* * *
A father who is a grandfather is finally going to see his daughter. He has been looking forward to this. They meet in the usual place, on the corner outside the Åhléns perfume department. She is enchanting. He can’t believe that he was involved in the creation of such a magnificent human being. She has a glossy handbag, expensive perfume and well-looked-after shoes. How are you? she asks after they have hugged and kissed on the cheek. What do you mean? he says. You look worn out, she says. I had an operation on my eyes yesterday, he says. They just cleaned your corneas, didn’t they? she says. They gave me anaesthetic and went in with lasers, into the eyes themselves, he says. I know, Irène from work had the same procedure a few years ago, she says. She was back in the office the next day. They walk towards Kulturhuset. On the way up the escalator, his phone rings. He squints at the display. He answers, even though it is his son. How’s it going? the son asks. Very well, says the father. I’m finally having dinner with my darling daughter. That’s nice, the son says, though his voice doesn’t sound particularly happy. Where are you? Kulturhuset, says the father. I would swing by, says the son, but I can’t. Okay, says the father. I’m trying out stand-up. It starts soon. Of course, says the father. You are coming, aren’t you? asks the son. Quite possibly, says the father. They hang up. The father sighs. What’s wrong? says the daughter. Your brother, says the father. He has so many strange ideas.
* * *
A son who is soon going to change careers finds a good parking space. He sits still behind the wheel, breathing. He checks his hair in the rear-view mirror, gets up on legs that feel more like jelly than usual, and walks towards the bar. As he steps inside, heads turn to look at him. The audience isn’t big, maybe thirty or forty people. They are sitting on folding plastic chairs in front of a low wooden stage. Looking at him as though they’re trying to work out whether he is here to perform or to watch. He walks over to the bar. There is a red-haired man up on stage. He says that he sweats so much when he has sex that he has to wear a sweatband around his head. And his arms. And one of those tiny baby sweatbands on his dick. He says that girls are always curious about what his dick hair is like, they’ve never been with a redhead before and don’t know whether his dick hair is red or blond or brown. That’s why he can say whatever he wants. He usually tells them that he doesn’t have any dick hair, he’s got flames around his dick. He’s got an Italian herb garden around his dick. He’s got . . . He loses his train of thought, but makes a joke out of losing his train of thought, he jokes that he can’t think of anything else to say and that this is what usually helps him get laid. The audience is on board, they’re helping him out, he even gets a spontaneous round of applause when he tries to use the microphone to stimulate his dick, and says: this works much better when the mic doesn’t have a cable.
The son who is a father walks over to the far corner of the bar to survey the room, to calm his nerves, to try to blend in. You performing? the bartender asks. Can the bartender see that his hands are shaking as he lifts his glass of Coca-Cola? Talk to Valle, he’s the compère, the bartender says, pointing to a man with round glasses and a haircut that blends seamlessly with his hairy back. He is clutching a dog-eared notepad to his chest and has a big smile on his lips. The red-headed man has finished and Valle gets up on stage to announce the next comic, he says that she is the woman who gave cream cheese a face, Lidköping’s next next next most famous comedian. He roars her name. Oddly enough, the next comic also has red hair, something she makes a point of mentioning. She says that there is a special theme that evening, Pippi Longstocking will be on after her (laughter). Then Tintin (laughter). Then Lucille Ball (silence). What the hell, you don’t know who Lucille Ball is? Oh, come on!
The compère is hunched over his notepad. The son goes over and gives him his name. You been on stage before? The son shakes his head. Okay, get yourself ready, the compère says, thumping the son on the shoulder as though he already knows what’s coming.
The next act on stage is a fat woman from Skåne who jokes about being fat and from Skåne. After her is a young man in a hoody who talks about bird watching. Next is a pale girl with a black fringe and tattoos on her shoulders. She says she has been doing stand-up for a while now, but that she is still absolutely useless at chatting with the audience, hence why she wants to practise tonight. But she only has one joke, about a specific profession, so if the audience reply with the wrong profession it won’t be much fun. She asks the first row what they do: one is a teacher, the next works in insulation. Close, says the comedian. But my joke is about plumbers. No plumbers here tonight? Nope. Well, that’ll have to do. Thanks.
