by Jay Quinn
Enjoying himself already, Karl scanned the oncoming cars, realizing he had neglected to ask Sven what he was driving these days. As swedephilic as Sven was, Karl imagined a SAAB or a Volvo, so he was surprised when a massive Ford Excursion stopped opposite him and Sven waved from inside before hopping out and racing around to greet him.
Sturdy and several inches shorter than Karl’s six-two height, Sven hurtled toward him with the affectionate charge of a Labrador retriever puppy. His straight, ash-blond hair was choppily cut in an unfashionably long surfer style that looked as if he’d neglected the barber for over a year. It had natural highlights that alternated nearly white streaks with the darker blond below. With some surprise, it occurred to Karl that Caroline strove for the exact same hair color with expensive trips to the salon, with far less successful results. Sven grabbed Karl in an emphatic hug and looked up, beaming into his face. Effortlessly, Karl found himself returning the hug with enthusiasm. “Hey, kiddo,” he said, a bit surprised by the catch in his throat.
“Hey bruvver,” Sven mugged. “Let me get your bag.”
“I’ll get it,” Karl insisted, so Sven shrugged and opened the back gate of the huge SUV. “My God. What on earth do you need such a beast of a vehicle for?” Karl demanded as he loaded his suitcase.
Sven heaved the back closed and watched as it settled into place with a satisfied whumph. “I have to haul furniture and stuff. All those Muffys and Biffs I work for like to see me drive up in something extravagant. If I showed up in Palm Beach with a panel truck, they’d be embarrassed for themselves and for me.” Motioning Karl toward the passenger door, Sven said, “We’ve got to run a by the shop on the way to Mom and Dad’s. It’s out of the way, but I have to drop off some sample books I borrowed from Rob.” With that, he bounded, heedless of traffic, around to the driver’s side.
Once in the passenger’s seat, Karl whistled. “This is a lot of leather for a delivery truck.”
Sven shrugged, and hardly glancing over his shoulder, he merged the colossal SUV into the flow of traffic.
“You look good,” Karl said approvingly, though he noted bluish circles under his brother’s eyes.
“Thanks, so do you,” Sven countered with a happy smile.
Karl wanted to take him into his lap and squeeze him. Sven was rare company. Karl had grudgingly changed his diapers and held on to his hand as he took toddler’s steps. There was no one else on earth he had such a long and purely affectionate relationship with. While Karl cherished it, he also felt it was something of an artifact. Here was Sven, forty years old, and Karl wanted to hug him so tight he’d squirm and struggle to get down and toddle off.
Karl gave him a good, long look. Dressed in a navy long-sleeved T-shirt, cargo shorts, and leather flip-flops, he looked like an overgrown child. His haircut, slightly pug nose, and bright blue eyes did nothing to help. For a moment, Karl found himself disapproving of his brother. He also found himself disapproving of his own response to him. Surely it was nonsense that he’d want to pick up his forty-year-old brother and squeeze him.
“You could use a haircut,” Karl offered as an expression of his sudden welling of affection for his brother and its companionable sense of disapproval.
Sven laughed and shook his hair, which caught the sunlight streaming in from the open sunroof. “Every other middle-aged gay man I know has his head nearly shaved these days. They say it takes attention away from the receding hairline. Well, I’ve still got a head full of hair, so I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.”
Karl pulled down the visor in front of him and glanced at his own short hair in the vanity mirror. Satisfied, he flicked the flap back up. “I think it looks distinguished,” he said, of his own stylish short cut. “Besides, who said you were middle-aged? I’m middle-aged.”
Sven spared a glance from the road. “You do look distinguished, I have to say, big brother. But I’m afraid I am middle-aged. I turned forty last month. Dad’s eighty in a couple of months, and believe me, Dad is getting old.”
Mentally, Karl tried to remember if he’d sent Sven any birthday greetings. He hoped Caroline had thought to send at least a card. Sven unfailingly remembered to send him something for his birthday. Karl was somewhat less conscientious. He decided to let it pass.
