It begins to splinter, at least on one edge.
‘How did it go?’
They’re gathered in a ring, and Leo and Felix hold out the two pieces of their lolly sticks.
‘They’re broken?’
‘Yes.’
‘Completely?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Now, Leo, you’re the strongest. Here. You take these five sticks from me. Break them in half. At the same time.’
‘With my hands?’
‘Just like you did before.’
He looks at Pappa, who has finally stopped trembling inside. He’s going somewhere with this but won’t say where.
Five lolly sticks. A much thicker bridge between his hands. Leo strains his shoulders, arms, fingers. And he can’t do it. The palms of his hands are sore from trying to break stick after stick, and from the resistance of five of them.
He just can’t do it.
‘I …’
He doesn’t dare look at Pappa. He can’t look into those eyes, that have the same stare Pappa used on the blond curly-haired parasite and his long-haired buddy outside the shopping centre.
‘… can’t do it.’
Five thin sticks. Leo drops them and they bounce off the rock. He closes his eyes. Pappa’s hand touches him, and it doesn’t feel angry, it just rests lightly on his shoulder.
‘That, boys, is our family. Our clan.’
Pappa picks up five sticks, slowly holding each stick up one at a time in front of their faces.
‘This stick is Vincent. This is Felix. And this one is Leo. And … Mamma. And … Pappa.’
Then he bundles up all the sticks.
‘A clan always sticks together.’
The sticks now lie between his own huge hands.
Vincent. Felix. Leo. Mamma. Pappa.
‘We are a clan. You are my clan.’
And he tries to break them, several times, without success. Not even he can do it.
‘If a clan can stick together, it will never break. Sometimes Mamma doesn’t understand that. She doesn’t understand what real solidarity is.’
They’re sitting close to each other now. His breath smells like the wine in those squash bottles.
‘A clan is small – but it can never be destroyed. A clan has a leader who leads – and who will hand over responsibility to the next leader. Do you understand?’
They all nod at Pappa, who is watching them. He is mostly looking at Leo.
‘Do you understand that, Leo?’
Pappa’s eyes are the same as in the lift. Only now there’s no mirror in between them.
‘Even large armies have tried to crush small clans but haven’t succeeded – because a clan is a family that always supports each other!’
He looks at them, and they realise that he’s said something important.
And they try to respond.
‘Like … Indians?’ suggests Felix.
‘No! No, no, no! Indian tribes are like … just ordinary communities, I’m talking about clans, family ties, that … like Genghis Khan. Or, like the Cossacks.’
Pappa rises and wobbles slightly on the rock.
‘The Cossacks have no country … they have only their family and their friends. They’re nomads with no homeland – they can go anywhere because they will always have each other.’
He crosses his arms over his chest with one hand on each shoulder, sinking down with legs bent like a frog, and starts kicking, throwing up one leg at a time, and now he’s not a frog any more, he’s more like a grasshopper, and he sings something that sounds like kalinka. He kicks until he stumbles and is no longer a Cossack, his huge body falling backwards towards the rocks, and he hits his head, but laughs out loud in a way he rarely does.
‘In a clan, a real clan, we never hurt each other.’
After a while he sits up again.
‘In a real clan we never snitch on each other.’
The smell of wine on his breath mingles with the smell of sweat from his tight work shirt.
‘In a real clan we always protect each other.’
Leo knows it’s probably not the case, but still it feels as if Pappa is speaking only to him.
‘Otherwise … we’ll lose everything.’
48
THEY STAYED THERE for a long time, with Pappa alternating between sitting and lying on the bank. Leo had always thought it was strange that Pappa could dance and sing kalinka one minute and then retreat into himself the next. And when he withdrew he would say things that Leo didn’t understand, about when he was little and when he grew up and came to Sweden.
