Never Fuck Up sn-2

by Jens Lapidus

  At the welcome desk, they didn’t even slide back the glass partition for him. He had to lean forward to reach the mike.

  “Hey, hi. I’m supposed to see Erika Ewaldsson. Ten minutes ago.”

  “Okay, if you’ll have a seat she’ll be with you shortly.”

  He sat down in the waiting room. Why did they always make him wait? They acted like the screws in the slammer. Power-hungry humiliation experts: fags.

  He eyed the worthless magazines and papers. Dagens Nyheter, Café, and Gracious Home. Grinned to himself: What clowns would show up at the parole office and read Gracious Home?

  Then he heard Erika’s voice.

  “Hi, Mahmud. Glad you made it. Almost on time, in fact.”

  Mahmud glanced up. Erika looked the way she usually did. Yellow pants and a brownish poncho thing up top. She wasn’t exactly thin—her ass was as wide as Saudi Arabia. She had green eyes and wore a thin gold cross around her neck. Damn, there was that metal taste in his mouth again.

  Mahmud followed Erika to her office. Inside, the blinds created a striped light. Posters on the walls. A desk piled with papers, binders, and plastic folders. How many homies did she hassle, anyway?

  Two armchairs. A small round table between them. The fabric on the chairs was pilling. He leaned back.

  “So, Mahmud, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. It’s all good.”

  “Great. How’s your dad? Beshar, that’s his name, right?”

  Mahmud still lived at home. It sucked, but racist landlords were real skeptical toward a prison blatte.

  “He’s good too. It’s not exactly perfect, living there. But it’ll be fine.” Mahmud wanted to tone down the problem. “I’m applying for jobs. Had two interviews this week.”

  “Wow, that’s great! Any offers?”

  “No, they said they’d get back to me. That’s what they always say.”

  Mahmud thought about the latest interview. He’d purposely gone wearing only a tank top. The tattoos piled up. The text: Only trust yourself on one arm and Alby Forever on the other. The ink spoke its own aggressive language: If there’s trouble—you’ll get in deep. Watch yourself.

  When would she understand? He wasn’t gonna let a job rob him of his freedom. He wasn’t made for a nine-to-five life; he’d known that since he came to Sweden as a kid.

  She studied him. For too long.

  “What happened to your cheek?”

  Wrong question. Gürhan’s slap wouldn’t ordinarily’ve busted his cheek—but the dude’d worn a massive signet ring. Had torn up half his face. The cut was covered with surgical tape. What was he gonna say?

  “Nothing. Sparred a little with a buddy. You know.”

  Not the world’s best excuse, but maybe she’d fall for it.

  Erika seemed to be considering him. Mahmud tried to look out through the blinds. Look unaffected.

  “I hope there’s no trouble, Mahmud. If there is, you can tell me. I can help you, you know.”

  Mahmud thought, Yeah, sure you can help me. Irony overload.

  Erika dropped the subject. Droned on. Told him about a job-application project that the jobmarketpreparationunemploymentinsuranceoffice, or something like that, was running. For guys like him. Mahmud deflected her attention. Had years of training. All the talk with school counselors, meetings with social-service bitches, and interrogations with cops’d paid off. Mahmud: expert of experts at shutting his ears when the situation required it—and at managing to still look interested.

  Erika kept talking. Blah, blah, blah. Sooooo slow.

  “Mahmud, aren’t you interested in doing something related to physical fitness? You work out a lot. We’ve talked about that before. How’s that going, by the way?”

  “Yeah, it’s going good. I like the gym.”

  “And you never feel tempted to do that—you know what I mean?”

  Mahmud knew what she meant. Erika brought it up every single time. He just had to smile and take it.

  “No, Erika, I’ve stopped with that. We’ve talked about that hundreds of times. Fat-free chicken, tuna, and protein shakes work just as good. I don’t need illegal stuff anymore.”

  Unclear if she was actually listening to what he said. She was writing something down.

  “May I ask you a question? Who do you spend time with during the day?”

