Everything I Don't Remember

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  *

  Nothing in particular. Believe me. If it was crucial to the story I would tell you. Some crap. Shenanigans. Hamza was meeting a guy who owed him money, and the guy and Hamza were not in complete agreement about how big the loan was. We had to take him to the bathroom and remind him of the amount. Nothing serious, I don’t think he even reported it. It was just a normal night that ended with us calling our taxi-driver contact, who took us home nice and quick with no receipt. Hamza was giggling in the backseat, he was happy with the night’s profits, he counted out bills for me and as usual he said that we ought to join forces, strike out on our own, not just slave for other people. But I had decided I was done with all that.

  *

  “Mikaela” smiles when I ask about her mnemonic. I mean, it sounds super nerdy when you say it, but that’s the thing about mnemonics, the nerdier they are the better they work, and back then the code was fourteen seventy-two and I always thought that the job was like a mix between entering a world war—fourteen—and being kidnapped by terrorists in an Olympic village—seventy-two. I shared my rule with Samuel twice because I was tired of opening the door for him, and here I had to do it again, I opened it and said hi and asked him, didn’t he remember the mnemonic?

  “Mnemonic?” he said.

  And I thought: Okay, it’s one thing not to remember the code, and another to not remember the mnemonic. But it is pretty weird if you can’t even remember that you ever heard a mnemonic. I might even have been thinking: Okay, it’s a family trait, see you here in a few years.

  *

  Later that same week I contacted a moving company. I knew some people who had gotten jobs there on short notice. Blomberg was sitting there with his yellow baseball cap and his headset and his binders and when I came in and introduced myself his eyes wandered from one of my shoulders to the other.

  “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you a Swedish citizen?”

  I nodded.

  “When can you start?”

  *

  The nurses’ aide on the second floor has no problem at all having his real name in the book. My name is Gurpal but everyone calls me Guppe. Do you want my last name too? Write that I’m thirty-eight years young and single, I like long walks, space movies, and R. Kelly, but not his dirtiest songs. I’ve been working here for two years, almost three, but it’s just temporary, I’m actually a musician, I have a small studio at home, built it myself, a converted closet where I record my own songs, it’s modern soul but in Swedish, lots of strings and a piano, seasoned with bhangra influences, hip-hop beats, and melodic refrains. A buddy described it as up-tempo trip-hop pressed through a filter of jazzy soul, it’s urban pop music marinated in classic bebop, with a jungle streak. Oh, it sounds wack when I describe it but I’d be happy to send you a few songs if you want to take a listen?

  *

  Before we get back to what happened then, I want to know a little more about you. How did you come up with this idea? Why do you want to tell Samuel’s story? Who else have you talked to?

  *

  Guppe says it was the end of his shift when Samuel came out of the elevator. It was nine thirty but his grandmother had been up since seven and was asking about him every ten minutes. By the time he finally arrived, she had fallen asleep.

  “How is she?” Samuel asked, stifling a yawn.

  “It seems to be a good day today,” I said. “Are you moving in?”

  Samuel smiled and looked down at the plastic bag, which was as full as a trash bag.

  “No, no, just a few things from her house. Nostalgia stuff. Thought it might be nice to have.”

  “For you or for her?”

  “Both. Have you heard this classic?”

  Samuel dug a CD out of the bag. On the cover was a transparent toy piano full of candies.

  “Ear Candy Seven?”

  Samuel nodded.

  “By Lars Roos. Also famous for the masterpieces Ear Candy One through Six. Grandma listened to him all the time when I was little.”

  Samuel walked over to his grandma, who was sitting in the TV room and napping. She was wearing white shoes, a thin beige jacket, and a skirt whose color I don’t remember. Her suitcase stood next to her. I had tried to explain that she didn’t need it, that she was only going to the hospital and then she would come back. But she contradicted me; she said she had to bring it along and if there was anything I’d learned in my time here it was that you couldn’t change her mind once she had made it up. “I’m not stubborn,” she liked to say. “But I never give in.”

