* * *
A boyfriend who has finally been upgraded to boyfriend realised a long time ago that people are as predictable as high-school movies. You just need to see the names on the cast list to know who is the ugly girl who becomes hot, the nerdy boy who turns out to be funny, the sporty guy who is an idiot and the evil rich girl who will be humiliated in the end. With that, you can mime along with every line. Laugh at the jokes before they’ve even been said. Each dramatic turn announces itself fifteen minutes in advance. Everyone he has ever been with has, ultimately, been fundamentally the same person: equally predictable, equally ordinary. Then he met his girlfriend. She is a mystery. She is the opposite. She gets angry over nothing and laughs at things that would make other women cry. She introduces him as her friend, yet she also says that their children would be incredibly good-looking. She kisses him when he tells her about his childhood and hits him with an open hand when he forgets that he isn’t allowed to put his razor on the bottom shelf in the bathroom cabinet. Being with her is like watching a David Lynch film dubbed in Romanian, backwards. And yet there is something about her that always feels so right. Over the past few days, he has spent every waking minute proving to her that he is ready to be a father. He buys her flowers to show that he loves her. When she gets annoyed, he stops buying flowers to show that he isn’t too extravagant to have a family. He cuts down on the amount of time he spends in the gym so she can’t say he prioritises himself and his biceps. He promises to finish his dissertation in film studies, to stop hanging out with certain friends and to delete his ex’s number from his phone. He offers to take the whole parental leave so their child won’t impact on her career. I’d even consider getting rid of my tattoos, he says. But that’ll cost a fortune. We don’t know one another well enough to have a kid together, she says. Ask me anything you like and I’ll answer, he says. What was your first girlfriend called? she asks. Louise Wallander, he says. I was eighteen, she was twenty, she went to the boarding school in Sigtuna and her dad drove a Jaguar, he wore polo shirts and chinos, but, oddly enough, he played frisbee golf rather than normal golf. We were together for eight months before she ended it, she said her dad had threatened to cut ties with her if we didn’t break up, but once we did actually break up her dad got in touch and said he thought it was sad things had ended like they had. Why don’t you like olives? she asks. Don’t know, he says. My mum says I loved them when I was younger, especially the black ones, but maybe I ate too many of them. Why do you want to have a baby with me? she asks. Easy, he says. I love you. Is that so hard to understand? I love your birthmark. I love your cute little unhappy frown, the huge arches on your feet, your hairy forearms, your weird haircut. I love that you get angry when you burn your toast but laugh at people who are worried about global warming. I love that you always give money to beggars, but only if they’re women. I love that you think you can do front crawl. I love that you never notice the lifeguards’ reactions when you do front crawl. I love that you never lock your bike when you park it in the yard. That you leave the laundry-room door open. That you gave me the key to this place after our third night together. I love that nothing has broken you, not your manipulative ex-husband, not your paranoid brother, not even your dad, who, in all honesty, seems like a bit of a handful. You just keep being you, and I don’t know how you do it. I love that you can watch the same TV series over and over again. I love that you’re completely honest about how much you hate silent Russian films. I love that you throw letters from the pension people and the Social Insurance Agency straight in the bin. I love that you’ve never judged me for my past. Everyone always changes when I tell them about my teenage years. But with you, I’ve never had the feeling that I need to defend myself against who I was. I love that you’re so good at dancing salsa but always look a bit confused when you try to find the rhythm in techno. I love that you’re so naturally comfortable around taxi drivers, receptionists and random people in lifts. I love that you’re such a part of this world and that you’re a generally fantastic person. To put it bluntly: I love you. All of you. Thanks, she says. You’re okay, too. They smile at one another. But we’ve still been seeing one another for too short a time, she says. What do you mean, too short a time? We met over a year ago. Everything changes when you have kids, she says. I’ve already changed, he says. I’m a new man with you. I’m happier, calmer and more myself now than I’ve ever been before. I don’t know if I want more kids, she says. Are you serious? he asks. You’re young. Not really, she says. And I don’t know if I can handle the pain. You can have an anaesthetic, he says. I’m not talking about the birth, she says. I’m talking about everything that comes afterwards. He sits quietly. I’m not your ex-husband, he says. I’m me. And I’m never going to want to be without you. That’s why I want to meet your dad. Are you really sure? My dad is an unusual person, she says. With a strange sense of humour. Whose dad has a normal sense of humour? he says. Eventually, she gives in.
