Montecore

by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

  Then it’s going home to your apartment and Grandma, who for once doesn’t say anything mean about Dads’ framed photos, and Moms, who make a little coffee without saying anything about how coffee causes anxiety, and two bears of uncles on the sofa with large-pocketed work pants and tears constantly flowing, shoulders bobbing, and legs so long that their thighs are leaning up toward their knees.

  And you try to join in and carry in the milk and fetch the blanket for Grandma but then Grandpa is there again in the sun chair with a Miami shirt and Hawaii shorts and a straw hat and he toasts toward you and shines his eyes and says something you can’t hear and you smile back when no one is looking and help Moms in with the coffee thermos and serve uncles’ clinking mugs and fetch the digestive biscuits even though they’re really supposed to be saved for the weekend. And then, just when everything has calmed down, you can hear Dads in the hall. And there’s Dads, coming in whistling with shopping bags and a wave of the hand, Dads, who don’t know anything, Dads, who this very day have bought a bunch of canned goods at sale price from some Aristocat.

  Dads drop the bags on the hall floor, hug Moms, and don’t joke for several minutes. Dads stand strong like never before and don’t ask about the inheritance and act exactly like he should. Up until Dads want to comfort Grandma by offering her a can of food and then ask: And by the way … please I am sorry … but do we know please what will happen to la boutique? Moms yank Dads with her into the kitchen and whisper: Please, for once, can’t you at least try to sense the mood?

  Then it’s only a few days before Dads come home with triple surprises. There are the drawings of Grandpa’s sign store, the signed contract, and Dads’ detailed shopping lists. There’s the contract giving notice at SL and the going-away present the SL boss gave him in advance. Dads’ voices are bubbling fireworks when he tells about the building that will become a studio slash atelier slash gallery. The light can be made ideal with a little renovation and the distance to the commuter train station is only five hundred meters and there are three small rooms and a storeroom, excellent! Then Dads switch voices and read out loud from the song list that’s printed on the edge of the SL cassette and there’s “Gösta Gigolo” by Ingmar Nordstroms and “Fly Free” by Kikki Danielsson and “Go Where the Pepper Grows” by Leif Hultgren, and then Dads switch voices and languages again and say that the building needs a little renovation but we can do it, it’s no problem, and look here, look what they gave us at work, SL are crazies, and Dads read song titles like “The Convenience Store Cashier,” “It Still Smells Like Love,” and “Friday Evening Blues” by Alf Robertson. Aziz was furious when I showed him; he talks about quitting, too, but I don’t think he …

  Quitting? ask Moms.

  Yes? How else could I open a studio? With this place EVERYTHING is going to change, darling. I’ll be able to have my own exhibitions here, and now I can get started working seriously and soon there will be Picture of the Year awards en masse and papers that will call me and stars who stand in line to have their portraits taken.

  Shouldn’t we have discussed this first? ask Moms. What is there to discuss? laugh Dads and hug you and kiss Moms and you think: Those poor kids who have normal dads, dads who don’t still have their child eyes and who can’t make magic with either words or cameras.

  11. BRILLIANT!!!

  12. The finale is very delicious! More like this! One reminder: Memorize that it is your father who is the principal character, and not your mother. Certainly your mother is magnificent in all ways, but her magnificence can be formed another time. Perhaps in your triangular book?

  13. Well, I do not think your dad said that. We must be distinct about that; your father did EVERYTHING in order to rake your cosmopolitan future. That of course he never fed any outsiderness into your brain. Perhaps you heard incorrectly? Perhaps your father said: “She is a typical Swede. A real careerist.” (Or tourist [or circus artist]?)

  Dearest greetings!

  Anxiety heaps my breast after the reading of your latest e-letter’s depressed tone. How can I tempt you back to the path of joie de vivre? How can I get you to forget the insultations of the hate letter? Jonas: You are NOT a camel-fucking Muslim negroid ape who should be sent home or shot. You are a reasonably talented author who, thanks to me, has been delegated the chance for a secondary book.

  Here come two self-strengthening directives; write them out and publish them on your refrigerator as a reminder vaccine:

  1. I will NEVER let myself be infected with my father’s paranoia! The whole world is not “out to get me” at all.

  2. I will NEVER be silenced into speechlessness or deceit. Silence is a loss. Silence is the escort of death. Silence delegates victories to idiots who happen to have tongues.

  Now to your delivered text. Praise it with roses and wreaths! The section is interesting and a progression of your talent can be noticed and applauded. See the affixed document for my comments.

  The reading of your text has made me secure with one thing: the insight that even authors can form a text that is … not perfect. Much work remains. This maximized my inspiration and the writing of the continuation of your father’s history was written almost on autopilot. Affixed you will find first the translation of the letter your father wrote me in December 1985, which put to sound the silence which had characterized our relation since our rendezvous in Tabarka in 1984. The secondary document forms my rendezvous with Sweden, your family, and the Swedish language. Let these events terminate the book’s triangular section. You are invited as usual to inject your potential memories. Just memorize not to remember too many details—there is a big difference between one-eyes and books. One of them is helped by expanded thickness and length; the other is not. Do you know which is which? If not it is truly time to try to find a girlfriend …

  Your virtuoso friend,

  Kadir

  Stockholm, December 27, 1985

  Greetings, Kadir!

