Lillemor looks like an uninvited guest, she can’t decide whether to stand still or move about, speak or hold her silence. She’s wearing baggy trousers, a glittering shawl, and a plush jumper from Vamlingbolaget. She smells heavily of perfume. Sven comes in half a minute later and almost trips on the threshold. He holds out his hands in the air in front of him and says: I’ll keep my distance, I can’t shake hands, I’ve got a cold, I don’t want you to catch it. He strides in wearing his walking boots and almost falls over the shoe shelf. Sven, hisses Lillemor. He stops abruptly and looks around. Lillemor shakes her head and points at his boots. He looks down at them, then at me. I’m so sorry, he says. No harm done, Sven, I reply. He unlaces his boots and makes another attempt to enter the flat, mumbling something, opens the first door on the left in the hall and steps into the cleaning cupboard, turns around, clears his throat and opens the next door, peers inside, and says: Oh right, here’s the toilet. Lillemor sits on the sofa. For the third time since she came in she rubs Alco-Gel into her hands, she’s brought her own little bottle in her handbag. Where’s Livia? she asks. Here, I say, pulling the basket closer to the sofa. As Lillemor cranes her neck and peers down, her stone-pale face seems to relax and acquire a touch of colour. I put coffee and some Marie biscuits out on a tray in the kitchen. Sven emerges from the toilet and stands by the sofa with his arms behind his back. He observes Livia for a while and then sits as far from her as he can. I’ll keep my distance, he says, probably best. Lillemor has brought some baby clothes in two paper bags. Most of this was given to us, not least from Jonna, she says, taking out the garments one by one and holding them up for inspection. I can give them back if you don’t want them, that’s not a problem, but they are quite sweet, she adds. Thanks, it’s just that I have such an insane amount of clothes. I have three sacks here, everyone sends me clothes. I haven’t even had time to look at them, and then I get messages asking whether I got the clothes. Yes, of course, she says. Extra clothes are always handy, just put them there, thanks Lillemor, I say. It’s Jonna you should thank, she says and continues: I was thinking it might be good if she had an overall when she’s out in the pram. Absolutely, thank you, I say. Do you want milk, darling? asks Sven, who’s leaning over the little sofa table. Lillemor purses her lips, sighs deeply, and asks: How long have we been married? Sven starts laughing and answers: Darling. Lillemor looks at me and says: I’ve never taken milk in my coffee but Sven has always taken milk in his. I know, I say, either way I don’t have any milk at home, but I could offer you some formula. Sven inhales, fills his chest, blows on his coffee, and answers: Thanks, but I’ll say no to that. I was only joking, Sven, I say. Uh-huh, well, he says. Lillemor puts the clothes back in the paper bags. She has brought a copy of Dagens Nyheter. She opens the newspaper at a page marked with a Post-it note and asks: Did you see this, well I expect you did, of course, but did you get an actual copy of the newspaper? I didn’t, but Mum saved it for me, I can’t look at it now, I answer. That’s quite understandable, she says. We agreed on the formatting of the death notice last week at the undertaker’s. At the top we decided on the silhouette of a flying swift. In the summers, last year’s swifts used to return to the same spots under the roof-tiles of Sven and Lillemor’s house on Gotland to build new nests. Karin and I had spent our summers there since 2004. The association between Karin and swifts was nothing more elaborate than that she liked the chirping of their chicks and was fascinated by the ability of adult swifts to sleep in the air, borne by the winds.
