The Family Clause

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  He remains in the left-hand lane. He is at one with the car. In complete control. Moving forward, nothing else. This is the speed he was made for, anything else would be wrong; he is meant to race ahead, never to stand still again, he’ll accelerate to the max and then accelerate a little more. It’s here, out in the left-hand lane, as he speeds away from his pursuers, that he is at his very best. He tries to slow down. He actively attempts to lift his right foot from the pedal. But he can’t. Now that speed has taken hold of his body, it feels impossible to think of 110 kilometres an hour as forward motion. It feels like driving through syrup, like using a walking frame in sand. He tries to change down to fourth gear, he reminds himself that his pursuers have gone and that he can turn around and head home. But then a good song comes on the radio, and he soon notices that his speed is picking up again, he drives further than planned, the signs start mentioning Södertälje, he is driving without a plan but he also feels good here, the frozen raspberries are no longer frozen, nor the blueberries, he will probably have to throw away the cod and the salmon, or make an enormous mixed fish stew tomorrow, with salmon, cod, raspberries and blueberries, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters any more, he doesn’t even calculate the cost of the salmon and the cod and the blueberries and the raspberries, and if he does then he quickly forgets the amount, because he is free here, he is alone, he has four Ikea bags of food and a car of his own with two child seats, and he can drive wherever he likes. How long does he drive for? He doesn’t know. But it can’t be too long. After a while, he turns off the motorway and drives in circles in an industrial area. He passes a harbour and a forest and a lake and rows of houses. He turns off into the empty car park outside a sports hall to skid in the gravel. He realises that the petrol light is blinking, and the time is approaching eleven when he pulls in at a station to fill the tank. When he goes over to the counter to pay, he reaches for his wallet, which is always in the same inside pocket. He finally realises what has happened. He pats his chest. He checks the pockets of his jeans. Front and back. It looks like he is frisking himself. He apologises to the girl behind the counter, snus beneath her lip, and heads back to his car. Though he knows it is pointless, he checks the compartment between the seats, the floor, the boot, where frozen but soon-to-be-defrosted blueberries have started to leak into the Ikea bags. When he goes back inside, the girl calls for her colleague. I’m so sorry, says the son. But I can’t find my wallet.

  * * *

  A grandfather who has been having a nap wakes to his phone ringing and ringing. He rubs his eyes, he checks the TV, it’s gone eleven. It’s his son’s girlfriend. The woman whose name he can never quite remember. Is he there? she says. Who? says the grandfather who is still trying to work out whether or not he is dreaming. He’s not there? Is he with you or not? There’s no one here, says the grandfather, and then the call ends, but right before she hangs up he hears a hoarse expletive. The grandfather sits up on the sofa. He is confused. He tries to doze off again. He can’t doze off. He calls his daughter, who tells him that her brother is missing, he was meant to be doing stand-up and then a big shop, but he still hasn’t come home. Nonsense, says the grandfather. Sorry? says the daughter. It can’t take that long to do the shopping, says the grandfather. Okay, says the daughter. But that’s what’s happened. He hasn’t come home. I just got here. I’ll come, too, says the grandfather. I’m on my way. Call me a taxi and I’ll come. The grandfather gets up, he paces around the flat, he tries to get dressed in the darkness before realising he can just turn on the lights. He almost applies deodorant to the outside of his shirt. He takes out his plane ticket. He checks his homemade diary, which consists of ten scrawled dates that he crosses out, one by one. There are two days until he leaves. Lucky it isn’t tomorrow, he thinks as he goes down the stairs and jumps into the taxi waiting outside. The grandfather says the name of the metro station where the son lives with his family. No problem, says the taxi driver. I’m going over to my son’s place, says the father. That’s nice, says the taxi driver. He’s a very successful accounting consultant. Okay. He has two children. That’s good. I’m very proud of him. Great. They live on the top floor. Good for them, says the taxi driver. We have a wonderful relationship, says the father. That sounds great, says the taxi driver. We’re almost there. Do you have an exact address? I’ll show you when we get there, says the father, who is fantastic at many things but has always struggled to remember streets, numbers, faces, birthdays and the names of girlfriends, friends and grandchildren.

  Here is fine, the grandfather says as the taxi pulls up outside the depressingly high brown concrete buildings. Card or cash? asks the taxi driver. Guess, says the father, holding out a note. He remains in the back seat until he has his change and a receipt. Then he sits there a little longer, waiting for the taxi driver to open the door for him.