She bows to polite applause, the compère takes the microphone and asks the audience to give a hand to all the brave performers, he reminds them entry is free because it’s Wednesday evening, and Wednesday is officially the best evening to get absolutely wasted, so get drinking, give all your money to the bar so that we can keep on doing this, tell your friends about the club and get ready for the next act. His name is. He says the first name. He looks down at his notepad. He says the surname. A son who is a father walks towards the stage.
* * *
A grandfather who is a father is sitting at a window table in Kafé Panorama, eating dinner with his favourite daughter. She is telling him about telephone conferences with Tokyo, a charity gala against bullying, the launch of a new kind of fabric softener that keeps its scent for much longer than ordinary fabric softeners. And your son? asks the father. Is he well? He’s still living with his dad, says the daughter. Why? asks the father. Because he wants to. He’s too young to be deciding that kind of thing, says the father. How old is he? Seven? Nine? Thirteen, says the daughter who doesn’t need reminding that she is a mother. From the age of twelve, you get more of a say over where you live. Says who? says the father. Swedish custom. Idiotic custom, says the father. Twelve is nothing. He needs his mother. I agree, she says. I just don’t know what I can do other than continue to reach out to him. She looks down at the cars driving around the illuminated glass obelisk. He did actually answer when I called today, she says. What did he say? the father asks. He hung up as soon as he heard it was me, she says. But usually he doesn’t even answer.
They are interrupted by a man who is as wide as he is short. The father extends a hand to greet him, but the man holds out his arms and gives him a hug. Then he leans forward and kisses the daughter on the lips. Nice to finally meet you, says the man. Who are you? asks the father. We’re together, says the boyfriend. It’s quite new, says the daughter. If you can call a year new, says the boyfriend. Didn’t you tell him? No, she says. Tell me what? asks the father. Go on, says the man. Nothing, she says. Tell me what? the father asks again. The boyfriend looks like he is about to burst. He leans forward and places a tattooed hand on the daughter’s belly. It’s still early days, but . . . She shakes her head. Really? says the father. The daughter nods. You’ve already got a child, says the father. They sit in silence. And now maybe I’ll have another, she says. How fun, says the father. Having children is fun. Children are the best. I wish I had more than two children. Why didn’t you have more? the boyfriend asks. We didn’t have time. Their mother got sick of me. She threw me out. My life ended. Three children, says the daughter. What? says the father. Not two children. Three children. That’s true. Three children, but one died, says the father. Is coffee included? The daughter nods and gets up to fetch some.
How did your child die? asks the boyfriend. Pardon? Your third child. What happened? She just died, says the father. First she lived. Then she died. Why do you want to know? Are you with the police? Do you work for Mossad or the FBI? Hardly, says the boyfriend, holding up his hands. I’m a PE teacher. And a film expert. He doesn’t stop smiling even as he says the words PE teacher. Who is this strange person? The father looks at the man who isn’t a man, because no man can reveal, with a smile, that making school children do exercise is his job without being ashamed.
* * *
A son steps up onto the stage. He takes the microphone. His mouth is dry. His heart is racing. The bright lights have reduced the audience to a backdrop of black silhouettes. The door opens. Someone comes in. He knows that it is his father. His father is here. He came. He’s slightly late, but he came. He could tell that the son needed him here tonight, the same way he needed the son yesterday. The father’s gaze fills the son with confidence. He knows that this is going to go well. All he needs to do is start. Just get going. The son clears his throat. His lips are dry. He has a good opening line. A perfectly serviceable middle. A really funny ending. The opening in particular is fantastic. He knows it will make the audience laugh. He holds the microphone to his lips. It smells of dust and electricity. If there is one thing he has learned after listening to hundreds of hours’ worth of stand-up comedy, it’s that you need a funny opening. The opening is everything. Especially when you only have five minutes, you really need to nail the opening. He looks out at the room. He clears his throat. He says that he drove here in a car. A Mazda. I always dreamed of having an Audi when I was a boy. But I ended up with a Mazda. Silence. He gazes out at the room. He wonders whether the microphone is on. It must be, because the bartender is looking up at him with a pained expression.