Lillemor picks up a notepad, puts it on the sofa table and, without looking up, asks: Can we agree on plot 64 on block 5? Sven brushes biscuit crumbs from his shirt, apologises, and tries to collect every crumb from the floor, his hands scuttling along like crab claws. Leave it, Sven, I’ll go over it with the Hoover later, I say, and turn to Lillemor. But haven’t we already decided that? I say. I just wanted to make sure, she says. Fine, says Sven. The headstone will be made of limestone from Gotland, it will be placed in an upright position towards the fields and the bay, Kyrkviken. At first, Lillemor and I decided on block 4 and plot 350 next to a woman artist with a millstone as her memorial mark, just next to the gravel path. But the following day we changed our minds and I wandered down to the churchyard reception and explained that in fact we’d rather have block 5 and plot number 64, explaining that there were a lot of ostentatious stones around plot 350, and that the family of the woman artist had laid claim to more than the regulatory 120 centimetres, and we had no desire to engage in conflict about their ferns. Plot 64 on block 5 is positioned in the central row of discreet gravestones on a slope. The spot gets sun from morning to evening. Lime trees and oaks line the raked gravel paths, also Reeves spiraea, cotoneaster, and various cherry trees, and the masts from the small harbour are visible from there. For the time being there’ll be a wooden board, says Sven. When will the stone be ready? I ask. Towards the summer, they thought, they have to break the stone first and then cut it to size, he answers. I suppose there’s no rush about it, I say. No, I don’t suppose there is, he says and looks at Lillemor. It’ll be a relief if it’s done by the summer, I have a feeling this may be fairly prolonged, I want the stone finished before we go to Gotland, she says. Yes, darling, answers Sven. That wooden board is horrible, she adds. I don’t know if I agree with you there, answers Sven. Lillemor slides the tip of the pen over her pad and says: Well, anyway, can we all agree that we don’t want a coffin shroud? The coffin is beautiful just as it is, answers Sven. I was asking Tom, she says. Oh, sorry. We’ve already had time to talk through this, she points out. Yes, darling, he says. She coughs and splutters into the crook of her arm, and then says at last: Sorry, I got something stuck in my throat, well, maybe I’m odd or something, I couldn’t stop thinking about how maybe it would get so hot in the coffin if there was a thick shroud on top of it. No shroud, I say. Very good, and what do you think about the music in the church? she asks. I have no particular wishes, the psalms and songs you emailed me look fine, but I have been looking in Karin’s computer, this year she’s been listening a lot to Bist du bei mir. Oh really, Lillemor bursts out. Can you see that from her computer? asks Sven. Yes, there are statistics, I mean she had music on the computer, it would be nice to include a piece that she liked while she was pregnant, I say. Could I just have a listen to it, not that I’m opposing the idea? says Sven. Absolutely, I’ll just get it, I answer, and then I connect Karin’s computer to the speakers: I read that it’s popular both for weddings and funerals, I say. It’s Aafje Heynis singing, Bist du bei mir, geh ich mit Freuden zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh. Sven pats Lillemor on her lower arm, she stands up and shakes her head, then goes into the hall and stands with her back to us, her arms held as if she’s pressing her wrists over her mouth. Sven is about to get up and rush over to her, when she says: I have been thinking a lot about Karin’s jewellery. Sven leans back. She takes a scrunched-up tissue from her pocket and sits down on the sofa again. Some of her jewellery we gave to her, and some of it came from her grandmother, my mother, she says and peers at one of the speakers while adding: It’s beautiful, Karin had such lovely taste. She presses the tissue against her upper lip. I know that Karin got a silver ring set with a malachite from her grandmother, she says. Wouldn’t it be nice if Livia could have that when she grows up, though? I think Lillemor just means that she’d like to borrow them, says Sven, and Lillemor interjects: Yes, I don’t want to take them, they belong to Livia, I just thought it could be good if I wrote down where they come from, it’s something that might be interesting to know, jewellery is lost so easily, a few of the pieces are quite valuable. Karin’s jewellery case is in the corner, I haven’t even had time to look at it, I mean some of the jewellery I bought her myself, I answer. I was mainly thinking about the jewellery she inherited, says Lillemor. You want me to go and get it now, or…? I ask. Tom, what was the name again of the song you just played? Sven interrupts and looks at both me and Lillemor with a sense of calm that I recognise from Karin. Bist
du bei mir, Karin particularly liked Heynis’s voice, I answer. It’s a lovely piece of music, says Sven.