They walk one by one in a long line down the narrow woodland path. The afternoon is a little colder, and Leo hugs the quilted jacket more tightly around his body. They’re not moving very fast, even after Vincent stops abruptly with his head tilted pleadingly, and Leo agrees to carry him. Pappa is at the back of the line, singing something that doesn’t have any words. He’s crept out of himself again and the silence has not returned, not once during their whole walk back along Drevviken Lake, through the woods, past the football pitch and the field and the school and all the way to their front door.
There’s always another bottle.
The wine rack under the sink is empty, but behind it there is one more, the one that is always kept there so they’ll never run out. Pappa takes the bottle and heads for the bedroom, lies down on the unmade bed, and Leo waits until he’s asleep to close the door. It’s important for Pappa to go to sleep, for the calm to return, so they don’t have to feel on edge for a while.
They hang their coats on three hooks in the hall, and Felix stands there, scrutinising the large holes slashed in Leo’s coat. He runs his middle finger and index finger along the frayed edges, exposing the white lining, which spills out; he tries to poke and push it back in, but it springs out again just as fast.
If he turns the knife hole on the shoulder against the wall you can see the knife hole on the arm. If you turn the knife hole on the arm towards the wall you can see the hole on the shoulder.
And Mamma will be home any minute.
Mamma mustn’t see it.
Leo tiptoes past Pappa’s intermittent snoring behind the closed bedroom door and into the kitchen, grabs a roll of tape from the top drawer under the workbench, and tears off some short pieces in order to put the holes back together, but instead they get bigger. Felix finds a few needles, but no thread that’s the right colour no matter how many boxes and glass bowls he empties out on the hallway floor. Then they find a dry tube of glue on the desktop that neither of them can get anything out of even though they push until their fingertips hurt.
‘This won’t be good, Leo.’
‘We’ll turn the holes … like this … against the wall.’
‘She’ll see them!’
‘Well … then I’ll tell her it was from thorn bushes.’
‘That’s a stupid—’
‘What if Faruk kicked a football into some thorn bushes. And when I leant over to pick it up a couple of the thorns got caught and tore the sleeve in two places. Does that sound OK?’
Mamma comes home.
They sit quietly in the kitchen, listening. They hear her put her bag down on the chair and a bag of shopping on the floor, hear her hang up her coat in the hallway.
And she hurries straight past. Without looking. She doesn’t see the knife holes.
She goes into the kitchen, and when she hears Pappa snoring from the bedroom she asks what they had for lunch and dinner. Before Leo can answer, Vincent shouts from inside his room ice cream, and Leo adds that he made pancakes afterwards. And for a moment it seems she believes him.
‘Pancakes?’
Her eyes search the kitchen for the frying pan, which isn’t on the stove or the drying rack, for plates with remnants of strawberry jam.
Now Leo answers. Before Vincent.
‘Yes.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes.’
She doesn’t get annoyed very often. B
ut she is now. Every time the abrupt, anxious, drunken snores push their way through the bedroom door and flood the apartment, Leo can see it on her face.
‘I washed up. And put everything away. Everything. The frying pan. And the plates.’
She opens one of the cabinet doors. But not to the pans or plates. The one under the sink. She pulls out the rubbish bin, and they both see it at the same time. Empty bottles. And the wine rack, just as empty.
She is annoyed. But not at him or his lies.
‘OK. What do you want for dinner?’
She puts her hand on Leo’s cheek. Her skin is always so soft.
‘What do you say? Pancakes?’
‘Pancakes.’
He helps her by getting out the flour and eggs and milk and salt. And a bit of Pappa’s smoked pork, which he cuts into thick slices with a long kitchen knife and eats with onions.
Oven pancakes.
‘When did Pappa go into the bedroom?’
‘When we came home.’
‘Home?’
‘Yes.’
‘From?’
From the ice cream van. From two blackcurrant bottles. From lolly sticks that couldn’t be broken, just like a family can’t be broken.
‘From?’
‘School.’
The hand gently on his cheek.
‘From?’
