In Every Moment We Are Still Alive

by Tom Malmquist

  Room 404 has a small vestibule with a large mirror, and a toilet with a shower to the left. Mum sits in an armchair in one corner of the room. She stands up. Two hospital beds, Dad lies in the one closest to the door. His eyes are closed but swollen, they bulge underneath the skin. His mouth is open, his teeth brown. Mum kisses Livia’s head and goes up to the bed. Thomas, Tom is here now, she says. He opens his eyes wide and turns his head until he sees me. He raises his hand. So, you’re happy now that Tom came, aren’t you? says Mum and turns towards me. He’s been nagging ever since he got here about when you’re coming. Dad, I came as quick as I could, it was hard getting a ticket home, how are things with you? He makes a rocking motion with his hand. It’s up and down, he’s been tired today, says Mum and pats him on the leg. He clears his throat and puffs. Thomas, Livia is here as well, says Mum. He gives her a thumbs up. Does he have to share the room with anyone else? I ask. No, we’re the only ones here, she answers. I have such a fucking headache, is there anywhere one can have a coffee around here? I ask. Do you want an Alvedon? I’ve already taken a paracetamol and ibuprofen, it doesn’t help, I just need caffeine now. There’s a coffee machine outside, I can go with you. She blows her nose and pokes about with the handkerchief in her nostrils. Standing by the coffee machine, she kisses Livia again on the head and says: You didn’t come with her like this, did you? Mum, it’s summer. Is your headache that bad? Don’t think about it now. You do have a bit of a background, Dad has his cluster headaches and I have my migraines. It’s caused by other things, I say. You’re not drinking, are you? Mum, please! Her face wrinkles up, her nose and one cheekbone have burned in the sun, I have the same type of skin as Mum, I also turn red in the sun, unlike Dad and his Walloon pigmentation. She scrutinises me, points out that my shoes are filthy and that I have a hole in my jeans, then says in a low voice: I haven’t told him it’s over, do you think I should have? I think so, I answer. Laila told me that Patrik’s dad felt such anguish when he found out, I don’t want to inflict that on your father, she adds. Is Laila your advisor? It’s not about Laila, it’s about your father. I think it’s essential to be honest, but do whatever you think is best. But he doesn’t ask. Maybe don’t force it on him, but if he asks I think you should be direct. I don’t know, it’s so hard, I don’t think he wants to know, she says, squeezing the locket on her necklace. On one side is a photo of Dad from their wedding at Huddinge Town Hall in June 1977, while the other side holds a picture of the family’s spindly and long-since dead mongrel cat. Many years ago Mum had a picture there of herself, but she removed it. She has never felt comfortable with photos of herself, just as she’s never enjoyed the least bit of attention. As a child I liked how Mum kept the wedding photos in her locket. It was as if they kissed every time the locket was snapped shut and the pictures joined. I was going to do a bit of shopping, she says, and looks around, adding quickly: He doesn’t read the newspapers anyway, but he still wants a copy of Expressen on his belly, will you stay with him? That’s why I’m here, Mum. Moments later I have to call out to her: Mum, hello, the exit is that way, isn’t it, to the right? She looks confusedly in all directions.

  I put Livia in the bed next to Dad. He’s torpid from the morphine. A catheter runs from the back of his hand to a drip-stand. I wish he’d say something. A couple of well-chosen words from the dying father to his son. He says nothing. Me neither. I take his hands in mine. He looks uncomfortable about it. But I don’t let go of them. His dry, greyish yellow hands covered in hair like smudged printer’s ink chafe against my skin with the same curious heat as those paper bags I used to carry about in my childhood. Their handles and weight gave me sores on my palms. Usually I had ten paper carrier bags lined up in the garage by the souterrain house on Björkängsvägen, filled with the week’s newspapers: Expressen, Aftonbladet, Dagens Nyheter, Svenska Dagbladet, Eskilstuna-Kuriren, Sydsvenska Dagbladet, and a load of sports magazines. At the recycling centre in Årsta we lifted the bags out of the car and lugged them up to a high ramp, then tipped them into a bulk container. Dad lit a Marlboro Red right by a big ‘No Smoking’ sign. He looked down into the jumble and said: So much goddamn work went into that, all the trips, accreditations, interviews, conversations, pictures, articles, checking, editing text at night, soon there’ll be nothing left of it but a lot of shit-smelling porridge.