* * *
—
The woman from the Tax Department has a piercing voice. The line hisses and crunches between each sentence. I can’t answer for what the Social Services sent you, it must have been done before the name was registered, she says. They’re calling my daughter ‘infant girl Unknown Lagerlöf’, I point out. I am not familiar with their procedures, in the national register she’s listed as Livia Karin Lagerlöf, she replies. But Social Security say they’re acting on the basis of information obtained from you? Yes, I suppose they are. I want my wife’s first name and surname to be my daughter’s middle names, Karin Lagerlöf should be a part of my daughter’s name, Livia Karin Lagerlöf Malmquist. Well, you were only turned down for Malmquist, she says. But why? It says ‘FC’ here. Okay, and what does that mean? I ask. Placed in care with someone else, she answers. I don’t understand, I say. It means she’s in foster care. I am Livia’s father. You weren’t married, though, as I understand it? Every time I have contact with an official body or a bank they notice that my daughter has a different surname from my own, and I have to explain, and I can’t deal with that. You weren’t married, that’s the only explanation I can give, if people aren’t married this is how it ends up, unless one can provide a fatherhood certificate, didn’t you get one of those? Isn’t it usually done after the child is born? I ask. One can also fill out the form before the birth, she explains. I took a DNA test at Karolinska, I am the father, Karin and I lived together for ten years, I have been taking care of Livia since the moment she was born, what more do you want? There has to be a court decision that you are in fact the father of the child, she answers. So, I’ve been sitting here in a phone queue for the best part of an hour and this is what the Tax Department has to say? Young man, I can’t turn back the clock and help you with your fatherhood certificate. What did you say? No, hold on a second, let me finish, the hospital reports to us that a child has been born, we register the child and give it a social security number, then we send out name forms to the child’s mother, if the mother is unmarried the child automatically takes the mother’s surname, this information is saved on our national register, and this is the information with which other authorities comply, in other words I can’t sit here and answer questions about the Swedish statute book, or questions of right and wrong. What we need now is a court decision, how this should be achieved in a practical sense I wouldn’t pretend to know. Have you spoken to someone at the City Court?
* * *
—
All the books I have not read or have read and do not want to read again I put in removals boxes. In the flyleaves of some of them are little Christmas greetings or congratulations from friends or old boyfriends of Karin’s. Two of the books she has borrowed from Hornstull Library. Doris Lessing’s The Fifth Child and Nina Bouraoui’s Nos baisers sont des adieux. They must be at least a month overdue. The library card has to be shredded, I’ll need to do that, after the funeral I have to go to Hornsbruksgatan 25 and say: Karin Lagerlöf won’t be borrowing any more books. I fetch a scouring cloth from the cupboard under the sink. The door of the guest room is closed. It sounds as if Lillemor is turning on the bed inside and leafing through a newspaper. I don’t hear Livia. I go back and clean up the mess around an over-watered and leaking Monstera, or Adam’s rib as it is also called, and in the process I almost wipe away a couple of coffee stains under Karin’s desk. She avoided caffeine during the pregnancy. So the coffee stains must be older than 26 August 2011, Karin’s thirty-fifth birthday, the same morning that she put aside the champagne from Reims and came back with a Clearblue digital pregnancy test indicating that she was pregnant, in her second or third week. I save the stains, photograph them, then go and get Karin’s coffee cup from the corner cabinet, in fact it’s an antique teacup from Gefle porcelain factory with a gold rim and a crinkled surface. I sit on Karin’s chair and try to imagine her writing on her laptop and spilling the coffee. She must have been bringing a full-to-the-brim cup towards her while at the same time twisting towards the bookshelf. On the edge of the shelf I see an A4 sheet with transparent tape on it. Karin’s slightly slanted handwriting in green felt-tip:
TO BE PURCHASED BEFORE MAY
Pram
Changing table
Cot
Sheets
Pillow
Duvet
Raincover or parasol for pram?
Nappy bag
Sling?