To distract himself and Sven, he reached across the dash and turned up the volume to hear what was murmuring in the background. A woman’s singsong voice spoke deliberately, followed by a male voice commanding, “Repeat.” It was a conversational Swedish CD. Annoyed, Karl said, “Really, Sven. Is this an affectation or a necessity?”
Sven’s smile faded and he looked across the generous span of the front seats with no small measure of hurt, then quickly shifted his gaze back to the road. “Do you remember, one time when I was little, you smacked the shit out of me when I spoke to you in Swedish in front of your friends?”
Karl did remember. At the time, Sven had been about five and Karl seventeen. He was embarrassed by having to explain to his friends why his brother spoke in such an odd way, and by the fact that he could, if he were willing, talk back to him in the same foreign language. It definitely set Karl apart, made him different at a time in his life when being different was unwanted. The other, darker, reason for the slap was a burst of resentment of their mother’s insistence on speaking to Sven almost exclusively in Swedish, something that she had long since abandoned with Karl. Now, he was ashamed of the slap and saddened by Sven’s long memory of it. He said nothing in reply, and his silence filled the car more loudly than the bland repetition on Swedish from the speakers.
After a while, Sven turned down the volume and broke the silence between them. “This ‘affectation’ earns me my living, Karl. I go on buying trips to Sweden on a regular basis.”
Karl nodded, feeling somewhat chastened. Karl knew Sven’s job took him to Sweden frequently. He guiltily reminded himself his brother would need the language at a more sophisticated level than his own childish command of it.
“As for being a necessity, well… I guess you’ll see for yourself,” Sven continued.
“What do you mean?” Karl asked guardedly.
Sven sighed and shook his head.
“C’mon Sven. Own up.”
His brother spared a glance from the approach to I-95 and said, “It’s Mom. She forgets sometimes. There are times when she only speaks Swedish. Other times she lapses into French.”
Karl was startled by this information. “How long has this been going on?”
Sven shrugged, then his shoulders sagged. “Awhile now. Look, Dad will fill you in. I don’t want to talk to you about it.”
“I thought you said she was doing fine,” Karl said accusingly.
“Healthwise, she is,” Sven said. Beyond that, he would say nothing.
Somewhat taken aback by Sven’s reluctance to discuss their mother’s curious lapses into the languages of her youth, Karl felt the return of the dread he’d been feeling since his father’s phone call. Still, he decided not to push Sven for further information on the topic. Instead, he sat quietly and tried to think of some amicable change of conversation. “How’s Rob?” he finally asked.
Sven, concentrating on the I-95 traffic, spared him a quick glance and turned his eyes to the road once more. He sighed, then said, “Rob’s good. But I guess I need to let you know that we’re taking some time apart.”
Karl nodded calmly. He was surprised at the news but braced himself for the kind of revelation he didn’t particularly relish. There was a definite need to ask for details; after all, Rob and Sven had shared a relationship that had been almost disturbingly intimate since they were teenagers. It had always been as clear as glass that they were lovers starting at an early age. This had provoked their father’s rage, until he grudgingly came to accept the relationship in the long years that followed. Cautiously, Karl said, “I’m sorry, Sven. I had no idea. You never said anything…”
“Well, there really wasn’t much to say, Karl,” Sven interrupted. He
turned and gave his big brother a wan smile. “We found that we’re growing apart in some important ways. For all that we worked together, and never spent more than a couple of days apart in nearly twenty-six years, we just woke up one day and realized we were living different lives. We’re not split up, we’re just taking some time to figure things out.”
Karl reached across the seat and patted his brother awkwardly on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sven. I’ve always liked Rob. I mean, I don’t really know him, but he seemed to be good for you, and I guess I’m sorry to hear that’s over.”
Sven nodded and reached up to pat his brother’s hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Karl. But it’s not really over in any formal way.”
Karl moved his hand from under his bother’s touch and rested his arm on the console between the seats. “How do you mean?”
Sven laughed. “Well, the business we started has grown and is doing really well. Rob handles most of the interior design end of the business, and I run the store. It’s called Tynnigo. Do you remember?”