The man who will be the grandfather of his child turns out to be an elderly gentleman. He doesn’t tell any strange jokes. He doesn’t say anything unkind about the sister’s weight. Instead, he tells funny stories about the summer he worked as a t-shirt seller at a jazz festival and managed to talk his way backstage for a chance to meet Miles Davis (he said hello to me and fuck off to the roadie who asked for an autograph). Why have I never heard this story before? says his daughter. You’ve never asked, says the father. When they announce that his daughter is pregnant, his eyes well up and he mumbles: children are the best.
On the way home, his girlfriend is angry. She claims she didn’t want to tell him about the pregnancy. Why did you do it, then? he asks. You forced me to, she says. Why don’t you want to share our happiness? he asks. Because I haven’t made up my mind yet, she says. Stop it, he says. This is my decision, she says. But it’s our baby, he says. And it’s my body, she says, shaking her head and not meeting his eye.
Four drunk teenagers board their carriage and sit down on the other side of the aisle. The boyfriend’s old self would have gone over to them and started punching. He would have grabbed the biggest of them, pushed him up against the window and forced him to spit out his snus and apologise to the entire carriage for his language. But his new self doesn’t do anything like that. Instead, he leans out into the aisle and shushes them. Perfectly polite. Without any threats of violence. At first, they are actually quiet. Then they spend two stops trying not to laugh. They leave the carriage, and once the doors have closed and the train starts moving, they bang on the window and make obscene gestures. The man who is her boyfriend smiles to show that he isn’t upset. He doesn’t get wound up over nothing. But when they don’t stop, he gets up, lowers the window and hisses three words that make the boys back away and fall silent.
When they get home, he massages her feet and apologises for making her tell her father about the pregnancy. And sorry that I got a bit worked up on the metro. Of course it’s her decision, she can do what she likes, and if she did decide not to let the child be born, he would obviously think it was a shame, he would be sad, he really wouldn’t think it was the right decision, but he would be there for her all the same, he would even go with her to the doctor, he would hold her hand, even though he has a slight fear of hospitals and is a bit jumpy around needles. Thanks, she says. It feels important to me that we’re agreed on this. Do you have lessons on Friday? Why? he asks. I might have an appointment then. An appointment for what? What do you think? she says. He accidentally knocks over the reading lamp with his elbow. His foot catches the coffee table. He hits the wall with his hand, hard, but since the wall is concrete it doesn’t even make much of a sound. All that happens is she blinks. She looks at him. Sorry, he says. He gets up and goes into the kitchen. He wraps an ice pack around his hand to bring down the swelling. He uses the dustpan to clean up the shards of porcelain, and the vacuum cleaner for the glass. He apologises again, he says it was his old self reacting, he really didn’t mean for it to
end up like this. You can ask any of my ex-girlfriends, he says. I’ve never been physically violent with them. But this just feels so wrong. The fact you have the right to kill something that’s half me, without me even having a say. She looks at him, and for a second he sees a smile flicker across her lips.
* * *
A son who is a father knows he should head straight home. Instead, he sends his girlfriend a message to say that he’s going to do a big shop. She immediately calls him back. How did it go? she asks. Not very well, he says. They didn’t laugh? It was hard to see, the room was so dark. But I did it, in any case. I got up on stage. With the microphone. I did my opening monologue. But surely you could hear whether they were laughing or not? I didn’t say much, he says. She is quiet. I went blank, he says. She doesn’t say anything. And he didn’t come, he says. Who? Dad. Neither of them speaks. It doesn’t matter, she says. You’re brave even for trying. Then she adds: living with you and two kids is like living with three children. How the hell do you manage to fail at everything you do? There are three generations of fighters in my family; my parents crossed mountains, borders and oceans to give me the life they never had, they worked double shifts at the factory, they pruned apple trees and changed winter tyres, they fixed windscreen wipers and washed windows, they sewed curtains and negotiated a lower interest rate on their mortgage. What do you do? All you do is make life more difficult for yourself, and I’m so fucking tired of it. She doesn’t say these things, but she thinks them. I’m going to do the shopping, he says. See you later. Drive carefully, she says. He puts his phone back into the leather case and turns on aeroplane mode to avoid any more calls.
