The Friend

by Joakim Zander

  ‘Jacob,’ Yassim begins to speak quietly in his American-accented English. ‘Who are you, Jacob? How do you make the trees bloom in August?’

  It should sound cheesy, overly sweet, like something from a B-movie. It should make him giggle, break the spell. But it doesn’t. Quite the opposite. This is a night where magnolia trees bloom in August, and every sentence has been set free from history. Jacob opens his mouth, closes it again. Yassim stares at him calmly, neither restless nor impatient.

  ‘Or don’t tell me,’ Yassim says. ‘Let me guess.’

  Jacob feels himself falling down from the treetops again, landing in his own body, in his own head. He doesn’t feel calmer, not at all, but he does feel braver. Ready to go all the way, no matter where it leads.

  ‘Okay,’ Jacob says and smiles, he hopes seductively. ‘Tell me who I am, Yassim.’

  He scoots closer to his new friend, so close that their shoulders touch, and leans towards him so that their noses almost brush each other. If they are going to kiss, they should do it now. Jacob’s whole body tenses up. How much more obvious can he be? He’s gone further than ever before. He’s going to do it now. Going to kiss Yassim. Let Yassim kiss him and caress him and put his hand under his shirt, unbutton his trousers. He’ll let Yassim lie him flat on this bench, here in the darkness, and do whatever he wants to him. There’s a kind of freedom in yielding.

  But Yassim just looks at him with eyes that are half amused or arrogant, half filled with warmth. He doesn’t kiss Jacob, he doesn’t put his hand on his neck or against his chest. Instead, he pulls back and smiles again.

  ‘You’re a Scandinavian diplomat,’ he says.

  Jacob quivers with pride. Yassim may not have kissed him, but he sees Jacob the way he wants to be seen, and it’s such a confirmation.

  ‘You’re very new,’ he continues. ‘This is your first international posting, and you’re a bit confused. You’re used to being in control. Good at school, best grades all the way through. You probably speak perfect Arabic, but don’t know any slang.’

  Yassim’s smile widens, he’s really getting going now.

  ‘You play squash and tennis and like German white wines, and when you’ve had a couple glasses you let go of that polished surface and dance on the table to ABBA.’

  Jacob blushes a little. He doesn’t know if what he feels is pride because Yassim sees him as he wants to be seen, or if he thinks Yassim might be teasing him, thinks he’s a stereotype.

  ‘What do you think so far?’ Yassim says. ‘Looks to me like you’re blushing, so I can’t be too far off?’

  ‘Go on,’ Jacob whispers. ‘I want to hear more.’

  Yassim nods and moves a little closer, so Jacob has to stop himself from gasping. He wants to close his eyes and open his mouth, pull Yassim close, but he knows that’s not his role. It’s Yassim who decides, that much is clear, and Jacob allows it to be that way.

  ‘You come from a good family,’ Yassim continues, whispering now, as if he were telling a story, and he is, in a way. ‘A penthouse in Stockholm, perhaps? Your father is a politician, maybe an ambassador? You know which fork to use at the embassy’s dinners, anyway. Your mother has money, maybe an estate in the country. You have a fancy last name, maybe even two.’

  Now Jacob is no longer blushing; instead he’s just letting confirmation wash over him. It’s working. This is the first time he’s tested out his persona, and it’s working. Everything he constructed so carefully and planned and studied while he was growing up. Everything he learned to imitate to the most minute detail in order to succeed at escaping, heading for something else, something bigger and better.

  At the same time, it feels so insignificant now, completely irrelevant. It feels like he made the wrong bet, as if he’s misunderstood something fundamental. He remembers the picture of that young lawyer in Dagens Nyheter, her obvious determination and conviction. He can feel his blood burning, here in the garden. Can feel chaos and risk trembling around him. Everything he believed about the world. One day in Beirut, one night in a garden, and all the old stuff feels meaningless. For the first time, he wants to tell someone who he really is. And he opens his mouth.

  But before he can say anything, Yassim’s face is so close to his that the tips of their noses touch, and Jacob almost laughs from nervousness, but Yassim’s lips are already on his and instead he gasps and forgets everything Yassim said, forgets the garden, forgets his own story, what’s true and what he created.