  * * *

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  Hello, Karl, you’re looking more sprightly today, I see. Dad clears his throat and replies to the nurse: I want to smoke with my son. His name’s Thomas, I add, Karl is his second name. The nurse stops, his bulky torso bulging out of his light blue uniform shirt. He gets out a bit of paper from his pocket, unfolds it, reads, and says: Yes, it’s Thomas, you’re right. Thanks, terribly good of you to admit it, says Dad. With his Södermanland dialect, his hissing voice, and his rejoinders at once snappy and poisonous, he brings to mind an aged spitting cobra. The nurse sniggers and starts fiddling to get the braces of the patient lift under Dad’s legs. If you keep looking a bit longer you might find something really exciting there, says Dad. Yeah, that’s right, no, I’m trying to find the attachments, I have a back problem, I don’t have the strength to lift you, he says. I can lift him, I say. This will be fine, he answers and fixes a couple of braces. Dad is hoisted up by a motor on the ceiling and he stays suspended in a seated position half a metre above the bed while the nurse leaves the room. Some of them have the odd brain cell, and some don’t have any at all, says Dad. I suppose he got stressed, I say. Yeah, but what the hell, just leaving me here hanging, he’s so muddled he makes people on the Disability Job Scheme look like a bunch of geniuses. Shit, Dad. What the hell, leaving me here, hanging? Isn’t he a bit like Krutov? I ask. Who, that one who was just here? Yeah, I think so, something about his eyes, his cheeks. It hadn’t come to mind but now you say it…Krutov was not muddled, that’s for sure. Didn’t he finish off his career at Brunflo Hockey Club? I ask. He had such problems with his weight, it was the end for him, he ate everything, even his own career. What about you, are you eating? I ask. He shrugs. The nurse comes back with a wheelchair and Dad looks at me and says: Krutov. I quickly turn to Livia. She’s fallen asleep with her arms around a pillow. Dad breaks wind as he’s being lowered into the wheelchair. Whoops, says the nurse. Dad shakes his head. It’s natural, adds the nurse. Is it? Dad exclaims. Yes, he says. Sitting semi-naked in a chair lift, farting? I interrupt Dad and ask him where he put his pack of cigarettes.

