wants to say that it wasn’t him who rang the bell so many times, but he doesn’t. The man behind the counter hands over the receipt and reminds the father not to forget his card. Thanks, good job you reminded me, the father says. I’m always forgetting it. They head inside. He stashes the receipt in his wallet. As he walks away from the counter, he wonders why he said that he is always forgetting his card; he’s had bank cards since he was eighteen and can’t remember ever having left one behind.

  The play area is purple and yellow and red, with every hard surface clad in foam. The floor is covered in soft matting and the walls are made of net, which means that when the four-year-old climbs up to the top level, they can see one another through the walls. The four-year-old scales a rope ladder, jumps over some spongy cones, swings on ropes, races down a yellow tube slide. The one-year-old is happy in the ball pool. He is making the lowing sound he only ever makes when he spots someone eating a mandarin, turning on a torch or running a bath. A mooing sound that means: I want it, I want to play, that’s the thing I’ve been dreaming about all my short life.

  The father sits down on the floor next to the one-year-old. He is 100 per cent present. He savours the moment. He really is there with his two children. He pulls out his phone to take a few pictures, which he sends to his girlfriend. Then he checks whether his father has replied. Then he puts his phone away and is present again. Then he takes out his phone and checks the headlines in the morning papers. Then he puts down his phone. Then he checks the tabloids. The culture pages. The gossip pages. Then he puts down his phone. Then he checks FB, Insta and Twitter. Then he puts down his phone. He is present. He is here and now. He is nowhere else. The four-year-old fetches two foam dice that she tries to push up a slide. The one-year-old hits two plastic balls together. The father sneaks one headphone into his ear. Richard Pryor is on stage, messing with someone in the audience who tried to take a picture (you probably ain’t got no film in the muthafucka either). He jokes about white people coming back from the toilet to discover that black people have taken their seats (oh dear), he mimics the sound of his two tiny monkeys fucking, he gives voice to a German shepherd that comforts him when the monkeys die, he claims that he has single-handedly snorted the whole of Peru. And though the father knows the routine by heart, he sits in the ball pool and laughs quietly to himself. He feels like a good father. He is, at the very least, a thousand times better than the man who was supposed to be here at ten and still hasn’t turned up. Yup. He’s good. He can do this. Even though no one has taught him how. There and then, with the one-year-old drooling and throwing plastic balls and the four-year-old shoving dice up an empty slide and Pryor mimicking the sound of his punctured tyres after he shot his own car to pieces so that his ex-wife wouldn’t be able to leave him, the father feels genuinely happy. These are the moments you do it all for.

  When they woke at five, he was the one who saw to them. He made breakfast, changed the one-year-old’s morning poo nappy, gave them silver tea, which was his grandmother’s favourite drink and consists of hot water, milk and honey. But since his girlfriend is terrified of the children eating too much sugar, the recipe has been reduced to hot water and milk, but since his girlfriend has also read about new research that suggests ordinary milk is carcinogenic, the children’s morning drink consists of hot water and oat milk, served in bottles. The daughter is probably too big to be using a bottle, the son probably too small to be drinking silver tea, but since the daughter wants to be small and the son wants to be big, that’s how they start their mornings. By the time the girlfriend gets up, the children are dressed, her hot water and lemon is ready and waiting, he has prepped her millet porridge and emptied the dishwasher. He wants to think that he does it because he’s a good person, that it comes naturally to him, that it’s the kind of thing you just do, but he has never done anything naturally. Every time he does anything, he thinks about how it will be seen, he pays himself compliments for emptying the dishwasher, he blocks out the voices whispering that he hates this life, that his existence has never been so boring and that all he wants to do is get up and leave. Just take off and disappear.

  But as he sits there in the ball pool, he is grateful all the same. He is happy. These are the golden years. He’s sure he’ll miss them once the children have left home. Even though it feels like time is standing still. They got here at quarter past ten. The time is now twenty past eleven. Throw plastic ball. Fetch plastic ball. Throw plastic ball. Fetch plastic ball. Change nappy. Wipe drool. Throw plastic ball. Fetch plastic ball. Throw plastic ball. Fetch plastic ball. The only thing saving him is Pryor’s voice, talking about the time he managed to set himself on fire, and how nothing has ever felt so good as lying there in that hospital bed, without a single thing to do.

  The four-year-old is scratching between her legs. Do you need to pee, honey? the father shouts. No, the four-year-old shouts back. The one-year-old crawls towards the three large funhouse mirrors. He catches sight of himself and smiles, his sum total of four teeth gleaming, his t-shirt pale blue everywhere but around his neck, where saliva has turned it a deeper shade. Are you sure you don’t need to pee? asks the father. Sure, says the fo
ur-year-old.

