The Dynamic Duo is done with its first task, and the bottle money is saved in that special cabinet with a padlock that Moms call the armoire and Dads call the mémoire.
Moms’ stomachs grow until the skin gets split marks and soon Dads stop taking double shifts at SL and start being home in the evenings, taking a break from the photography, and helping make dinner. Every evening it’s recipes from Anna’s Food and you help with the translation as well as you can. Cumin, who is cumin? And you make things up sometimes and say the right thing when you can and most of the time the food tastes a little strange and it never looks like the pictures; it ends up being meat casserole with raisins and oatmeal pancakes roasted in the toaster and the family specialty, which is saffron cod. And Dads joke and blame the cookbook and say that Anna is a real marketing ploy and presumably a racist Swede and Moms pretend not to hear and just answer that it must be time soon because otherwise we will starve to death.
And you remember that night when the suitcases stand packed in the hall and Dads have tried to make oven pancakes and the remains are sitting brown on the oven glass and Dads swear his dinbookborrasentak because the scorchiness doesn’t want to come off and you’re eating TSO and rye bread while Moms lie on the sofa with double pillows under her head. Suddenly you hear Moms’ cries and it’s a different tone, not just: I want water, or: Can someone change the radio station? And Dads rush into the living room and Moms are lying ready and you hear the loud breathing and Dads shout: Call the taxi! And you, who have been specially educated for this very task, call the taxi with an adult voice while Dads hold hands and Moms shout owowow and you say the address and Moms’ Swedish last name so the taxi will come extra fast and Dads give you a thumbs-up from the living room. Don’t worry, Grandma will come soon, whisper Moms before they disappear down in the elevator but of course you worry, because Moms hold a world record in stomach size and have to bend her back diagonally backward so she doesn’t tip forward and you stand on the walkway and see how Dads guide her out to the taxi, Dads walk with his arms around Moms like he is playing hula hoop and Moms hold one hand on her back and the other under her stomach and right before the taxi is going to leave Dads turn up toward you and give a thumbs-up.
Soon Grandma and Grandpa come and they are the world’s finest retired couple, Grandma with sun wrinkles and the more and more crooked Grandpa, who just has time to turn on the radio before he falls asleep on the same sofa where Moms have just been lying. Grandma—the definition of kindness. Grandma, who always shouts: It doesn’t matter! if one happens to smash some plate that has a valuable special mark. Grandma, who bakes gingersnaps and pancakes that make regular baked goods collapse in shame. Grandma, who has devoted her entire life to helping others, first as a swimming instructor in her former home country, Denmark, then as a missionary’s assistant in Africa, and then as a social-services lady in Stockholm. Then she met Grandpa and became a family raiser and then Grandpa’s accident happened and she was there for support and said her constant One should be thankful that it wasn’t the right hand. Grandma, who collects things for charity in black garbage bags and sends them to orphanages in Eastern Europe. Grandma, who is your great hero the night that little brothers are born because Grandma calms you down and sits beside you hour after hour and she strokes your eyelids and hums songs which don’t have words while Moms lie in hospital rooms and push and snort and toss her head back and forth. It’s More morphine! shouted with a disaster voice and it’s nurses who are watching nervously and sweaty doctors with backward coats and mouth papers and beeping noises from heart monitors and the whole time Dads who stand pale at the head end and sponge with a little towel and try to soothe. It’s screams and blood pails and nurses who are changing shifts and red-drenched white coats that whisper about the poor Turk dad with the crazy Swedish wife in number four. It’s doctors who say we might lose her, and doctors who say it might be too late. And of course it’s Moms who regret it, Moms who swear that this is the absolute last time, Moms who say Swedish swearwords that Dads have never heard before. It’s the green heart monitor which changes waves and beep beep beep toward a long line and beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. And it’s emergency runners who take out the iron and rub it into a current and shout stand clear! And bzzzzzt and waiting and rubbing and clear! and bzzzzzt until Moms come to life again, keep on pushing, keep on swearing. And then finally Moms exert herself until she throws up and then, with a plopping sound, two screaming little brothers hop out into nurse arms and they smile and laugh and it’s a river of blood and you made it! and Dads who choose the exact wrong time to say: There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?
Then Dads who hold the receiver with the hand that Moms didn’t crush, first calling the Tunisian relatives and rejoicing and then Grandma and asking to speak to Grandpa. Then Dads who come home whistling in the dawn with his eyes ringed in black and his beard rough. And you who have become a big brother.