The words in his mouth won’t come out, which is why he runs down the hall so fast when someone rings the doorbell. Anything that gets him out of the kitchen and away from having to answer Mamma with more lies.
‘Is your mother or father at home?’
He’s never seen the man standing in the stairwell.
‘Who are you?’
He’s tall. Almost as tall as Pappa. But has short hair. And kind eyes.
‘Are they? Are your mother or father at home?’
It doesn’t seem as if he’s selling anything. He’s not the caretaker, here to complain about them running around in the cellar or broken lamps in the car park. He might be a Christian, here to show them flimsy magazines with brightly coloured drawings of children playing with lions. Drawings that aren’t comics.
‘Mamma. She’s at home.’
No. He’s not here to talk about Jesus and he has no magazines in his hand. They usually come in pairs.
Leo’s stomach aches a little. Deep inside, below the ribs. It’s good that Pappa’s asleep, because this is surely one of those people who come here asking for Mamma or Pappa to discuss whatever Leo or Felix or Pappa has done. And who Pappa should not be awake to meet.
‘Thank you.’
Leo goes into the kitchen, listening: Pappa is still snoring. And he makes sure to stand with his back towards the bedroom when talking to Mamma, who’s stirring the pancake batter with a whisk, round and round in a plastic bowl.
‘Someone wants to talk to you.’
‘Who?’
He shrugs.
‘Someone.’
She washes her hands in warm water under the tap, dries them on the towel hanging on the oven door, and walks down the hallway to the front door.
‘Hello.’
The man holds out a skinny arm.
‘Hello, I’m Hasse’s father.’
Hasse? Hasse and Kekkonen? The ones who hurt my son?
‘And I’m Leo’s mother,’ she says, taking his hand. ‘And I’m glad you’re here. I’d been planning to contact you.’
The tall man nods and sighs.
‘I understand that. And appreciate it. Because … this is unacceptable.’
Mamma nods and sighs and opens the door a little more.
‘Come in. So we don’t have to talk in the stairwell.’
Hasse’s father steps in, but stops on the hall carpet. And she sees how he sees it, as if it were two hallways. Her wall. And Ivan’s. Her side with wicker baskets and drawings Felix has made for her. Ivan’s side with the long rows of old tools and that sabre that always has to be adjusted and moved so that it hangs exactly in the middle.
‘You have to understand – I’m not here to accuse you of anything.’
As he talks to her, he bends over trying to make himself shorter.
‘I’m here because I want to make sure that you speak to your son.’
Mamma changes her position, not just leaning on her right leg, but balancing on both, as if preparing. No one else can see it. But Leo can, he knows her. He knows that when she stands like that she’s mustering her strength.
‘And I would like to make sure that you speak to your son.’
‘I’ve already done that. We’ve had … plenty of time today. Four hours in Accident & Emergency.’
‘A&E?’
‘Yes, they—’
‘Today?’
‘Comminuted fracture. The result of “high-impact violence”, they said.’
Mamma turns to Leo, looking at his face, which has gradually turned from very swollen with dark blue patches to just a little swollen with golden brown patches. And her expression changes as she realises that a week ago has just become today and things have changed. That your son has become my son.
Leo looks down and listens and realises that the snoring has stopped.
‘A broken nose.’
‘I know that. I work in healthcare.’
Listens to the bedroom door being opened.
‘If I hadn’t been home today. If I hadn’t taken him straight to A&E. It might have been visible for his whole life.’
To the heavy steps coming closer.
‘They raised the nose. And straightened out the nasal wall.’
Mamma turns to Leo again. And only at that moment does she see Pappa, the sides of his hair tousled.
‘In that case … I am extremely sorry. I will speak with Leo shortly. And we’ll sort this out. And then we can go to yours. And we’ll talk all this through together. You and your son, me and my son.’
The heavy steps.
‘Sort this out?’
Pappa.
‘Sure as hell we’ll sort it out!’