  The father stays where he is in the ball pool. The two mothers, or the mother and her friend, are approaching with their daughter. The father rubs his head against his shoulder to make the earbud fall out. He does some quick comparisons in his head. He ranks the other child against his own in terms of cuteness, development, teeth and clothing. He decides that she wins on cuteness, but that his son has a bigger head, which is a sign of future intelligence. She has more modern, matching clothing, but the son’s clothes are less worn out and more functional. She might have a sweet smile, but his son has more hair. She can take a few steps on her own, but she seems incredibly unsteady; his son is a real speedy crawler and has started moving quickly with the walker. Ultimately, it’s probably a draw. Almost. The father smiles at the women. They smile back. He knows that look. They’re thinking he must be a good father because this is the kind of thing good fathers do: they get up early, they go to soft play, they change dirty nappies, they pick up Lego, Duplo and Playmo, they pick up police cars and motorbikes and rubber hands and soft toys and empty plastic boxes and children’s wallets and memory games and puzzle pieces and gloves and hats and socks and Hama bead boards. They bend down, they get onto their knees, they don’t swear loudly enough to be overheard, they teach their kids that what is important in life, the most important thing of all, is to never give up. To never, regardless of what happens, say: this isn’t working. This is impossible. Everything is possible, everything can be done, so long as you never ever ever give up. Do you hear that, the father tells the four-year-old, time and time again. Yeeeeees, the four-year-old says in that voice which makes her sound like a teenager. I’m serious, says the father, challenging his daughter to a wrestling match. They tumble around the living room and the daughter finds herself in a tricky position; the father has her in a dangerous tickle-kiss hold and he kisses and tickles, kisses and tickles. The one-year-old seems confused at first, then amused, by the match that never seems to end. Give in, the father shouts. Okay, the daughter shouts. No, shouts the father, never give in. But you told me to, says the daughter. When I say give in, you’re supposed to say . . . says the father. Do you remember? Can you remember what you should never do? A brief pause in the kissing-tickling wrestling match. The daughter thinks for a moment. Do you remember what I always say? asks the father. I’ll . . . NEVER give in, shouts the daughter. EXACTLY, shouts the father, and the wrestling match continues, the one-year-old watches with wide eyes as the four-year-old suddenly gains Hulk-like powers and wrestles the father onto his back, she gets payback for the tickling attack, she tells the father to give in and the father says: I’ll never give in! But it makes no difference, because the daughter has already won. The father says: good job, and the daughter says: good job you, too, and the one-year-old crawls over and drools on both of their faces.

  The soft play centre fills up with children. Queues form for the slides. Playgroups arrive. Childminders arrive. Families with seven children arrive. The four-year-old comes running, and the father can tell from her voice that it’s too late. Daddy Daddy Daddy! It’s lucky we brought extra trousers, the father says after they have been to the toilet to change, after the staff have automatically, without once sighing, mopped up the puddle. Isn’t it? the father says again, patting his daughter. It’s really lucky I brought extra trousers. He falls silent. He realises that he is waiting for applause. He wants his four-year-old daughter to look up at him and say: wow, Daddy, it’s incredible that you remembered to bring both knickers and extra trousers. But his daughter is more focused on trying to understand how the automatic taps work. She stands on tiptoe by the sink, she holds out her hand and the water starts running. Again and again. Automatic, she says. Completely automatic!

  The father takes the opportunity to change the one-year-old’s nappy. He is just old enough to have worked out that he can put up a fight. He transforms into a black belt judo master the minute he is put onto his back; he can wriggle out of any grip. You can take off his nappy, keeping one hand on his stomach, then look away for a second to reach for wet wipes. He’ll be gone by the time you turn back. He’ll be sitting in the ball pool, he’ll have taken the metro home on his own, or else he’ll simply have done a helicopter spin onto his stomach, used the wall to get onto his feet and, like a paratrooper, have tried to throw himself off the changing table. But the father is used to it. He’s seen everything. When the four-year-old was little, the father was patient. He tried to explain that she needed to lie still until he was done. But with the one-year-old, the father gets angry. He pushes him down, he lets him scream, he puts on a new nappy and forces the four-year-old to stop flooding the sink.