He finds a good parking space behind one of the trolley bays. He pushes a coin into the slot, pulls out a trolley and steers it up the ramp. He can, at least, do the big shop. He takes a self-scanner, walks through the metal barriers and brings up the list of things he needs to buy on his phone. The list isn’t really necessary, because he is going to buy everything. He starts from the left, buying a plait of garlic, a bag of yellow onions, a bag of red onions, a bag of spring onions. He buys organic potatoes, rocket salad, romaine lettuce. He buys sweet potatoes, broccoli, ordinary carrots for the adults and organic carrots for the children. He thinks about buying some pots of fresh herbs, they’re on offer, two for thirty kronor, normally nineteen apiece. He weighs them in his hand, he sniffs them, then he puts them back and moves towards the fruit. He buys a clear plastic box of cut-price pears, a net of reduced avocados, he buys apples on offer and then a couple of incredibly expensive organic apples for the one-year-old. He moves on to the raisins and walnuts, he grabs dried apricots, he grabs unbelievably expensive almonds, he tries not to think about the price per kilo or the ever-growing total on the scanner that he uses to blip every item. It isn’t a problem, his girlfriend has her job, he has his clients, the world isn’t going under, it’ll all work out. He pushes the trolley over to the meat counter (turkey sausages for the children) and on to the eggs (organic, fifteen-pack) and past the dairy section (halloumi, yoghurt, soured milk, ten litres of oat milk). He fills the trolley with frozen items, the cheapest cod and chunks of salmon in the shape of a brick to reduce the price per kilo, frozen herbs and a large pack of Bregott butter. Then he reaches the shelf of tacos and the Thai section. He checks his list and loads five cartons of coconut milk into the trolley. He grabs cartons of black beans, cartons of chopped tomatoes, millet flakes, cornmeal. For some reason, the list specifies that certain products should be in cartons rather than cans, and he follows the instructions. He scans every one. He doesn’t think about how few of the items are for him and how many he is buying for the rest of the family. Especially for her, the woman who never comes to do a big shop because she doesn’t have a driving licence, she just lists the things she wants and adds specific details so that he won’t make any mistakes. Expensive tuna, she writes, because she doesn’t like the cheap kind. Frozen raspberries and blueberries, because she thinks there is too much sugar in jam. Almonds, she writes, because she doesn’t realise that a small bag costs as much as a steak. He tries to reassure himself. He can’t lose focus. He is sweating, people are staring at him, his trolley is so full that the wheels have started to squeak and he still hasn’t picked up any of the things for the birthday party: paper plates and colourful plastic cups, straws and meringues, napkins and tubs of ice cream, fruity sprinkles and chocolate sprinkles, cola sauce, chocolate sauce and fruit sauce, and a large tub of sweets for the final game of lucky dip. The nappies and toilet paper come last, then he looks down at the list and sees that she has added more items, she wants red curry paste and tahini and psyllium husks. He leaves the trolley by the freezers and doubles back, he finds the curry paste and the tahini but not the husks, he asks a member of staff; she climbs down from her steps with a thoughtful look on her face, she calls a colleague, no, sorry, we don’t have that. He returns to his trolley with anger bubbling up inside him, he isn’t sure where it is coming from. Whether it’s because he couldn’t find the husks or because she has the nerve to keep adding things, he doesn’t know, but he feels like he should buy something for himself, he deserves something, too, he tries to work out what he might like, he runs over to the crisps, he moves on to the nuts, he stands in front of the sweets section for five minutes but can’t find anything that seems to suit him, everything he can see is either too expensive or too unnecessary, or else the bag is too big or the contents too unhealthy. He skips buying anything for himself, beeps the last item and steers the trolley to the barrier where you hand back the scanner and an employee sometimes has to randomly check that you’ve actually scanned everything properly.