The next day Dads button on their work tie with little SL logo and put on loose creased pants which shine in the sun and you share a little Paco Rabanne and Dads say: We will remember this day for always. Dads are right. You take the subway and stop at the newspaper stand, Dads choose a bouquet while you get to pick bulk candy, and Dads say: Throw in as much as you want! And it’s a lifelong dream that’s being fulfilled, you start to fill the bag with all kinds and all colors and it’s mint chocolate and Ferraris and fried eggs and Turkish pepper and chalk licorice and raspberry boats but also big toffee squares and whips and salty suckers, which you know Moms like. Then show the bag to Dads and the scale arrow spins far and the cashier guy laughs because it comes to almost a hundred crowns. You prepare yourself for putting some back, but Dads just smile and pay and shout: Today is a party, no penny-pinching! just like the dad in Emil in the Soup Tureen and soon you’re out on the street again and it’s Dads with the best bouquet and you with the biggest bag in honor of Moms and you munch and of course you have to try one of each on the way up to the hospital.
Dads tell you that the photos for the Sweden Picture competition have been sent in and now you just have to wait, soon we’ll have the perfect seed money to start a studio! And you listen a little bit but you’re mostly concentrating on the candy because there are so many that look suspiciously poisonous and absolutely must be tested before little brothers accidentally get poisoned by boob milk. You go up the hill toward the hospital and it’s fall sparkle sun from the sky and water gravel in asphalt cracks and taxis that line up and right before you take the revolving door in, Dads say seriously: We are the men of the house now.
Then you go in and Dads scratch off their Djurgården scarf and spell your last name twice to get the right ward. Then taking the elevator and your stomach that’s starting to feel weird and hospital floors with yellow stripes and hospital smell and rough hospital blankets. And then, then it’s pale Moms with dried spit in the corners of her mouth and shiny hair. Sleeping when you come, with her head bent at an angle a little like a crash test dummy. When Dads wake Moms with pattering cheek kisses, Moms stretch their hands like sunrises and smile the mom smiles that only they can make and nothing is nicer, especially not new little brothers who have skin like rotten old Indian men and small nails which are barely hard and sticky eyes and not even any hair on their yucky scaly heads.
But you still want to hold one of them, show Dads that you can, carefully against your shoulder, feel the little body near yours, the shoulders banana-soft, and the little nameless one sleeps and you watch the head, smell the baby smell, which is talcum powder and a little used diaper and a little newborn neck sweat. And then, when no one is looking, you pinch him as hard as you can in the back of his knee, mostly just to see what happens. And he screams himself blue in the face and almost has trouble getting air and you give him back to Moms, who shh and cuddle him quiet.
Before Grandma and Grandpa come, Dads want to take pictures with three sons at the same time; the nurse is called in and she smiles at Dads’ pride and immortalizes the m
ustache that is a big black double-u and you with your tongue stuck out and little brothers’ sleeping wrinkle faces. Dads are happy like a child, while you have grown up, have a stomachache from candy, and wish you were back at day care. Dads’ faces aren’t like everyday again until perfumed Grandma and crooked Grandpa can be seen in the hall.
And you remember the following time of sunny weekend breakfasts and Dads who make tea and cut pieces of fruit and curl croissants from dough that comes prepared out of tins that are on sale at the Hötorgshallen market. When the morning smell starts to spread, it’s Dads in striped pajama pants with leaking elastic who call to Moms and sons that now it’s time and you crawl up out of beds and land heavily on kitchen chairs while Dads whistle and cool the tea by pouring it from cup to cup again and again.
Moms sit at the kitchen table with gritty sleep eyes and she is still weak but still manages to read the paper; she makes circles around courses that should be perfect for Dads. She hmms when Dads say: Soon the results of the Sweden Picture competition will come, darling. Moms circle Swedish courses at the Workers’ Educational Association and programs to become a home language teacher and Dads say: If I can just have enough time I promise that my new collection is going to change everything. And Moms who fill their French voices with ultimate irony: Yes, time has really been in short supply. You’ve only lived here for … seven years.
Six years, darling.
Seven years, darling.