Karl thought briefly, then the lovely little island in the archipelago near Stockholm bloomed in his memory. Their mother’s parents had retired to a cottage there. Though the family had not visited there often, and not since Karl was young, each and every visit shone in his memory. It was a magical place full of the joy of a child’s experiences.
“Of course I remember it! You named your store after it?”
Sven, concentrating on merging toward the exit to downtown West Palm Beach, laughed and nodded. “I’ve been back there, Karl. Many times. It’s much the same as it was when we were kids. I’ve made friends with the couple who bought the place after Grandmere passed away. They’re a gay couple, believe it or not, and they’ve put a lot of work into the old place. They have a small apartment in Stockholm, but they basically live on Tynnigo year-round.”
“So, the same ferry still goes there?” Karl asked incredulously.
Sven smiled. “Well, it’s a new ferry now—but yes, there is a twice-daily ferry.” Guiding the SUV onto the exit ramp, he continued. “Anyway, Rob and I still have the business together, and so we see each other every day. We’re still very much involved in each other’s lives, but he moved out about eight months ago.”
“Are you guys seeing anyone else?” Karl asked cautiously.
“Rob’s been going out some, but then he always was a lot more social than I am. I’m not seeing anyone, and to tell you the truth, I really don’t have the energy or the time, between work and taking care of Mom and Dad.”
Karl raised his eyebrows and turned in his seat to get a better read on his brother’s face as he spoke. While Sven seemed perfectly at ease with what he was saying, it was what he wasn’t saying that disturbed Karl. “Well, you seem to be handling it very well, but I had no idea Mom and Dad took so much looking after.”
Sven’s brow creased and his grasp on the steering wheel tightened noticeably. Choosing his words very carefully, he said, “They are getting old, Karl. Small things are sometimes very difficult for them. I’m happy to be close enough to be able to take care of them.”
Karl merely nodded, taking in the casual explanation and weighing it against his brother’s body language. He thought for a moment before he said, “No one has said anything to me about all this… all this shit going on with you guys. Is there anything else I need to know that I don’t?”
“Nothing that affects you directly,’’ Sven responded a little abruptly.
“Sven, look… I know I live eight hundred miles away, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care about you guys. I mean, you and Rob considering splitting up… I had no idea, and to tell you the truth, Dad’s call out of the blue summoning my family on short notice came as sort of a surprise. What’s going on down here?”
“Just life, Karl,” Sven responded with a sigh. “Life just gets to be a bitch sometimes. We’re not a particularly close family. That’s not the kind of people we are. I wasn’t about to call you and whine and cry because Rob decided to move into a condo he inherited. He’s busy fixing it up with an eye toward resale. The whole condo thing dropped in his lap at a time when we needed a break. It is what it is. I’m okay.”
“Fine,” Karl responded, a bit hurt. “I’ll admit to being a little distant, but that doesn’t mean I don’t give a damn,” he repeated emphatically once more, as much to convince himself as Sven.
Sven glanced over and made eye contact with his brother. “I know that, Karl. But I also know that you don’t particularly like being bothered with the details. It’s not a problem, don’t worry about it.”
Karl met his brother’s gaze, stung, and felt dismissed when his brother had to return his attention to his driving. “What’s up with Mom and Dad, Sven? What are the details you think I don’t care to be bothered with?”
Sven slowed the car and turned down an alley behind a row of pretty shops on a busy downtown street. “Look,” he said as he pulled into a parking space beside a dumpster. “Dad’s come to some decisions he wants to discuss with you. Tonight, over some excellent single-malt scotch—which is his latest obsession—I’m sure he’ll fill you in. Meanwhile, we’re here. Welcome to Tynnigo in West Palm Beach.”