  Dad guides me through the corridors with terse commands: No, yes, good. He’s afraid of heights. As a child I got to change the bulbs in the ceiling lights because he didn’t dare get up on a stool, he was so at a loss, he was deeply impressed whenever I managed to get them back on. I park the wheelchair against the wall of the long, open balcony, which my father refers to as ‘the smoking gallery’. I lean against the railing. On the right is St Göran’s College, a modernist building constructed of toughened glass, concrete, and steel. In the distance I can see Dad’s old workplace, the skyscraper belonging to Expressen and Dagens Nyheter. Don’t stand so near the edge, Dad hollers. She’s attached, I say, tugging at the locked buckles of the sling. What difference will that make if you fall? he says. I help Dad light his cigarette and step a short distance from him. Livia sucks and gnaws at the dummy string. Dad’s arms are so scrawny that the gold-coloured wristwatch he bought in the Caribbean in the nineties is strapped to his upper arm to stop it sliding off. He peers at me and says: What are those trees down there, are they poplars? Poplars? Well, I don’t know, he says. Don’t you see, Leonor, the river poplars with their stiff branches? I answer. Have you been drinking? he asks. Not a drop since March, I answer. That’s good, he says. It’s from a poem, Antonio Machado, he wrote it after his wife, Leonor, died, I explain. Oh, if you say so. She died young, I point out. I can’t make any sense of poems like that. Who can? I answer. Why are you reading them, then? he asks. I really don’t know, I say. Maybe you should have a glass of something with Krutov in there? Yeah, m
aybe I should. I like song lyrics, but they have to have a beginning, a middle, and an end, I mean your old lady was a bit sceptical about my wanting to name you after Tom T. Hall, then she listened to his lyrics, well, as I said: a beginning, middle, and end. He moves his left hand across his thigh and goes on, as if thinking aloud: A double gin, a slice of lemon, some bottled tonic, and ice. Shall I fix you one? I ask. No, he exclaims. It’s easily done. No, sit down, I don’t want one. Okay, as you wish, I say. Ice Man and Tommy Engstrand were here for a while yesterday, they brought the newspapers, I mean we meet twice a year for dinner, he says. Who is Borg to you, Dad? What do you mean, who is he? You often talk about him, who is he for you? Ice Man is legendary, he’s the greatest one we’ve had, he answers, looking at me with a touch of irritation when I start laughing. Go on, you tell me then, he adds. I can’t, but I can tell you who Borg is for me, he’s a guy who can’t write his own stuff. You’ve hung him out to dry there a bit, be careful what you say, he answers. That’s how it is, I look up to you more for what you’ve written than him for his tennis. Dad crosses his arms and answers: When I was a kid I was very good at mental arithmetic. Uh-huh, is that in relation to what I was just saying, or what? No, just for the sake of saying it. I always have a feeling there’s a subtext to what you say, some little jibe that I’m too dumb to pick up on, I reply. Stupid you’ve never been, but your temperament contributes to the greenhouse effect. You’re damn funny, Dad, you know that? He taps the ash off his cigarette and says: Mum got annoyed with Ammi the other day. Uh-huh, okay, what was that all about, then? I ask. I mean, when I say annoyed, Mum never says anything, but Ammi was sitting here with Börje and Hans and Harriet, talking about the parties they were going to and the trips they were planning. Yeah, I understand, yeah, it’s not easy, she didn’t mean any harm by it, but it sounds a bit self-centred, I suppose she’s always been one to open her mouth without thinking. Don’t say anything to Börje, says Dad. Why would I tell Börje? You can say whatever you like, whenever, he answers and I laugh. A lot of people can’t stand situations like this, they don’t know what to say, or what to do with themselves, I’ve heard that Laila’s been a real rock, I say. Yup, say what you like about Laila, she’s a right old suburban bag, but she’s good to Mum. Laila must have been about my age when Sten passed away? She was older than you, says Dad. Yeah, but she was left on her own to take care of two children. They were grown up, they weren’t even living at home any more, he points out. Okay, whatever, my point is that to have the courage to meet someone in a difficult situation you must probably have some experience of death. Do you remember Boanäs? he says. Yeah, of course I do, I reply. It was always raining and if it wasn’t raining the mosquitoes were swarming, he says. I have a great photo of you and Börje and Hans from Boanäs times, you’re standing in a rowing boat, poor old sods, and then I worked out that you were actually about my own age when that picture was taken. Dad chuckles and answers: Mainly we just rowed out to get some peace, I guess we were moderately interested in the fishing. It’s not for nothing that we used to call those weekends the Boanäs Race, fifteen grown-ups and twenty snotty kids sharing an outside latrine, well, you’ll remember it of course, but we had fun, we caught a pike now and then, Christina minced it and made heavenly pike balls, and then the country music, the stereo was always on from morning till night, ‘If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me Her Memory Will’ and songs like that, it was classic, the parties we had, and the ladder up to the attic, remember that? Yes, I do, I answer. I mean the way everyone slept up in that attic, it was a nightmare going to bed, that ladder was slippery as hell, and I was drunk of course, and afraid of heights, and then there was that ladder to climb, carefully and without drawing too much attention to yourself, and then, wham, you and all the other kids would be standing there in your pyjamas, pointing, yeah, thank God that’s over. I miss Boanäs sometimes, I answer. Dad chews on his cigarette and says: I was married once before. What? It’s many years ago now. Okay, I answer. A Finnish photo model, and a nymphomaniac to boot, she wanted to do it everywhere, I was too old for it already then, I told Börje while I was walking out of the church: This won’t last longer than a week. Is that true? Yeah, and I was almost right, it lasted three weeks. So why did you get married, then? I ask. You should know, though, Mum is superior to them all. Have you told her that? Yes, he answers, gazing out towards Mariebergsgatan. How are you, Dad? I ask. I’ve sat next to tough blokes with a lot of money who’ve said, a hundred grand on the next car being white. If you do that you have too much money, I reply. You can gamble on anything. I guess so. What colour will the next car be? he asks, then goes on: How much are you staking on it? I’m the bank, a very friendly bank, ten times your money back if you’re right? Livia and I are throwing in a million kronor, red, I answer. Dad peers at the street. Grey, he exclaims, sorry, kid, you just lost your flat, lucky it wasn’t for real.