  *

  Okay. Take it easy. Put your CV away. I don’t give a crap which publisher does your books. I don’t care what else you’ve written. I’m just curious as to what about your personal history makes you the right person to tell this story. What made you want to write about Samuel?

  *

  Guppe says that Samuel stood there looking at his grandma for a minute or two before he woke her up. She was snoring. She was sitting there with her mouth like this [he opens his mouth wide as if he’s trying to tan the back of his throat by the fluorescent ceiling light]. Her suitcase was beside her and when Samuel opened it, out fell tea-light holders, a cake slice, and two remote controls. Samuel patted her cheek [touches his own cheek twice, closes his eyes] and she gave a start and rubbed her eyes. She looked at her grandson. For a second or two, it was as if she didn’t remember him. Then she smiled and cried [makes his arms into airplane wings]:

  “At last!”

  And then:

  “What a surprise!”

  They went to her room. When they came back out, Samuel was wearing this mangy brown fur hat. He had the suitcase and plastic bag in one hand, and he was using his other arm to steady his grandmother.

  “We’re off!” she cried with a wave. “It was nice running into you.”

  She looked happy, happy in a way she never was otherwise [looks sad].

  *

  Okay. I understand. I’m sorry. I don’t really know what to say.

  *

  Guppe says that the first thing Samuel’s grandma did when she moved in was accuse all the dark-skinned men who worked at the home of theft. She was convinced that we snuck in at night and took her pearl necklaces, no matter how many times her children and grandchildren tried to tell her that her pearl necklaces were safe and sound in the safe deposit box at the bank. I don’t know if she even had any pearls, but she would hide her jewelry box under her bed and two hours later she would ring the call button and say that she was the victim of another robbery. Her family apologized, they said she had never been like this before, they told stories about how she’d worked as a teacher in a poverty-stricken area and started a club in her congregation to raise hundreds of thousands of kronor to build schools in African countries. She sold things at flea markets and ripped up sheets so they could be used as bandages in Romanian hospitals, and once when her contact at an orphanage in Latvia couldn’t find a driver to bring over a busload of winter clothes, she got her eldest son to do it and she went along; the two of them drove to Latvia and dropped the boxes of clothes at the orphanage.

  After a while it was almost strange to listen to her relatives list all of these facts, I heard the same stories over and over again from different family members, it was as if they wanted to compensate for something, as if they didn’t understand that we were professionals. We were used to it. We have our routines. There’s a confused old man or woman in every room, and when they press the call button and say that there’s a scary person in the bathroom, we hang a sheet over the mirror. When they say that an old person is spying on them through the window, we pull the curtains. None of the old men are allowed to shave by themselves, because if they do they might show up to morning coffee without eyebrows. We can’t leave bottles of rubbing alcohol unattended, because someone will drink them up. Samuel’s grandmother was far from the worst. Although she was one of the ones whose mood was the most chang
eable.

  *

  When did it happen? Were you close? Are you still in touch with the family?

  *

  Guppe says that once when Samuel’s grandma was in an extra bad mood, Samuel’s mother tried to give him a tip. She held out a hundred-krona bill and said she was sorry for all the things I had to listen to. I looked her in the eye and said, in a friendly but firm voice:

  “Put that away.”

  Because, okay, it was one thing to be called “sand-nigger” or “towelhead,” but somehow that felt better than standing there like an idiot and being given charity for a job well done. When I came home and told my wife about what had happened she called me an idiot for refusing the money. We had just bought a terrace house and the twins were eighteen months old and diapers and pacifiers and wet wipes didn’t come free. When I went to bed I lay there for a long time, wondering whether I should have accepted the money. But I would do the same thing today. Did I say wife? I meant ex-wife.

  *

  I understand. I’m just wondering why you’ve wasted so much time. Why didn’t you come here earlier? Why did you talk to Laide and Panther and Samuel’s old school friends before you met me? How did you expect the staff at Samuel’s grandma’s dementia home to help you understand what happened? What does Samuel’s grandma’s neighbor have to do with it? If I’m going to be part of this, I want to be there all the way from beginning to end, because no one knew Samuel better than I did.