  Let me first ask your excuse for my letterish pause. Pardon me. Many things have been modified in my life since we last met.

  For example, my family has wandered from a trio to a pentangle! My wife has borne me two further sons in twin form! I was informed of her pregnancy after my return from Tunisia, and considering our economic situation at the time, this was very complicated information. We directed our traditional procedure where I tried to convince her to descend to asking her mother for financial support and my wife yelled nevernevernever all night. A tingling unease began to grow me for my future responsibility as a fivefold-family provider.

  The economic situation, however, has been renovated thanks to my beautiful-father’s tragic death. My dear beautiful-mother, Ruth, has generously delegated me both his store and an advancement on our future inheritance. I believe she regrets her initial antipathy toward me. Now she expresses that “everyone must get an honest chance, particularly in these times.” In this she is entirely correct, because the climate of Sweden is truly beginning to be modified. One can feel it in the atmosphere of the streets. The looks. The comments. The frequency of immigrants is rising in step with the Swedes’ suspiciousness. In this year’s election commotion, the Conservatives’ master, Ulf Adelsohn, expressed: “A Swede is a Swede and a Negro a Negro.” He has also said that of course the Swedes’ eyes sting when immigrant children take limousines from “upper-class Östermalm apartments” to sumptuous home language lessons, while Swedish children must hike. Even Sweden’s socialists are starting to fly their kites in the same foreigner-antipathetic wind. Sometimes my soul is unsecured. What am I doing here? How will my three sons grow successfully in this country? How will their brown skin and black hair find success in a context where neo-Nazis have begun to manifest openly in the streets and refugee homes are attacked with firebombs? My certainty is far from securitized, but I know one thing—my sons must NOT be attracted to being outsiders. This shall be my life’s true priority! I must be very careful not to follow my wife into soaping my eyes in the suds of politics
.

  But not everything at this time is coming up nettles! I bear a strong belief in the improvement of the future! Let us focus on the indications that are positive to us in the end of 1985: Halley’s Comet did not crash our earth! Reagan and Gorbachev managed to find time for a rendezvous! More and more Swedes decorate their coats with antiracist plastic hands on which the text spells, “Don’t touch my friend.” And most important of all: I have terminated my slave time at SL, offput my horridly scratching polyester vest, and will soon have my own studio!

  Today I was exposed to another two positive pieces of news. Number one: My oldest son has turned seven! He has now carried out his first half year in school. He bears a very expanded intelligence and his speech is now almost normal. He has also learned to control his imagination, so he less frequently attracts the looks of passersby. Several weeks have passed since I last came across him speaking aloud to his frequent imaginary friends. Observe also his artistic quality! What ordinary seven-year-old can draw pictures of equal talent?14

  My relationship with my son is very close. I am his great idol and he often seeks my glance to verify my attention. Together we spend much time and I have already begun to prepare him for the vital weight of grades. I indicate him that his grades must NEVER be under the best one. My son always nods me seriously and promises his attempt at maximization. My wife sighs me and thinks I present my son with entirely too much compression too soon.

  “He is only in his premier class! He is seven years old!”

  But I respond her:

  “It is NEVER too early to absorb knowledge. This is my philosophy. Particularly in Sweden, which already bears an increased suspicion against those who do not bear skin of the pink color.”

  “And your own knowledge of Swedish, when will that be absorbed, exactly?”

  “Is your voice traced with sarcasm, my darling? My Swedish will soon be perfectioned, you know that.”

  “It has taken considerable time.”

  “Time is a worldly thing.”

  Certainly my wife is correct—the learning process of Swedish has to me been complex and protracted. Do you want to sense the motive? In Sweden one is received very different depending on one’s language. To present an Arabically broken Swedish attracts angry expressions, demonstrative “what?”s, and a negative atmosphere. If one instead speaks English or French one is smiled and receives an automatic nearness in relationships. Consequently, it is not bizarre that my temptation to the Swedish language has been filled with gaps, a little like the Advent calendars that are sold here as Christmas traditions. For a long time I also practiced the mistake of spending my time in the company of other exiled Arabs. My friendship with the Aristocats will now be reduced in favor of a future expanding Swedish.

  The day’s secondary happy incident met me with the evening news. While Pernilla fell the twins to sleep, I parked my tired, pounding head in front of the news program Rapport. There it was reported that Refaat El-Sayed was electored to Swede of the Year! That Egyptian man whom I detailed you about in the previous letter, right? This expanded my happiness to new volumes. Everything is possible! One must truly be the chef of one’s own happiness! Just like Refaat, one must be ready to risk to achieve success. The roads are open for those with super-rugged diligence!