  The meeting was dragging on too long. The point of this shit: short talks so that he could air the problems free life created. But he couldn’t let slip about the real problem.

  “I hang out with the guys at the gym a lot. They’re chill.”

  “How often are you there?”

  “I’m serious about it. Two sessions a day. One before lunch, not too many people there then. And I do another session later at night, around ten.”

  Erika nodded. Kept talking. Would this never end?

  “And how are your sisters doing?”

  His sisters were holy, part of his dignity. No matter what punishment Swedish society came up with, nothing could stop him from protecting them. Was Erika questioning something about his sisters?

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, do you see her—your older sister? Isn’t her man doing time?”

  “Erika, we gotta be clear about one thing. My sisters’ve got nothing to do with the crap I’ve done. They’re white as snow, innocent as lambs. You follow? My older sister’s starting a new life. Getting married and stuff.”

  Silence.

  Was Erika gonna get whiny now?

  “But Mahmud, I didn’t mean anything. You have to understand that. It’s just important to me that you see her and your family. When you’re released from a penitentiary it often helps to be in touch with stable people in your environment. I’ve been under the impression that your relationship with your sisters is very good, that’s all.”

  She made a quick pause, eyed him. Was she checking out the mark from Gürhan’s slap again? He sought her gaze. After a while, she put her hands in her lap.

  “All right, I think we’re done for today. Here, take this pamphlet about the Labor Market Board’s project I was telling you about before. Their offices are in Hägersten and I really think they might be able to help you. They’ve got courses in how to succeed at job interviews, stuff like that. It could make you a stronger candidate.”

  Out on the street. Still hungry. Irritated. Into the 7-Eleven by the entrance to the subway station. Bought an orange soda and two power bars. They crumbled against the roof of his mouth. He thought about Erika’s annoying questions.

  His phone rang. Unlisted number.

  “Yeah.”

  The voice on the other end: “Is this Mahmud al-Askori?”

  Mahmud wondered who it was. Someone who didn’t introduce himself. Shadyish.

  “Yeah. And what do you want?”

  “My name is Stefanovic. I think we may have met at some point. I work out at Fitness Center sometimes. You’ve collaborated with us before.”

  Mahmud connected the dots: Stefanovic—the name pretty much said it all. Not exactly a nobody he had on the line. Someone who worked out at the gym, someone who sounded colder than the ice in Gürhan’s veins, someone who was Serbian. Mahmud didn’t recognize the voice. No face came to mind. But still, it could only mean one thing: One of the heavy hitters wanted to talk to him. Either he was deeper in the shit than he’d thought, or something interesting was in the works.

  He hesitated before answering. Wasn’t Stefanovic gonna say anything else?

  Finally he said, “I recognize your name. Do you work for you-know-who?”

  “I guess you could say that. We’d really like to meet you. We think you can help us with something important. You’re well connected. And you’re good at what you did earlier.”

  Mahmud interrupted him.

  “I’ve got no plans on rebounding. Just so you know.”

  “Calm down. We don’t want you to do anything that you could get sent back in for. Not at all. This is something completely
different.”

  One thing was certain: this wasn’t some normal job. On the other hand: sounded like easy money.

  “Okay. Tell me more.”

  “Not now. Not on the phone. This is what we’ll do. We’ve put a ticket for Sunday in your mailbox. Get there by six and we’ll explain then. See you.”

  The Yugo hung up.

  Mahmud walked down the stairs into the subway. Took the escalator to the platform.

  He thought, Fuck no, I don’t wanna get sent back in. Low odds: the Yugos were gonna trick him into doing something stupid. But it could never hurt a pro blatte like Mahmud to meet with them. See what they wanted. How much they’d fork over.

  And more importantly: becoming the Yugos’ made man could be a way out of the shit he’d ended up in with Gürhan. He felt his mood lift. This could be the beginning of something.

  5

  Things didn’t end up the way Niklas’d planned. One day after he moved into the new apartment, Mom came over. Asked to spend the night.