  *

  Guppe says that he prepared the morning coffee and rang the bell. Then I looked out the window and saw that Samuel and his grandma hadn’t left yet. They were walking toward the car. She was holding his arm. She hobbled toward the driver’s side to get behind the wheel. Samuel led her to the passenger side. Then he helped her buckle herself in and once he’d closed the door and put the suitcase and the plastic bag in the backseat he stopped to catch his breath in a way I know I sometimes do. He, like, stood there for a second to muster his strength for the next half of the game. I would do the same thing after a long day at work. He did it after twenty minutes with his own grandma. Then he took off the fur hat, patted his own cheeks lightly, and got behind the wheel.

  *

  Which neighbor was it, by the way? That guy in number thirty-two? He goes to Thailand to fuck whores every winter. I swear it. Young whores, too, like on the verge of being legal. Whores he can pay to say they’re twelve so he can get his sad little retired-guy cock hard. He goes there every winter, he boards up his house and puts timers on all the lights and is gone for two or three months and then he comes home with new photos of whores he’s fucked and he prints out the photos and puts them up on the bulletin board in his office, like postcards. It’s true; we saw it through the window. Samuel used to call it his “wall of shame.” I suspect it was the neighbor who set the fire. He hated everyone who lived there. And he didn’t seem surprised at all when the fire department showed up.

  *

  Guppe says that the car started and moved back and forth, back and forth. On like the fifth try, Samuel managed to drive out of the parking spot and turn the car around to head for the bridge. Then he revved the engine and whizzed down the hill. Going way too fast. Would I remember that if I hadn’t heard about what happened the very next day? I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was the last time I saw him [looking oddly upset, given that he hardly knew him]. If you want to talk to Samuel’s grandma, you’ll have to come back once she’s feeling better. But unfortunately, I don’t think she’ll be much help. She’s drifting further and further into the fog.

  CORRESPONDENCE

  In her first email, his mom apologizes for taking so long to respond. After careful consideration, in the end, after many “buts” and “what ifs,” I have decided not to take part. I don’t live my life in the public eye. I’m not used to being interviewed. I have never liked being documented; in fact, I feel uncomfortable even when my daughter pulls out her phone to take videos of me with my grandchild. So I hope you respect our wish not to participate. And I use the word “our” because this decision goes for both me and Samuel’s sister, whom I know you have contacted. We are trying to move on. We want to put this all behind us. Good luck with the book. Warm wishes.

  *

  Then three months went by and I didn’t see Samuel in all that time. I’d broken off contact with Hamza. Or, well, not broken off, but I had stopped going on rounds with him. I avoided his calls. I made up excuses for why I couldn’t come. Instead I set the alarm on my phone and went to Blomberg’s office early on weekday mornings to be paired up with someone on the team and spend the day moving dressers and Murphy beds and kitchen benches. The moving boxes first, then secure them behind double beds, and then in with the flowerpots and rugs and TVs wrapped up in blankets.

  *

  In her second email, his mom writes that she appreciates my tenacity. Stubbornness is a virtue. We always said that when I was growing up. Everyone but my mom, who stubbornly maintained that she was not stubborn at all. But I will tell you once again that I do not wish to be interviewed. Don’t take it personally. It’s not because I’m “anxious about the memories that might be dredged up.” And it has nothing to do with your qualities as an author. Even if the things you write are very different from the sort of literature I enjoy, that’s not the reason I (once again) choose to decline. It makes no difference that I wouldn’t be filmed. Just knowing that someone is going to record my voice is enough to bother me and make me stumble over my words. I have always been able to speak much better when no one is listening. Or when someone who knows me is listening. So I’m saying no. Again. If there are any concrete points of fact you want to double check, perhaps I can help over email. All my best.

  *

  My life went on. I changed up a few habits. I adjusted to my new salary. Instead of going into town I found Spicy House. Instead of buying new clothes I took care of the ones I already owned. One day we were sent to Nacka to move everything in one house to another one that was only fifty meters away.