Babybjörn
Car seat Bathing oil
Hat
Comfy trousers
Cardigan
Jumper, warm
Overall
Socks
Babygros
* * *
—
At the top of the bag the nurse from AHACHC brought is a black cotton slip from H&M. It can’t be Karin’s, they cut up her slip in Room B at CIC. I don’t even recognise the scent. Karin’s used slips and jumpers smell a bit of cedar from her Palmolive deodorant, now and then they smell of one of her perfumes, DKNY, Carolina Herrera, Yves Saint Laurent, Elizabeth Arden, Clean Fresh Laundry, sometimes a bit of lavender, but above all a smell of Karin, her skin, her sweat. The slip isn’t hers. I fold it up and put it in a bin bag. Also inside are two laminated sheets, fifteen by fifteen centimetres. Livia’s nameplate with a guardian angel on it, and a cast of Livia’s right foot and hand, in a corner it says ‘25th March’. Both used to hang on the side panel of the incubator. I go to bed and turn out the lights, but turn them back on after half an hour of brooding. On Karin’s desk is a framed postcard. She’s had it a long time, since Metargatan. A copperplate in Romantic style. An angel with a young woman in his arms is rising into a blaze of heavenly light. It resembles Wilhelm von Kaulbach’s painting Schutzengel but it is darker, more wistful. In the background is an ocean reaching to the horizon. Foaming, breaking waves. On a black rock lies a curled-up man.
* * *
—
Not until early spring 2003 does Karin tell me she has been collecting angels. Angels in porcelain, wood, plaster, and filigree. Angels on stamps and mugs. She sits on her bed, and I on the sofa opposite, we have sat like this so many times that I recognise every knot in the floorboards between us. I have never seen Karin intoxicated before. Only her earlobes seem different, they’re flushed, and she peers into her cleavage every now and then when she isn’t speaking. She pokes her finger into her wine glass and removes a little speck.
Have you seen Angels in America? she asks, pressing her weight against the wall.
The one about the gay couple?
Have you seen the play? she asks.
I didn’t know there was a play, the series was fucking brilliant.
I saw it performed here in Stockholm, they had an angel flying over the audience on some kind of cable, it was really dramatic.
Is that what made you collect them?
No, I only just remembered when you asked about the angel in the bathroom.
Are you religious?
I just collected them.
I had a period when I was collecting porcelain pigs.
Really?
I’m not collecting them any more, I add.
She laughs without making a sound. I was totally potty about angels, my friends must have thought I was ridiculous, I had an angel made of papier mâché hanging from the ceiling up there, she says, pointing to a hook above me, and then goes on: I always got angel stuff when people gave me presents, that one for instance. She looks over at the bedside table. There’s an angel on the tin I keep my earplugs in, she explains.
Okay.
I got rid of most of them. Angels are fascinating, they’re beautiful and they have something wistful about them, but actually it was quite hard work surrounding yourself with them. I had a double-edged relationship to them, I grew up in an atheist home, my mother is a philosophy teacher, my father’s a psychoanalyst, basically just a psych
iatrist.
Must you be an atheist if you’re a philosophy teacher and a psychoanalyst-psychiatrist? I ask.
That’s mad, why did I tell you that?
Maybe they had good arguments against the existence of angels?
I’m an atheist myself, she emphasises.
You sound more like an agnostic, I say.
No, I’m an atheist, or I don’t know, or no, I am an atheist, at least I think so.
An atheist believer?
Yes, that’s mad, I feel drunk, she says.
My mother went to evening classes, Dad started working when he was sixteen, I think both have some kind of faith. Dad wears a crucifix around his neck, Mum gave it to him on his thirtieth birthday, anyway, I think I got my academic hang-ups from them, I have a difficult time with academics, I hate them.
But aren’t you an academic yourself? she asks.
No, I’m not.
You’re such a loon, she says.
I was all over the place at school, I went to special needs classes, I didn’t give a shit about school, I still feel like a hockey player even though I stopped playing when I was sixteen.
Oh, you played hockey? she exclaims.
Yeah, I was a so-called hockey prospect.
Uh-huh, well I didn’t know that. God, I have a hard time imagining that, did you just stop?
Yeah, more or less, I answer. Porcelain pig collecting took over, did it? Absolutely, but actually no, I didn’t have the grades to get into university, I nagged my way onto a course and lied a bit. Karin laughs and before she has time to ask me about it, I say: So why did you stop collecting the angels? She thinks for a moment, stands up, and goes to get a glass of water.
In Every Moment We Are Still Alive Page 12