  The whole point of the move was that they wouldn’t get on each other’s nerves, step too far into each other’s territory, disturb each other’s routines. But he couldn’t say no. She was scared, really scared. Had every right. She had called him on his cell while she was at work.

  “Hi Niklas, is that you?”

  “Course it’s me, Mom, you’re calling my number.”

  “Yes, but I haven’t really learned it yet. It’s so good that you’re home in Sweden now. Something terrible happened.”

  Niklas could tell by her voice that it was something out of the ordinary.

  “What?”

  “The police found a murdered person in our building. It’s so horrible. A dead person has been lying in our basement all night.”

  Niklas froze. His thoughts sharpened. At the same time: they turned upside down. This was not good.

  “That sounds totally crazy, Mom. What’re they saying?”

  “Who? The neighbors?”

  “No, the police.”

  “They’re not saying anything. I was standing outside half the night, freezing. We all did. Berit Vasquéz was totally broken up.”

  “Damn, that’s terrible. But did you speak more with the police?”

  “I’m going in for questioning after work today. But I’m afraid to sleep at home alone tonight. Can I stay with you?”

  Not at all what he’d planned. This wasn’t good.

  “Of course. I’ll sleep on a mattress or a bedroll. Why did you go to work today? You should call in sick for a few days.”

  “No, I can’t. And I want to get out of the house, too. It feels good to be at work.”

  A question in Niklas’s head. He had to ask her.

  “Do they know who the murdered person was?”

  “The police didn’t say anything about it. I don’t know, anyway. They haven’t said anything. Can I come after work?”

  He said that was fine. Explained how to get there. Sighed inside.

  Niklas put on his shorts and T-shirt: the DynCorp logo in black across the chest. He loved his gear. The runner’s socks with no seams to avoid blisters and with a drawstring on the side to hold them up. The shoes: Mizuno Wave Nirvana—nerdy name, but the best shoes the runner’s store carried.

  The first thing he’d done since he’d come home—and one of the few times he’d traveled any distance from the apartment—was to buy the shoes and the rest of the running stuff. He ran on the treadmill in the store, discussed weight and width, the affect of overpronation on his step and the arch support. A lot of people thought running was a nice sport because it was simple, cheap, no unnecessary gadgets. Not for Niklas: the gadgets made it more fun. The socks, the shorts with the extra slits to avoid chafing on the leg, the heart monitor, and, of course, the shoes. More than fifteen hundred kronor. Worth every cent. He’d already been running more than ten times since he got back. He used to run down there too sometimes, but a limited amount. If you happened to go a few yards down the wrong street, it could end in tragedy. Two British guys from his troop: found with their throats slit. Shoes stolen. Socks still warm on their feet.

  He was standing in front of the mirror strapping the heart monitor around his chest. Checked himself out. Fit. Newly sheared crew cut—you could hardly see how blond he really was. But his blue eyes gave him away. Glimpses of another face in the mirror: black streaks smeared under his eyes, greasy hair, steel gaze. Armed for battle.

  He put the heart-rate-monitor watch on last. Set it to zero. It gave him the feeling of intensity, the right tempo. And best of all, it gave instant feedback on his training.

  He stepped out. Jogged down the stairs. Opened the door. A nice day.

  Running: His method of control over loneliness. His medicine. His relaxation in the midst of the confusion over being home again.

  He started slow. Felt a mild ache in his thighs from the last run, in Örnsberg. He ran out toward the Aspudden school. A big, yellow brick building with a flagpole in the schoolyard. A lower wooden building nearby, maybe an after-school center or an elementary-school classroom. He ran past. The trees were sprouting crisp leaves. Nothing was as beautiful as the foliage. He was happy to be home again.

  The hill sloped steeper. Down toward what looked like a valley. On the other side: a hill with a wood. At the bottom of the valley was an allotment-garden area—every tenant mommy’s big dream: to get her hands on a plot like that. Little cottages, water hoses, and flower beds where things’d really started to grow. The greenery in Sweden was so green.