Moms look down at course catalogs and Dads suddenly look nervous. The silence around the table is thornier than usual; Moms puncture the croissant with a knife a little like she wants to murder it and Dads clear their throats kind of deep down in his stomach. No one says anything and you understand that it’s best to keep quiet.
Then it’s as though they both want to start a fight on purpose to get it over with and they start talking about names for little brothers and Moms want two nice classic Arabic ones, maybe Fathi or Muhammad, or why not Faizal after Grandpa. And Dads say definitely not. If it’s going to be Arabic it has to sound Swedish and work both ways; my sons are not going to be jobless and end up as mafiosos or riffraff …
Or subway drivers? Moms ask kindly and Dads’ throats swallow forth a compromise:
What about Camel?
Moms who laugh.
Would you want to grow up in France and be called Chameau? Why not … Ali? And Dads: Why not Gösta, like Grandpa? And Moms: Gösta is an old-man name, darling. And Dads: Ali is an idiot name, darling. And Moms sigh and Dads sigh and their sharp eyes are aimed right at each other. Then Moms: What about Malcolm, then? And Dads: Like the radical Negro in the U.S.? On my gravestone …
And what started with a lovely weekend morning ends with seriousness and French swearwords and Moms who refuse to eat and emphasize every word with her teaspoon like a pointer and Dads who get up and look out onto the balcony walkway and suddenly swear way too loud and little brothers who wake up and wake each other up and now they’re both screaming and neither Moms nor Dads move, both just stare, both play the waiting game, and it’s like a chicken race but in a kitchen version and finally you get up, go to the bedroom, and stuff double pacifiers in double little brothers’ mouths.
Then comes the day when Current Photography finally presents the winners of the contest and Dads come in to you with nervous steps and ask you to translate. You, who have just started to learn to read, spell your way through the text while Dads walk around around in circles. They say that they were flooded with answers and that’s why the results have been delayed, and Dads shout: Forget that, who won, who won? Read the explanation! But in any case here they are, the hundred winners of the contest “The Sweden Picture.” And Dads come closer to you and together you flip pages up and pages down and there are pictures of sack races and blue-and-yellow flags, there are butterflies in close-up and naked children in summer wreaths, there are two photos of blades of grass with backlit fuzzy raspberries, there are misty lakes in the dawn, naked-bottomed night swimmers, rainy picnics, folk-costumed fiddle players. There are rainbows, travel trailers, handwritten kiosk signs, and three waddling cows. But no levels, no day-after vomit frozen in the snow, no iced bikes.
Dads swallow.
Dads page through one more time to be absolutely certain.
Dads go out and don’t come home for dinner.
Then comes the year when Dads need breaks from the stress of family life more and more often. Dads say: We’re just going down to the city to look for jobs a little and practice a little Swedish. And Moms look up from the chaos apartment where drying cloth diapers drape everything in white and double little brothers scream and poop and throw up and do everything but sleep.
The Dynamic Duo doesn’t wait for Moms’ answer.
The Dynamic Duo has more important things to do! The Dynamic Duo goes into the city and while Dads photograph flaneurs on Drottninggatan and extol the sunshine on the Åhléns clock, you collect redeemable bottles and sit waiting patiently on bike racks. Only once some drunk men yell: Damn oil Turks! And then Dads show you exactly how one carefully plays deaf, pack up his tripod, and wander toward Central Station.
Dads’ new friends are sitting gathered there, the gang that’s already got its own nickname: Aristocats. They’re sitting bent forward with pointy backs like dragons, and their smells are strong tobacco and their cheeks are prickly beards and their upper lips twisted mustaches. There’s the cook Nabil with shoulders as wide as castle walls and there’s Aziz, who you recognize from SL. There’s Mansour with the small round glasses and Mustafa with hippie braids and a little leather pouch on his belt. Everyone is extra nice because you are the only kid and they offer you throat lozenges and tickle and turn your cheeks red by showing you pictures of missing-teeth daughters and joke-planning marriages. Soon you slide down under the table and sit among grown-up legs and play Ghostbusters while Dads on the top side drink refills and billow smoke and tell about someone who was assaulted by racists in Skåne and Nabil’s cousin who was refused a residence permit and Mustafa’s voice says: It’s only damn Iranians who make it in this whore country … then you hear a magnificent voice that clears itself and shouts: But hello! You can’t forget Refaat! And you squat there under the table and hear Dads’ proud voice tell his friends about the almighty gifted businessman Refaat El-Sayed. Haven’t you heard of him? Is it true? The Egyptian doctor of chemistry who borrowed money and bought a pharmaceutical factory that was in danger of being shut down. Then he got convertible stock for his employees and now the stock value has gone up eleven thousand seven hundred percent. In two years! What do you say about that?