  I am writing you now to present an offer. Are you tempted to afflict Sweden to assist me in renovating my studio? I promise you a prompt repayment of my borrowed economy as well as a well-formed salary as my assistant. What do you say? Can you remain six months? Or one year?

  My hope is for your prompt acceptance and our prompt reunion. For what is the happiness of a reunion in comparison to those other water stations that exist in the marathon we call life? Very delicious!

  Abbas

  I remember how I already nodded my head with the decision of affirmation during the reading of your father’s letter. The experience of the journey tempted me at least as much as the economy.

  In January of 1986 I terminated my occupation of Hôtel Majestique and flew toward the northmost of north: Arlanda, Stockholm. My memory is photographically clear to me. Everything is memorized. The passport inspection, the well-founded customs inspection, the rosily red-haired policeman who tested my shaving cream and carefully smelled of its odor (and very seriously welcomed me to Sweden and returned my packing, unaware that his close smelling had rewarded him with a very humorous white nose). The icy wait for the bus, the conductor’s friendly “hello hello,” the journey through the deserted forest, the spruces, the shadows, the Welcome to Stockholm sign. Then the ghostly empty streets, parked cars blanketed in snow, nightly dark even though it was five o’clock in the afternoon. Then the sound when my forehead crashed the plastic window of the bus at the first view of your waiting family.

  There you all stood! My antique best friend, Abbas! With a pale front, black-hooded half coat, corduroy pants, and a modernly colored scarf. In his arms your double brothers, two blanket-hidden baby sausages with matching hats. Your mother at his side: Pernilla, that young, shining beauty on the beach in Tabarka. Now slightly more trivial with an out-of-date blue hippie shawl and elephantically wide jeans.

  My hands banged the bus window, my tongue roared happiness, my steps stamped out onto the sidewalk, my arms hugged your father, my lips cheek-kissed your mother, and it was everyone’s voice at the same time with Arabic mixed with French. Did your trip go well? and How are you all? and What has happened since last time? Oh, they’re so cute, and Gootchie-gootchie-goo, and your father repeated my welcome and your mother, who smiled politely, and your father, who suddenly yelled: But where is your baggage? and then rush into the bus again to manage to tow out my suitcase just before the bus started. Then standing there laughing on the sidewalk again, hugs and cheek kisses, your brothers’ newly wakened screams, and your father’s glittering glad eyes.

  “And where is your oldest son?” I interpellated.

  Before your father had time to respond I followed his turned head and focused you. You sat with crouched legs in the shadow of the terminal and poked your fingers deep into a sewer grate. You had pleated jeans and a glowing red hat, your nose glittered the snot of transparence, and your cheeks presented long streaks of tears. I heard how you seemed to be speaking with someone down in the sewer hole and my first thought was actually this: “Wow, I wonder which of his thin parents has inheritaged him this expanded corpulence.” (Pardon me, Jonas.)

  “He’s a little sulky,” your mother explained in French.

  “He’s a little spoiled,” your father added in Arabic.

  “What did you say?” your mother interpellated.

  “That our son is a little tired,” said your father.

  “Where is the car?” I asked in French.

  “We don’t have a car,” responsed your mother. “The metro will transport us home to the apartment.”

  “The car is being repaired,” your father said in Arabic.

  “What did you say?” your mother interpellated.

  “That I love you,” your father responsed. “Welcome, Kadir. It is a great happiness to me to see you. Now we’ll just pacify my prima donna of a son and then we can go.”

  My arrival soon replaced your melancholy with shyness. On the metro’s way home you clung your mother’s legs and hid your face in shadow. On instruction I had invested Pez candy for you and this present identified me as your immediate favorite. The entire metro’s way home you munched Pez squares and said, “Thank, Kadiw. Shukwan, Kadiw,” over and over again.

  You memorize this, right? That you still, in this seven-year-old phase, lacked the capacity to express those letters which are so vital in all languages, r and s? Although you happily passed your free time in the world of books and although you wandered smoothly from French to Arabic to Swedish, you had this serious speech impediment, which roused your father’s irritation more and more often. But generally your relationship was very fine. I was impressioned that you were your father’s while the twins beca
me more your mother’s.

  Now comes the scene that we can call “Kadir’s initiation to Sweden.” Together your family and I delight everything that Stockholm’s wintery spring has to offer in 1986.

  Let us here change the tone of the book and present this sequence in the musical form of the medley (with your father’s photographing clicking sound as a steady beat-drum).

  Stockholm, oh Stockholm! CLICK! Show how we transport ourselves into the city and wander wharfs and superficially iced lakes. CLICK! Your proud father with your little brothers in the terry cloth double stroller and his frequently fired camera. CLICK! You with the demand of crying for ice cream despite the cold and your mother with attempts to guidance of historical rarities. She constantly ignores churches and castles and points me instead the Battle of the Elms. CLICK! And the block of the Mullvaden occupation. CLICK! And there is the street where the police once attacked her brother’s friend with biting dogs. CLICK! CLICK! I who wander alongside with my gaze hungry for erotic Swedish women and my teeth aching after the surprise of a cool apple.