He returns the scanning machine. The little screen informs him that someone is going to test-scan his items. He swears loudly. He pushes the trolley, now heavy as a yacht, towards the woman at the checkout. She says it won’t take a minute and reaches down into the trolley for five different items. The first has been scanned, as have the second and the third. The fourth doesn’t seem to have been scanned. Oops, she says. Looks like something’s gone wrong here. The fifth item hasn’t been scanned either. I think you might’ve forgotten to scan a few items, she says. Not to worry. If I could just ask you to move around here and queue up at an ordinary till, unload everything onto the conveyor belt, we’ll do it that way. The other self-scanner customers are staring at him. He tries to look unfazed. He thinks about how long this is going to take. The frozen things will start to melt. He has an urge simply to leave the shop, but he also feels guilty at having made a mistake. He has managed perfectly well every other time, but now it takes an extra fifteen minutes and once everything is finally checked and his shopping is all mixed up in the blue Ikea bags in the full-to-bursting trolley, the woman looks down at the receipt and says: well, it looks like it was just those two items that weren’t scanned. Was there anything else? The son shakes his head. He pushes his card into his wallet, the receipt into his back pocket, and steers the trolley towards the car park. As he makes his way down the ramp, he has to use his body weight to stop the trolley rolling away from him and into a beggar sitting on a piece of cardboard strategically placed right between the ramp and the trolley bay.
The son pushes the trolley over to his car. He puts his wallet on the roof and fills the boot, back seat and passenger seat with nappies, oat milk and organic tinned sweetcorn. He puts the eggs on the top in the back so that they won’t get broken. The trolley bay is only ten metres away, but he still locks the car. He pushes his trolley into the end of what looks like a long steel worm, takes back his ten-krona coin and drops it into the beggar’s cup. He moves slowly so that people will notice him. So that people will realise he is a good person, someone who doesn’t just care about himself. The beggar looks up. He doesn’t say thanks. He just smiles. There is something sarcastic about his smile. As though he saw everything in the trolley and is now looking down at the coin and thinking: is that it? You’re welcome, says the son. The beggar looks a
way, but the son refuses to give in. You’re very welcome, he says, in English this time. What’s the problem here? someone over by the trolleys asks. The son glances over. There are two large men in matching tracksuits. They look menacing. The son turns around and walks quickly back to the car. He thinks he can hear the men laughing. Once he is in the car, he puts it into reverse and pulls out of his space. The men in the tracksuits see his manoeuvre as unnecessarily fast. They jump out of the way and start shouting. The son tears out of the car park. One of the men bends down to the ground and picks up a rock that he seems to be thinking about throwing.
The son is driving along the straight stretch of road towards the motorway when a car behind him starts flashing its headlights. His first thought is that it must be an unmarked police car wanting to overtake. He slows down, he signals that he is going to pull over to the pavement. But when he stops, the car behind stops, too. One of the men from the car park jumps out of it. He has something in his hand. The son puts the car into first gear and slams the accelerator to the floor. In the rear-view mirror, he sees the man run back to the car and jump into the passenger seat.
When the son reaches the motorway, he takes the bridge over the lanes, he signals left, but the car is still behind him, a dark blue Audi with tinted windows, its headlights flashing. Rather than turning left, the son pulls out onto the E4. He doesn’t want these madmen to know where he lives, and there are more lanes on the motorway, more witnesses in case anything does happen. But Jesus Christ, what could happen? It’s just after nine on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday evening. He is in a car to the south of Stockholm. He is being followed by two steroid-addled men who get off on scaring people. They won’t do anything. What could they do? Force him off the road? Whip out AK-47s and do a drive-by? Cruise alongside him and moon through the window? He turns on the radio and ignores them. They are still behind him. Every now and then, they signal with their headlights. At one point, they pull up alongside him and stare into his car. The son keeps his eyes fixed on the road up ahead, but he notices from the corner of his eye that the man in the passenger seat is waving something, possibly a spring baton, possibly a knuckleduster. The son pretends not to see them. He speeds up. He presses the accelerator to the floor. He increases the Mazda’s speed from 120 to 130 to 140 and smiles when his pursuers turn off at the next exit.
The Family Clause Page 21