With that, Sven turned off the engine, unbuckled his seat belt, and nimbly twisted to retrieve a handful of fabric swatch books from the floor behind Karl’s seat. With the bulky things m hand, he opened his car door and got out. There was nothing for Karl to do but follow. Sven strode to the shop’s steel back door and unlocked its three locks in a swift maneuver of three different keys. He opened the door and stood aside so Karl could enter first. With a small smile for his brother, Karl stepped inside the shop’s storage room. It was surprisingly well organized, with its boxes and assorted pieces of furniture tidily regimented into rows. Behind him, Karl heard Sven rebolt all the locks before he stepped ahead and motioned around the room. “It’s a little sparse in here right now,” Sven explained earnestly, “but I’m expecting a new container in a couple of weeks.”
Karl nodded sagely, out of his element though he was. “This container… exactly what is it?”
“A shipping container,” Sven said excitedly, “just like you see them loading on ships. It comes into the port, they load it onto a tractor-trailer rig, and deliver it here, all the way from Stockholm. I was there the first week of January and managed to find some nice things.”
Karl raised his eyebrows in admiration “You did do some shopping, world class.”
Sven chuckled. “You’ve never been to my shop before, have you?”
Karl shook his head. “I actually have no idea what you sell, other than antiques, which is a fairly broad category, isn’t it?”
“C’mon,” Sven said, and turned to stride toward the front of the building. “There’s a lot more here than a bunch of old junk, I promise you.”
Karl followed along behind him until they passed through an open door into the store itself. Light streamed in through the generous glass facing the street and illuminated the large space cheerily. The walls were painted a pale shade of grayish blue that gave the store a cool feel despite the sunniness of the setting. Pots of red geraniums bloomed in the cool brightness, punctuating the vignettes of furniture and wares with vivid points of red. Their grandmother had grown geraniums and nurtured their bright blooms as a source of cheer against the long Swedish winters. Their mother had continued the habit even in southern Florida’s seasonal ambience, so geraniums had also punctuated Karl’s life as a kid. Immediately, he felt a sense of nostalgia tug at the edges of his consciousness.
The store was empty of people but for a young man who stood several paces away, folding some heavy-looking wool blankets. He looked up and gave Karl a nod and Sven a more open smile.
“Johann, come meet my brother,” Sven said.
The young man responded by placing the blanket on top of a stack on a table and walking toward them purposefully. Karl noted he was exceptionally good-looking. He was Karl’s height, with a h
ead full of black curls and honey-colored skin. The muscles in his shoulders and upper arms impressively filled the tight black sweater he wore, and Karl was struck by his animal sleekness as he joined them with his hand extended. Karl took the hand offered him and returned its firm grasp briefly before letting go. “Good morning, I’m Karl Preston.”
“Johann Vidal,” the young man responded. “I hope you had a nice flight. Sven has been looking forward to your visit.”
Karl smiled in return and tried to place Johann’s accent. His inflections told him English wasn’t his first language. “Where are you from?” Karl asked bluntly.
“Johann is from Venezuela,” Sven interrupted.
The young man smiled shyly, then said, “I have been in the United States since I was a child, but I still live with my parents and we speak Spanish at home. I forget I have an accent, but so do you. You sound more southern than Sven.”
Karl was taken aback a bit. He didn’t think he sounded particularly southern at all, but living with Caroline’s flat eastern North Carolina drawl and his many years in the Raleigh area had left their mark. “I’m like you,’’ he said easily. “We speak southern—another language—at home.” Sven and Johann both laughed, and Karl felt pleased with himself.
“My mother’s father is from Germany,” Johann replied, “so even in Venezuela I had an accent.”
“Ah,” Karl said. “That just makes you a citizen of the whole world.”
“Would you like an espresso, or some Fiji water?” Johann offered.
“Go ahead, if you like,” Sven encouraged him. “I have to go upstairs to drop these swatches off in Rob’s office and check in with him. You can look around down here for a few minutes and see what the shop is all about.”
Karl thought of his two drinks on the plane and felt their lingering languor. “An espresso would be great, if it’s not an imposition,” he said to Johann.
“It is no problem,” Johann said. “We like to treat our customers as guests. A little espresso or cappuccino encourages them to linger and look around. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fix you right up.”