* * *
A paternal grandfather who is also a maternal grandfather has spent half an hour trying to describe the son’s betrayal to the daughter and her boyfriend. He has explained that the son was able to buy the old flat on condition that the father could always stay there, and, besides, it was the father who paid for the new set of keys. He pulls them out and waves them in the air like a flag. I can’t understand what you’re arguing about, the daughter says. You’re both acting like children. I’m thinking about suing him, he says. Oh, come on, says the daughter. What the hell are you going to sue him for? Breach of contract, says the father. We had an agreement. Dad, says the daughter. When exactly did you come up with this arrangement? Wasn’t it like seventeen years ago? You’ve stayed with him twice a year for seventeen years. Maybe it’s time for a renegotiation? The boyfriend clears his throat. But an agreement’s an agreement, he says. And it sounds crazy that a father can’t stay with his son? The father nods. He is starting to like this PE teacher. He has big biceps and he smiles non-stop, but he seems to have his head screwed on.
* * *
A son who is a father isn’t giving in. He is prepared. He has it in him. He has studied his idols. He should be able to manage this. The opening didn’t get the reception he was expecting. How long has he been standing in silence now? Five seconds? Seven? Fifteen? His back is damp with cold sweat. His top lip is moist. He should joke about how badly this is going. He should make a note that this doesn’t work in an invisible notepad. He should remark on the silence from the outside, in a shrill voice that becomes the audience’s. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there on the little stage, breathing into the microphone. Breathing in. Breathing out. After thirty seconds of silence, the compère starts to laugh. Then the room is silent again. Then the red-haired comedian shouts: Again! Again! The audience laughs.
* * *
A daughter is trying to get her father to change tack. Why don’t you tell us how you got that lease in the first place? she says. The father smiles. This is one of his favourite stories. I talked my way into it, he says. How do you talk your way into getting a flat in Stockholm? the boyfriend asks. It’s impossible. Not for me, says the father. I could sell honey to bees, I’ve sold bidets to people who only used them as foot baths, I’ve sold watches to tourists who … Just tell us how you did it, says the daughter. I went down to the Housing Minister’s office, says the father. I took a seat in the waiting room. I told the secretary that I wasn’t going to leave until they helped me find accommodation. After a few hours, a helper came out and said that they might be able to find something at the end of one of the commuter lines. But I said no. A point-blank refusal. I said central or nothing, because I had to be close to my children. Eventually, they gave me a little studio with a kitchenette in the city. I let it out until the landlord said I couldn’t let it out any more, and then I got in touch with my son and offered him the chance to live there. He took over the lease, completely free of charge. Then, when they made the building into a cooperative, he was able to buy it. He sold it without sharing the profits. And now he wants to throw me out on the street. No one wants to throw you out on the street, says the daughter. If I can’t stay with him, I can always stay with you, says the father. Of course, says the boyfriend, not noticing his girlfriend’s face.
* * *
A son who is a statue who is a rabbit caught in headlights who is a comedian who isn’t a comedian should really leave the stage. He should apologise. He should explain that his children have left him seriously sleep-deprived. He should do his tight-five as planned, follow his set list, moving from dream cars to car smells to different kinds of fart smells to a finale involving a routine about which nuts it’s hardest to look cool while eating (first place: pistachios). He should talk about his father, say that they have a complicated relationship but that, despite everything, they love one another, or, rather, the son loves the father, but it has never felt like the father loves the son, because the son is broken, there is something seriously wrong with him, something rotten deep inside that made it possible for the father to disappear. He should say that he is incapable of feeling real feelings, that he has faked everything, that he doesn’t love his children, doesn’t love his girlfriend, doesn’t love his friends, his life. But instead, he just stands there. With the microphone in his hand. Then he lowers the microphone and leaves the stage. The door opens and closes. If the father was here, the son knows that he is now gone.
Okaaaaaay, the compère shouts. Thanks for that contribution. It wasn’t the funniest, but it was pretty interesting, as my stand-up teacher said when he saw my first performance. All jokes aside, it’s great that you came down here. Come back once you’ve added some jokes to your routine. Now let’s welcome a comedian who has promised to be funny, who knows the difference between stand-up comedy and shut-up comedy, Växjö’s answer to Nisse Hellberg, I don’t even know what that means but here he is! The compère says a name and a man in a check shirt comes running out onto the stage. He boxes the air. The son who can’t support his family, who can’t get his children to sleep, who can’t make his girlfriend happy, walks through the door and disappears.
The Family Clause Page 20