  * * *

  A son who has been transformed from a father into a petrol thief tries to explain what has happened to the staff. But you’ve got a car full of shopping, says the girl, glancing at the CCTV screen. Yes, but someone must have stolen my wallet after I paid for the shopping, says the son. And I’m assuming you lost your driving licence then, too? says the man, who is wearing too much aftershave and has strangely glossy eyes. Yes, unfortunately, says the son. So you’ve got no money? No ID? No driving licence? the girl says. I don’t even have a phone, says the son. They stare at him. I have one of those combined wallet and phone cases. The son can see that the girl has already written his registration number on a yellow Post-it note. I take it I can’t work off the debt somehow? says the son. He means it as a joke, but no one laughs. So what do we do now? the man says. One option is that you give me an account number, says the son. I can drive straight home and transfer the money. The two employees don’t even entertain the idea. I think we should do this, says the girl. You write down your personal ID number. We’ve already got your registration number. We’ll give you an hour to go and get some money. Once the hour is up, we’ll call the police and report you. An hour? says the son. I won’t have time to cancel all my cards and get hold of the cash in . . . It’ll be fifty-nine minutes before long, says the man. Give me two hours, says the son. Okay? If you give me two hours, I’ll be back with your bloody money. Fifty-nine, says the girl. Almost fifty-eight, says the man. For God’s sake, the son shouts, rushing back out towards the car. He glances around. Where is he? Does he know anyone who lives within half an hour’s drive? Someone who might be awake this late? Someone whose phone number he knows by heart? Except he doesn’t have a phone. Someone whose street door isn’t locked at night? Surely all doors are locked at night. Someone who lives in a villa or terraced house, someone with 445 kronor in cash? Theoretically, he should be able to make it to the office, he has the key, the father always has cash, if there’s one thing he always has it’s cash. He checks the time. It should be possible. As long as he manages a quick turnaround. He speeds out onto the motorway. In fifty-seven minutes, he needs to be back.

  * * *

  A grandfather walks around his son’s flat and notices that quite a lot has changed since he was last there. They’ve finally put up some pictures on the walls. But the pictures aren’t pictures the grandfather would have chosen himself. Rather than beautiful pictures by great artists like Salvador Dalí, the son and his girlfriend have put up posters of a blue eye and some Polish text, a painting of a bearded woman and an ape, a picture depicting two sad caged birds trying to break free by kicking the floor of their cage. To the right in the last image is a smiling man. His head has been cut off. The grandfather sighs. No one takes any notice of him. The women in the flat are too preoccupied by other things. His daughter is pacing around with her phone clamped to her ear. The grandfather can tell from her voice that she is talking to an authority of some kind, she sounds firm and exaggeratedly clear, she repeats her brother’s ID number, she spells out his surname, she asks the person on the other end of the line to call her back if they hear anything.
The girlfriend is writing a text message in the kitchen, her hair hanging over her face. When she looks up, her eyes are red. The grandfather sits down next to her on the turquoise sofa. He tells his daughter, who has turned on the kettle, that he would like some tea, ideally with something sweet. He pats the girlfriend on the shoulder and says that he is 100 per cent sure that nothing serious has happened. He’ll be back soon, says the grandfather. How do you know? she asks. Because I know my son, says the grandfather. He just needed a break. This is the kind of thing that happens when you’re a family man. Ask me, I’ve raised three children, I know how hard it is. The girlfriend turns to him. Three? she says through tear-filled eyes. Two children here, says the grandfather. And a daughter in France. She stares at him. He isn’t like you, she says. Then she lifts her phone to her ear and leaves yet another message on the son’s voicemail.

  His daughter sets out teacups. Is there anything sweet to eat? asks the grandfather. A bit of chocolate? Biscuits? In the cupboard, says the girlfriend. You’ve got diabetes, you’re not meant to eat biscuits, says the daughter. Take your coat off. The grandfather struggles out of his coat and hangs it over the arm of the sofa. He isn’t the least bit worried. Everything will be fine, he mumbles. He’ll be back soon.

  * * *

  A son turns off the motorway far too fast. He skids as he turns right and then regains control of the car and takes a left onto the smaller road that runs parallel to the motorway. He is alone here. No oncoming cars. The red light turns to green as he approaches. He indicates left and drives into the tunnel beneath the motorway. He wonders whether the father is awake. Of course he won’t be awake. He’ll be worried, he’ll want a whole load of explanations, but the son doesn’t have time for that, just give me the money and I’ll explain tomorrow, he’ll say. There’s no need to mention anything about his wallet. Not now. Not when he is so pushed for time. He takes a left at the roundabout, turns right up the hill. There are the low brick buildings, the black doors, the tatty lawns. He double-parks outside the door, turns on the hazard warning lights and runs up the stairs. He rings the bell first. Then he unlocks the door. He finds himself in a brightly lit hallway. The TV is on. The globe is illuminated. There is a half-eaten pizza in a box on the coffee table in the living room, next to an open packet of Singoalla biscuits. Is his father actually using the bed in the bedroom for once? He pushes the door ajar. No. It’s as neatly made as it was when he left the office a week earlier. His father isn’t here. Where is he? The son starts looking through the father’s things. He checks his suitcase. He searches the pockets of his jacket. With twenty-eight minutes to spare, he finds the envelope. It’s inside a toiletry bag inside a plastic bag, which, for some reason, is inside the bathroom cabinet. The son counts the money. There is over ten thousand kronor inside. All in five-hundred notes. He takes one. Then he takes another, just to be on the safe side. He tiptoes out of the office and back down to the car.