  There’s nothing but this, he thinks. Nothing else matters.

  *

  It’s not until Yassim pulls back that Jacob opens his eyes and sees how the light in the garden has changed, how everything around him is suddenly sharper. The night will soon be over, the dawn is creeping over the uncut grass, through the wild tangle of the treetops, and climbing up the pink walls of the abandoned palace. Jacob shivers and tries to smile while Yassim caresses his chest, inside his unbuttoned shirt.

  ‘You’re freezing,’ he says, pulling back his hands, fiddling with the buttons of Jacob’s shirt. ‘I don’t want you to get a cold.’

  Jacob leans against him, puts his hand around his shoulder and his head tenderly against his neck just below his jaw. He kisses his skin lightly, nibbles and sucks.

  ‘So keep me warm,’ he whispers.

  He lets his hand slide over Yassim’s T-shirt again, over his hard, flat stomach, down over his hip, towards his groin and cock. He feels Yassim’s breathing quicken and pulls him closer. Feels Yassim press against his hand, put his hand on top of Jacob’s then pull it away, just as he did several times already. But his desire is so fierce now, the chemistry so powerful that he instead pushes Jacob’s hand towards him and rubs himself against it.

  ‘Let me,’ Jacob whispers. ‘Let me feel you.’

  He’s surprised by a kind of happiness. That he got him here, even though Yassim for some reason stopped him whenever he tried to do anything more than kiss or caress him. The power he feels now that Yassim can’t hold back is intoxicating, and Jacob moans deeply into his ear. And for a moment, he thinks Yassim might give in, but it’s as if Yassim steels himself and gains strength as he pushes Jacob’s hand away.

  ‘Not now,’ he whispers. ‘Not here.’

  Frustration and disappointment sting inside Jacob. Well, why not? he wants to scream. We’re alone here, in a garden. You want this too!

  But before he can, Yassim quiets him with a kiss.

  ‘Soon,’ he says. ‘But not now, not tonight.’

  He kisses him again and finishes buttoning Jacob’s shirt, then pulls his lips away, scoots back, and stands up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Yassim says. ‘I didn’t mean to get you excited in this way. I didn’t think I’d…’ He falls silent and glances around at the outlines that are getting sharper around them.

  ‘You’d what?’ Jacob says, frustrated.

  Yassim looks at him again, the arrogance almost gone from his eyes now. In its place is just a straightforward warmth. ‘I didn’t think I’d feel like this,’ he says. ‘And I don’t want it to end before it even starts. Do you understand?’

  No! Jacob wants to say. I don’t understand anything. You have me here, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t stop now!

  But instead he nods, unwilling to reveal how horny and confused and desperate he really is. A slight headache has snuck up on him now as his drunkenness and excitement slowly recede.

  ‘But you could at least sit down again,’ he says quietly. ‘Can’t we talk? I never told you if I’m really the person you described.’

  Yassim smiles. ‘Habibi,’ he says. ‘Does it matter who you really are? I want you as you are, right here, right now, this morning. But I don’t have time. I’m already late.’

  He glances over at the gate that leads to the street, then throws what looks like a camera bag over his shoulder. Did he have that with him earlier in the night? Jacob doesn’t even remember; he only remembers lips and skin and eyes.

  ‘D
o you have to go now?’ he says. Disappointment clawing inside him.

  Yassim just shrugs his shoulders and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his worn jeans. ‘How do I reach you?’ he says. ‘Before we forget.’

  Jacob rattles off his Facebook and Instagram, but Yassim just shakes his head. ‘Just a phone number,’ he says. ‘That’s enough.’

  Jacob gives him his Swedish number; he doesn’t have a Lebanese SIM card yet.

  ‘You really are new here,’ Yassim says, taking a step towards him and caressing his cheek. ‘I like it.’

  Jacob laughs but feels a stitch of annoyance. He may be new here, but it still hurts that Yassim views him that way, like a novice, naive and fresh.

  ‘And how can I get a hold of you?’ Jacob says.