  What are you thinking about, Dad? I ask. Nothing special, he answers, then asks me to light him another cigarette. It’s so blustery that he has to cup his hands around the lighter. Who’s taking care of Bosse? I ask. Falken, he answers. How’s Falken these days, then? He was here this morning, he says. Is he still coaching some team or has he stopped completely now? I ask. He’s watching the telly and eating egg sandwiches, says Dad. Glowing embers are flying all round his head. Are you tired, Dad? I ask. Mum doesn’t know that I know, he says. Know what? Why I’m here, he says. No, Mum doesn’t want to tell you too much. It’s finito, he says, nodding at me. Yes, it is, I answer. He looks down at Livia, who’s playing with my hand. You’re good with her, he says. Thanks, Dad, and yes, I am. He breathes smoke through his nose and adds: All you can do is fall to pieces and then come back. Yeah, maybe, I answer. He looks down at my hands again. Tom T., he says. Yes, Dad? When you were small you liked to sit on my lap and tickle your palm on my shirt collar.

  * * *

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  Klockarvägen 10 in Huddinge. Four floors up. A rocky outcrop is visible behind the apartment building. I also catch a glimpse of the industrial estate and the red brick of Huddinge Centre. Everything is covered in a layer of coldness. High above hang two parallel streaks of vapour from an aircraft. It’s the first public holiday falling on March 2002 and the Public Early-Warning and Information System is being tested. Sirens are blaring everywhere. They make me shudder, I have to check the time and date to make sure that no nuclear power station has blown up or some other disaster has taken place. The sirens also activate something else inside of me. A sort of Pavlovian response, whereby I immediately start worrying about my future. This afternoon I am worrying more than usual. I am no longer in touch with Ellie, the relationship is over. My university education in literature and philosophy is also over, a four-year course that was vaguely entertaining but meaningless.

  Only Dad and I are in the flat. Mum is at the theatre with colleagues from the council-owned Huge Property AB, whose flats she lets. Dad is wearing his greyish yellow chinos and the white T-shirt with the wasp emblem of Expressen. Neither fits him any more. Nor does he wear them with ease. The clothes have become too heavy, washed too many times and worn out, as if he’s taken refuge in them. It’s been a long time since Dad and I last saw each other one-to-one; in all my time in Uppsala I only saw him sporadically. He sits in the mint-green leather armchair by the matching settee. It’s an off-putting colour, at least for a suite. It’s cursing and yelling at all the other colours and sofa suites in the world. Not least at the more discreet colours picked by my mother. Dad bought the sofa in the early nineties and attributes enormous and immodest value to it. On the table made of glass and cherry wood stands a ceramic jug which he continuously tops up from a wine box of red Castillo de Gredos.