  He couldn’t stop himself from analyzing the terrain. Saw it as the FEBA—front edge of battle area. An amphitheater. Perfect for an ambush, an unexpected attack from both sides against an advancing enemy or an enemy convoy at the bottom of the valley. First out: AH-64 Apache helicopters—30-millimeter M230 rotary cannons, a rate of fire of over two thousand rounds a minute. Mow down the trucks and the jeeps. Crush them. Force them to stop. Then bombard them with the helos’ Hellfire missiles. After that, the grenade people in the hills would do their bit with 20-millimeter ammunition. Last but not least: the infantry would make sure the jeeps were torched good, spread blankets of fire against any enemy combatants that were still putting up resistance, make sure no militiamen excaped, BBQ the hajis. Deal with the remains. The wreckage. The prisoners.

  That’s how it was done. The situation was perfect. In the middle of the allotment gardens. He almost longed to be back.

  He kept running, toward the hill on the other side. Kept visualizing war scenes. Different images. Bloody people. Burned faces. Blown-up body parts. Men in torn, half-military uniforms screaming in Arabic. Their leaders with guns in their hands and emblems on their shoulder straps, roaring: “Imshi!”—charge!

  Crawling soldiers. Wounded people. Smoldering bodies.

  Everywhere.

  In panic.

  Distorted faces. Gaping wounds. Empty eyes.

  Shit.

  He ran. Down toward the water.

  The branches arched over the trail like a roof. He continued on toward a residential area.

  Felt the fatigue wash over him. Checked his watch. He’d been running for twenty-one minutes. Memorized the time: halfway. Time to turn back. Steady breathing. Could he handle the allotment gardens one more time?

  He thought, How am I doing, really? The time at DynCorp marked its men, he knew that. There were plenty of stories about guys who hadn’t been able to handle the safe existence in their home countries.

  Max 650 feet left to the building’s entrance. He slowed down. Walked the last bit. Let his blood sugar settle. His breathing slow. He loved his gadgets. Material that breathed—his shirt was hardly even wet from sweat.

  The sky was a clear blue. The leaves in the flower beds lining the street were a clear green.

  That’s when he saw it. On top of an electrical cabinet.

  Dammit.

  He didn’t know they had those running around outside in Sweden.

  Over
there, the place was overrun with them. But that was different—there, he was dressed in Kevlar-reinforced camo pants tucked into high, hard military boots. Equipped with weapons—if they came too close, he showed no mercy. Let their little brain substance speckle the gravel. That almost made it okay.

  But now.

  The rat stared.

  Niklas remained still.

  No boots—low Mizuno running shoes.

  No reinforced pants tucked in—just shorts.

  No gun.

  It remained still. As big as a cat, he thought.

  The panic started creeping up on him.

  Someone moved inside the entrance to the building.

  The rat reacted. Jumped off the electrical cabinet.

  Disappeared along the side of the building.

  Niklas opened the door and stepped into the entranceway. Inside, a girl was throwing out trash. Maybe twenty-five years old, long, dark hair, coal-black eyebrows, brown eyes. Pretty. Maybe she was a haji, what the Americans called the civilians down there.

  He started walking up the stairs. Sweaty. But it didn’t feel like it was from the run. More from the rat shock.

  The girl followed. He fumbled with his keys.

  She stood outside her door, on the same landing. Checked him out. Opened the door.

  Dressed in sweat pants, a big sweatshirt, and flip-flops.

  Then he realized—she was his neighbor. He should say hi, even if he didn’t know how long he’d be living here.

  “Hi, maybe I should introduce myself,” he said.

  Without really having the time to realize it himself, he heard his own voice say, “Salaam alaikum. Keif halek?”

  Her face broke into a completely different expression—a broad, surprised smile. At the same time, she looked down at the floor. He recognized the behavior. Over there, a woman never looked a man in the eye, except the whores.

  “Do you speak Arabic?” she asked.

  “Yeah, a little. I can be neighborly, anyway.”

  They laughed.