  * * *

  A grandfather who really is a father tiptoes into the children’s room to check on his grandchildren. The lights are on. Both beds are empty. He creeps over to the window and opens the blind. He looks out at the industrial area. The big white chimney, the shorter chimney made of some kind of metal, the long rows of large white vans. The odd car driving too fast along the straight stretch of road. From here, you can see all the way into town. He can see the golden tips of the Högalid Church spires, he can see the lights and the outline of what must be the Kaknäs Tower. Diagonally to the right is a new tower block, with transparent green balconies and an entrance light that blinks on and off, on and off. The father watches the light. He imagines that it is a beacon. He imagines that if he can just hold his breath as it blinks on and off twenty times, his son will come home. He fills his lungs, he holds his breath, he counts as the light goes on and off, on and off; by fourteen he is close to giving up, he needs air, his lungs can’t handle any more, he is seeing stars, he’s going to faint, but he notices that his body doesn’t want to give up, his mouth is closed, his lips are taut, fifteen, sixteen, he imagines he is a bank vault, he’s a diver who can see the surface of the water approaching, seventeen, eighteen, he carefully starts to release air from his lungs so that his body realises it’ll get more oxygen soon, nineteen, twenty. He manages it. Now he knows that the son will come home unscathed. He peers down at the car park. He waits to see the son’s black car pull up. He waits one car. Two cars. Three cars. His son hasn’t crashed. He hasn’t aimed for the barrier as he drove over a bridge. He hasn’t been beaten up by Nazis or kidnapped by a gang of teenagers. He has just taken a break, and now he is on his way home. He’ll be here soon. He’s coming now. There he is. The father smiles. A black hatchback pulls up outside. Two elderly women climb out. The taxi sign on the roof lights up.

  * * *

  A son who is a father arrives at the petrol station with eight minutes to spare. You were lucky there, says the girl behind the counter. He doesn’t reply. He just holds out one of the five-hundred-krona notes to pay for the petrol. Then he adds a coffee, a bag of sweets and a pack of chewing gum, without checking how much more expensive they are here compared to the supermarket. She hands him his change and throws the Post-it note with his registration number on it into the bin. He steps out into the night. He’s back. They said it was impossible, but he did it. They thought he was out of the running, but he got there at the finish line. He delivered at the count of nine. He knocked in an equaliser during extra time. Is it possible? It is! Everything is possible, so long as you don’t give in. He takes a sip of his coffee, opens the bag of sweets and turns the key in the ignition. They can go to hell. Who? The whole lot of them. His girlfriend. His children. His friends. His career. The thawing fish in the boot. Fuck the lot of them. It’s him against the world. He drives out onto the motorway. His home is to the north. He drives south.

  IX. THURSDAY

  A girlfriend who is a mother is standing in the dark hallway, saying goodbye to the children’s aunt. It’s almost one in the morning, and both have work the next day. There is nothing else they can do. It’s going to be fine, says the aunt. Call me if you need anything. And remember the cooked spaghetti trick if you have trouble sleeping. They try to smile and hug one another. Hugging his sister is like hugging him, just with a different perfume, more flesh and longer hair. Are you sure you don’t want me to take him with me? the aunt says, nodding towards the kitchen. It’s fine, says the girlfriend. Let him sleep. It feels good to know there’s someone sleeping here. The grandfather is stretched out on his back on the kitchen sofa, snoring so loudly that the teacups on the table are rattling. Speak tomorrow, says the girlfriend. First person to hear anything texts the other, says the aunt.

  The girlfriend closes the door, locks it, puts her eye to the peephole and watches the lights in the stairwell go out as the motion detectors decide there is no one there. She takes out her phone and tries calling him. His phone is as switched off now as it has been since he said he was going to do a big shop. Damn it. She brushes her teeth, takes out her contact lenses and tries calling again. She lies down beneath a blanket on the sofa in the living room, she turns off the lamp and tries to get to sleep. She breathes calmly. She performs a body scan meditation. She gets up and takes a painkiller to make her muscles relax. Eventually, she tries to visualise her body as cooked spaghetti, the tip that the children’s grandmother used to recommend to customers who had trouble sleeping when she worked in a natural medicine shop. The girlfriend picks up her phone and logs into their joint account to check whether any money has been withdrawn. Nope. There haven’t been any more transactions since the supermarket.

  She can hear the grandfather snoring in the kitchen. The man who still seems unsure how to pronounce her name. For some reason, it feels comforting to have him there on the kitchen sofa. The first time they met was when he came to visit them in the studio flat, just after their daughter was born. The mother was still sore from the birth. How does it
feel to be a grandfather again? she asked as she took his coat. Good, thanks, he said, handing it to her and heading into the bedroom. He hadn’t brought any presents. I should have brought flowers, he said. Oh, it doesn’t matter, said the son who was now a father, handing over the family’s second grandchild to her grandfather. The important thing is that you get to meet. Here she is. He said her name. The grandfather held her tiny body to his shoulder. Both closed their eyes. The grandfather took a few quick steps to one side. At first, she thought he was about to faint, but then she realised he was dancing. He held the warm, sleeping, squint-eyed, three-week-old baby to his body, humming and dancing his way around the tiny flat as his son grabbed their good camera, the one they only ever used to make relatives who weren’t really present look present in their shared family history.