Pappa passes Leo and goes over to Mamma, then passes her too, places himself between her and the visitor.
‘Right, Britt-Marie?’
The visitor is about to leave, his hand on the handle and the door halfway open, when Pappa takes a step closer.
‘Hey, don’t go. Come in. Come in! We’re going to sort this out.’
And he winks at Mamma.
‘Or maybe you’d prefer it if we invited you to dinner? Britt-Marie? We have a guest. Hasse’s father! Dinner!’
The tall visitor seems confused, he was about to go.
‘No … it’s really not necessary, the only thing I wanted was to discuss …’
Mamma smiles weakly at him. But not at Pappa.
‘Ivan – Hasse’s father and I have already talked about this. I can explain it to you later. When Hasse’s father leaves.’
Pappa smiles.
‘Done? I’m not done. Leo is my son too. So … just come in. Join us, Hasse’s father.’
He grabs the door handle and pulls the front door shut with Hasse’s father still on the hall carpet. One arm gestures towards the kitchen and simultaneously stops Mamma from moving.
‘You wanted to sort this out.’
They sit at the kitchen table. Pappa at his spot next to the ashtray and Keno tickets, Hasse’s father in Mamma’s seat.
‘Yes.’
‘Sort out what, exactly? That our sons have been fighting? That my ten-year-old son hit your thirteen-year-old son this time? That they’re even now?’
Hasse’s father looks round, looking for Mamma, who isn’t there.
‘Even? Well, if that’s what you want to call it. My son came home this morning with some very serious injuries. A broken nose, and he—’
‘Wait.’
Pappa holds up a hand in front of Hasse’s father’s face. And nods towards the hallway, to someone hidden in the doorway.
‘Leo?’
Leo steps across the th
reshold.
‘All the way.’
He doesn’t go all the way, but comes a little further into the kitchen, to the refrigerator.
‘Leo, my son, this is Hasse’s father. He says you hit Hasse on the nose. Did you?’
The fridge seems never to have hummed as loudly before.
‘Yes.’
‘Once?’
‘Yes.’
He stands in a kitchen that has become a courtroom and the jury looks at him, one half smiling, the other half nodding seriously. Then the half that’s smiling takes some money out of his trouser pocket.
‘Here.’
And hands Leo a 50-kronor note.
‘The next time you need to get even you hit him twice. Then I’ll give you a hundred.’
Fifty kronor of Pappa’s money. Leo takes the note, running his fingers over it. It’s wrinkled and he flattens it out.
‘You can go now. Go to your brothers, Leo.’
Pappa then winks at Hasse’s father, as he did at Mamma.
‘So. They’re even now. Your son hit my son first. Then my son hit your son. Now they’re finished with each other.’
Pen in hand, he pulls the Keno coupons a little closer.
‘But we’re not finished with each other,’ he continues, placing a cross at a time in different patterns. ‘Because you came here, into my home, and blamed everything on my son. When it was your little hooligan who started all this! And therefore, as you surely know, it’s you and me that will have to finish this. At this kitchen table. I promise you, I guarantee you … that every time your little hooligan hits anyone from now on, anybody, I’ll find you, and beat you. Every time.’
Hasse’s father stands up quickly from his chair.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘You bet your life I am.’
‘I thought we could talk about this.’
‘We are talking. For now.’
Hasse’s father just stands there, silent. His face red.
‘You’re threatening me. You know I can report you for that. You understand that, do you?’
Pappa laughs, quietly, or seems to.
‘Good. Do it. Report me.’
Louder now, really laughing.
‘The fucking cops will thank me. Thank me! Because from now on they’ll know who your little hooligan is.’
And then it all happens so fast, just like at the table in the restaurant with the glass of orange squash. Pappa stands up and grabs Hasse’s father by his collar and presses him against the wall between the humming refrigerator and the door.
The Father: Made in Sweden Part I Page 29