And you hear mugs that clatter but no one who answers. And Dads’ bubbling voices say that Refaat recently gave the Swedish state one billion crowns to start a foundation that will support young inventors. ONE BILLION! shout Dads and your table roof shakes from his fist thumps. This is a man who has succeeded! And if I could just find someone … anyone … who could give me a small, small loan, then I could follow in his footsteps. Just some temporary support to start my studio … Does one of you maybe …?
When you creep up to table level again, the ashtray is volcano-shaped and the atmosphere is different. Nabil looks at the clock and Mansour tells about the idiots in his institution at the university; Aziz arranges rolled-up bits of paper into patterns and Mustafa gets up to get a refill.
Dads slowly peel their smiles off.
And right when you write these words, you wonder if it wasn’t Refaat who was Dads’ most important source of inspiration. Because of course there were all the photo books and photographer quotes and classic pictures in the lab. But maybe it was Refaat’s successes that meant the most for Dads that year when suspicious tenants’ associations declined to call, when banks rejected loans, and when Dads’ application to the Art Grants Committee disappeared in the mail. Because it did, right?
The next memory is from the time when Dads have started to develop some sort of allergy to the polyester in the SL unifo
rm, and Moms have recovered from the double pregnancy and the exhausting maternity leave. You have started the first grade and during the morning break everything is normal, with playing alone and stair-fossil counting and gravel-bandy watching and keeping a lookout for that cute South American girl in the other class. And then suddenly Moms are standing there in the hall! And everything is imaginary, of course, because Moms don’t belong in school halls and Dads have explained how important it is to tell the difference between real and imaginary. Thus you ignore Moms’ waves in the hall. Up until Moms come up and grab hold of you and repeat again and again that Grandpa has died and finally you understand that Moms are real and that Grandpa really is dead. The hall gets fuzzy edges and Moms hug you and ask if you want to come along to the hospital. Of course not, because it’s almost time for students’ choice and after that we’ll probably draw pictures about it and besides, I feel a little weird. But Moms just smile with wet eyelashes and whisper: I still think it’s best that you come along. You’ll regret it otherwise.
Then you take a car to the hospital, and you don’t remember who is driving, maybe it’s a taxi. It’s the exact same hospital where little brothers were born, but in only a few years that light in the waiting room has dimmed and you use the same entrance but a different elevator and a different corridor and end up in a waiting room with more modern sofas. And it’s you and Moms who wander farther toward the hospital room and Moms’ hands are coldly scaly the way they get in the fall and Moms let you balance on the marking lines on the floor and touch everything that’s yellow because on some days childish systems like that, which you’ve actually outgrown, are super-important to follow.
Then open the door with a hissing sound and into the hospital room with tremble knees and all the Swedish relatives are gathered there. Grandma shaking in the corner with a crumpled handkerchief. Consoling aunts and bear-sized uncles who collapse like card houses and throw themselves, crying, at dead Grandpa, who’s lying stiff in the bed. And only you understand that everything is a fake, that it’s not Grandpa at all lying in the hospital bed with his stump arm and gaping grimace and yellowed nails. It’s only you who understand that Grandpa is only a shell, more like a forgotten juice packet with pale skin and nothing is as scary as you had thought because it’s plain as day that Grandpa left his cancer body a long time ago and is now hanging out in heaven, playing two-armed sun tennis with old road-worker friends, drinking fancy punch and jet-skiing and laughing at his memories of the sign shop. Still you try to tear up your eyes; you think about sad movies and the final scene in E.T. and you succeed in pressing out a little sadness. But then you see Grandpa’s empty shell and sunburned Grandpa smiling under a parasol at the beach with flip-flops and totally undamaged hands and it’s flirting bikini chicks and banana-boat-hopping angels at sea and a bunch of dead movie stars who are saying that the evening’s ice cream eating contest is going to be eternally good and then Grandpa looks at you and smiles and says: I’ll wait for you here. And you can’t share the others’ sadness and you think that maybe it’s a family thing and maybe you have to be fully Swedish to get it.
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