  “Why are you moving?” Luciano asked.

  “Well, it’s not for tax reasons, anyway,” replied the man who signed the hours-worked contract and smiled as if he had just told a joke.

  We emptied the home of someone who had died on Lilla Essingen. We helped a guy who had divorced his wife pack everything that was his and move it to a cramped one-room apartment on Thorildsplan.

  *

  In her third email, his mom writes that she has chosen to respond to my questions in list form:

  1. Twenty-six. He was about to turn twenty-seven.

  2. Pretty often. About once or twice a day. Usually I was the one who called, but sometimes he did.

  3. No, I wouldn’t say I knew Vandad. But I knew of him. We met a few times. It was clear that life hadn’t been entirely kind to him.

  4. Yes, of course he had other friends too. But they were probably more like acquaintances. Samuel had a tendency to have intense friendships and spend most of his time with one or two people at a time. And that made him vulnerable.

  *

  An old woman wanted to move from Östermalm to Södermalm and she lived in an apartment the size of a museum. She was the sort of customer who wanted double blankets and bubble wrap on everything. The dusty mirrors were antiques and the shabby dresser had to be handled as if it was pure gold. At first we did as she said, but after a while it was impossible; if we were going to finish before the day turned into a week we had to speed up the process. So we did, we packed everything in boxes but at the same time we tried to do it as fast as possible because time was getting away from us and when we got to the new place, the elevator, which had been described as “large” in the booking, was one meter square max and it had an iron gate, and neither the display cabinet nor the bed nor the old-fashioned sofa with carved wooden flowers on the armrests would fit.

  *

  His mom continues:

  5. Laide was the first girlfriend Samuel ever introduced me t
o. They were together for about a year. It was a turbulent relationship. They fought a lot. Laide looked for flaws in Samuel. Samuel felt suffocated. I think both of them were pretty relieved when it ended.

  6. No, I wouldn’t describe him as “secretive.” Doesn’t everyone have secrets? No one tells everyone everything, do they? I would be more inclined to describe him as curious. Enthusiastic. And maybe a little restless.

  7. Yes. Without a doubt. Who said otherwise?

  8. No, it started back when he was little. When he was seven he would come home from a birthday party and be absolutely amazed that he couldn’t recall what flavor of ice cream he had eaten that afternoon. To him, that made it seem like the ice cream was worth less. Maybe now that I write this down it seems rather precocious and more philosophical than it really was. At the time, I mostly thought it was a strategy to get more ice cream.

  9. Not on my side. Samuel’s dad did have a melancholy streak. But I wouldn’t go so far as to call him “depressive.”

  10. Samuel was nine and Sara was eleven. It was a complicated divorce. Their dad was very hurt, and for several years he only saw the children occasionally. Then he severed contact completely.

  11. Yes. Samuel and I talked to each other that last day. But if you want to know more about what I remember, you’ll need to ask more specific questions.

  Best wishes.

  *

  Three o’clock went by, and four, five, six. We fought to get everything in place and by nine o’clock we were done. The floor lamps and picture frames and a small stool made of brown wood came with the last load. I was the one who took the stool; I put it in the hall and brought out the contract where the client was supposed to write down how many people had been working and tally up the hours. The old lady was just about to sign her name on the contract when she caught sight of the stool and made a sound as if someone had thrust a knife into her stomach. She lifted up the stool and then I realized that it wasn’t a stool but a child’s chair that had lost its backrest. Marre ran down to the truck to see if anything had been left behind, but all he found were a few flat slats that might have been a backrest, and the client sat there with her little chair and the broken slats and she petted the stool as if it were a cat. Bogdan and Luciano tried to keep from laughing and made gestures in the air to show she was crazy. I just wanted her signature, and at last I got it, she signed and we hopped into our fifteen-footer and drove back to the office. Later that night I thought of her sitting all by herself in an apartment with that stool that had until so recently been a chair. I don’t know why I remember her in particular.