  * * *

  It’s Friday, and a father who is a grandfather is finally going to see his grandchildren. He had suggested meeting at the usual place, by Åhléns City. The upper entrance, where you can see into the perfume department. That’s where they always meet. That was where they used to get ready when the son was twelve, each with an empty banana box in one hand and a briefcase in the other. The son’s case was similar to the father’s, only slightly smaller. Once the police officers had shown up and moved on, the father and son would drift out towards the middle of Drottninggatan. Showtime, the father whispered, and the son smiled because he was so grateful to be with his beloved father. They had to be quick if they didn’t want to lose their spot to the man selling cuddly dogs that barked and did backflips, or the one with the little plastic figures that climbed down windows, or the man dressed as an Indian selling small flute-like instruments you could put beneath your tongue and, using a particular (and tricky) technique, whistle like a bird. The only one with a permit, who never moved on when the police showed up, was the hotdog man, but he wasn’t competing with anyone. He whistled whenever he saw a police van pull up, and all those with their goods laid out on sheets leapt forward and transformed them into large sacks that they rapidly hauled towards the entrance of Åhléns. Those with their goods in briefcases propped up on banana boxes quickly kicked the boxes away, closed their bags and walked off towards Hötorget, whistling as they went. The hotdog man stayed behind, waving to the police and asking whether they wanted to see his permit, even though everyone knew he was there legally. This was where the father and son came to sell their wares at weekends. They sold watches they had imported, they sold perfumes with almost the same names as the ones inside Åhléns, they sold acid stickers with rattling plastic eyes that the father had bought down by the Tunnel of Sighs. As the start of term approached, they sold pencil cases and scented rubbers. At Easter they sold a few small, wind-up chickens in pastel colours, and though the son has never said it, the father knows that he learned an invaluable lesson there as a twelve-year-old. The son realised that nothing in life came for free, he learned the noble art of selling something to someone who doesn’t want it, he learned how to negotiate with people who wanted to barter, he learned how to kick away a banana box and close a briefcase in less than two seconds. He learned that rules are rules but that certain rules can be bent, and without that insight the son would have been as frightened of the world as his mother.

  But this year, for some reason, the son doesn’t want to meet in the centre of town. The son lives to the south of the city and wants the father to take the metro all the way to a soft play centre there. Soft play? The father is much too tired and sick for soft play. He is about to go blind. His legs will barely carry him. You probably have to pay to get in. But is there anything a man won’t do for his children? The grandfather uses the last of his strength to make his way to the metro station. He changes in Liljeholmen and continues southwards, towards Norsborg.

  The Stockholm metro doesn’t look like it used to. Back then, there were blonde-haired, blue-eyed Swedes everywhere. Maybe the odd exotic Greek flogging revolutionary postcards from carriage to carriage, or an African selling reggae cassettes. Now, the metro is a zoo of people from all over the world. As the train passes Örnsberg he hears two old ladies sp
eaking Spanish, four teenagers speaking Russian, two men speaking Dari, a family of tourists speaking Danish. At Sätra, a beggar boards the train. He is wearing tracksuit bottoms and shoes mended with silver tape. He places laminated pictures on each empty seat. The grandfather glances at the photo. A group of children in colourful clothing, standing in front of a house. The door is made of chipboard. The children are barefoot. They’re smiling at the camera. He is far too young to have this many children. The woman holding the baby is far too beautiful to be his wife. The beggar collects the pictures and does a round with his paper cup. The grandfather turns to look out of the window. He won’t fall for this kind of trick. He knows that they’re part of an organised gang. They drive luxury cars back in their home countries. The grandfather has worked far too hard for far too long to be giving his money away for free. Besides, he barely has any money. And he needs to save what little he does have for the day he might need it.

  The grandfather takes the escalator up to the square. Everything looks the same, and yet also completely different. The shopping centre has been renovated, and they now sell fancy baklava in the square. The fruit sellers have two stalls, and the queues for both are the same length. The grandfather asks about the soft play centre. No one has heard of it. Eventually, he calls his son, but since he has no credit on his phone he first has to go into Pressbyrån to buy a top-up, and he asks the man behind the counter for help loading it onto the card. The letters and the code are too small for his eyes. Whoa, what a classic, the man says as the grandfather hands over his phone. I inherited it from my son, says the grandfather. The man behind the counter starts investigating how to send messages on the ten-year-old Nokia. I have two children, says the grandfather. A son and a daughter. My daughter’s very successful. She works in PR. Lives in Vasastan. She’s always trying to give me new phones, the kind with the internet and weather programs. But I tell her I’m happy with this one. The man behind the counter nods. He has managed to find the messaging function. He types in the code to top up the SIM card. My son’s an accounting consultant, says the grandfather. The man behind the counter nods. We have a very good relationship. That’s nice, says the man behind the counter. Not many people do. Here, it should work now. Good luck.