  Yassim doesn’t answer; he just sits down again, puts his hands on the back of Jacob’s neck, pulls him close and pushes his mouth against his, pushes his tongue into Jacob’s mouth. This kiss is different, not tender and tentative like earlier in the night, but hard and knowing, full of intention and a kind of restrained violence that leaves Jacob breathless. If he ever thought he had any kind of initiative here, that thought vanishes now. The excitement in that insight drives him almost crazy, and he pushes himself against Yassim. But Yassim ends the kiss.

  ‘You can’t just leave me,’ Jacob whispers. ‘Not after this.’

  Yassim stands up again with a slight smile on his lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘But I can’t stay. Believe me, there’s nothing else I’d rather do. But I’m going on a trip, and I’m already late.’

  Jacob shakes his head. ‘Now? You’re taking a trip today, this morning?’

  Yassim nods. ‘I wasn’t expecting this,’ he says. ‘With you. And I’m late. Very, very late.’

  He takes a step over to the sparse grass and slowly backs away through the dawn light, backs towards the gate they entered through, towards the world they came from.

  Jacob stands up too. He wants to follow, he wants to say: Wait! I’m coming with you. We can take a taxi, a flight, whatever you want.

  But instead, he just asks hollowly: ‘But you’ll call, right?’

  Now it’s almost completely light in the garden, and he watches as the sun’s rays make their way over the grass, towards the palace and up above the dark branches of the trees. Yassim smiles at him again and nods calmly. ‘I’ll call,’ he says. ‘When I get back, I promise.’

  Jacob wants to believe him, wants to think that what Yassim says is true, that the fairytale of this night was real. At the same time, he can’t help feeling like this is the end. Not every fairytale has a happy ending.

  21 November

  Sankt Anna

  Snow whirls in through the doors of the parish house as Klara and Grandma send the funeral guests out into the darkness one by one – after two hours of coffee and sandwiches, halting speeches and anecdotes.

  As Klara turns around to find a jacket for one of her grandfather’s older cousins, she catches a glimpse of her face in the small mirror above the hall table. For a moment she doesn’t recognize herself with her new haircut. She looks younger than her thirty-two years, she thinks. Thinner. She kept it in a longish bob for so long. It felt like a relief to cut it off the day after Grandpa told her about the cancer. It was time to move forward, time to lift her eyes, time to become herself again.

  She closes the door and looks at the melting, grey slush on the hall floor. ‘I’ll clean it up before we leave,’ she says.

  ‘Majvor will do the cleaning later,’ Grandma says. ‘Don’t think about it now.’ She pats Klara on the cheek and narrows her bright blue eyes. ‘You don’t have to take care of me. And I wouldn’t accept it if you tried. Do you understand?’

  The last guests have gone now. They’re alone in the dim hall. Grandma’s pulled on her coat, ready to be picked up by her sister and her sister’s husband, who just went to pick up their car. Klara nods. She knows, has known since watching her grandmother walk across the parking lot after the funeral, so calm and balanced, just like usual.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I understand.’

  Grandma takes a half step back, leans her head back and cups Klara’s face in her hands. ‘Rock and salt,’ she says, patting Klara’s cheek. ‘That’s what your grandpa used to say. I know he wanted you to be like that, too. Hard as rock and salt, as you become out here on these islands. And I can’t just lay down and die, can I?’

  She gives Klara a hug before cracking the door to see a car rolling forward.

  ‘If you want, you can come with me and Maj and Roland, you know,’ she says. ‘But why would you want to sit with us old folks? You’ve done enough for us. For me, Klara. It’s time to do something for yourself.’

  All through her childhood. Every summer and Christmas. Every cold morning in the kitchen with Grandma with the pipes frozen. Every afternoon with Grandpa in his boat on the choppy sea. Everything Klara had become was given to her by them.

  ‘I haven’t done anything for you,’ she whispers.

  But her grandmother just looks at her calmly, with eyes shining in the dark, young and alert, almost like Klara remembers them from before that terrible autumn.

  ‘We got you, Klara,’ Grandma answers calmly. ‘We lost your mother. But we got you. It’s more than anyone could have hoped for.’

  Now Maj and Roland’s car is pulling up outside; she can hear Grandma’s sister opening the car door.

  ‘You know, your grandpa would never forgive himself if he knew it was his fault you ended up playing Devil’s Bridge with a bunch of old fogeys in Bottna.’

  Klara smiles weakly. ‘Maybe,’ she says.

  ‘Maybe?’ Grandma laughs. ‘All he wanted was for you to live your own life, Klara. Just like you always did. You have no idea how proud he was, how much he bragged about you. Go to Stockholm with Gabriella. We’ll talk soon.’

  She opens the door while Klara carries her bags to the car for her.

  ‘You’re not driving to Stockholm in this weather, are you?’ Roland says, while gently placing Grandma’s bag in the trunk of his ancient Audi.

  ‘I think that’s the plan,’ Klara says.

  ‘It’s out of the question,’ Maj says. ‘I’ll call the hostel, and they’ll fix a room for you. It’ll take twenty minutes just to get to Bottna in this sleet.’

  ‘Is the hostel even open this time of year?’ Klara says.

  ‘Believe me,’ Maj says. ‘If we ask Gertrud to fix a room for you, you can be sure she will.’

  Grandma gives Klara a final hug then climbs into the back seat. ‘Promise me you won’t drive to Stockholm now,’ she says. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  Roland does a careful U-turn on the now completely snow-packed parking lot and slowly rolls on towards the highway. It’s been snowing so heavily that you can only barely make out the tyre tracks of the other cars. Klara turns around and looks up at the illuminated facade of the newer, bigger nineteenth-century church. She feels a kind of relief, something close to freedom. The funeral is over. Grandma is with her sister. Maybe she can go to Stockholm with Gabriella without feeling guilty.

  She starts to go back to the parish house, but something in the twilight makes her start, freezes her in her tracks. Slowly, she turns back to the parking lot, not sure what exactly it was that stopped her. There’s the church, quiet with a gentle creamy white in the slight illumination of its walls. The snow is falling down in sheets in the grey light in front of her. All the tyre tracks you can still see lead out towards Highway 210, of course – it’s the only way out of here.

  All but one.

  She turns her head towards the forest and the gravel road that leads down to the sea and a small campsite. And there they are, the tracks of a pair of tyres heading around the curve and disappearing. They can’t be old, or the snow would have covered them. Someone drove down there after the funeral. But who would drive to a closed campsite in a snowstorm?

  Klara shrugs her shoulders and shakes off the snow, burie
s her paranoia, or whatever it is. This is Grandpa’s funeral; she doesn’t have the energy to think of more than that.

  12 August

  Beirut

  A week goes by. Jacob learns how to get to the temporary embassy using service, the confusing blend of taxi and bus that’s the only cheap way to get around in Beirut. He stumbles through Arabic phrases and after getting a few quick tips from Agneta, he won’t be fooled by taxi drivers again.

  For the most part, it’s just him and Agneta at the embassy. The rest of the small staff is in Stockholm or on other trips or at meetings.

  ‘It’s so stressful and chaotic right now,’ Frida, a young deputy secretary, tells him one afternoon, sitting on the edge of her desk in the corner.

  Her blonde hair has dark roots that need dyeing, and the furrow on her forehead speaks to how stressful things have been for a while, maybe her whole life.

  ‘It’s not clear what’s going to happen to this embassy anyway, and I’m sorry you ended up assigned here right now. But we’ll find something useful for you to do, I’m sure.’ She nods encouragingly towards his desk. ‘In any case, you certainly seem quick and competent,’ she says, smiling tiredly, before taking off for the airport and a conference in Ankara.

  Quick and competent! Jacob can live on that for almost twenty-four hours. There is hope. Everyone is busy right now, but his time will come when things calm down a little. Agneta has given him a couple of books about Lebanon, but he can hardly stay awake when he tries to read them. All he does is check his phone, waiting for Yassim’s call and avoiding Simon’s increasingly cold messages.

  Yassim. The night in the garden won’t leave him alone, his frustration and anticipation and the electricity of it all, and that’s what he’s thinking about as he sits at his Scandinavian-style desk of blonde-coloured wood, beneath a filthy window that overlooks a dirty, trash-filled backyard.