Everything I Don't Remember (21 page)

“That’s awesome,” said Panther.

Then we were quiet again. After a few minutes Samuel stood up to go outside and check his signal.

“Have you noticed anything weird about him?” I said.

“What do you mean, weird?” said Panther.

“Is it just me or is he a little . . . different?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t talked about his bad memory even once—maybe that’s new. But otherwise, no. Or. He
is
madly in love. That’ll make you
weird.”

Samuel returned with his phone.

“Can one of you text me? Maybe there’s something wrong with the network.”

I sent a text from my Swedish phone. His phone beeped right away.

“DAMMIT!” he yelled.

And then, a little more softly:

“Fucking shit.”

*

He said that Berlin’s official slogan is “poor but sexy” and that it’s still possible to find cheap housing and that furthermore there is a strong
anti-capitalist movement. There are squatters, and they’re left alone, and near Panther’s apartment there was a store full of free stuff.

“Isn’t that crazy? You can just go in and take whatever you want and if you wanted you could leave something in return, but you didn’t have to, either. Just think, what if
that’s the way to start, to take a little place and make it into an example of an alternative, say, ‘Look, this way could work too, what if this world is within reach? Things
don’t have to be the way they’ve always been.’ And that’s true not only on a societal level, but also on a more personal level, do you know what I mean?”

I tried to nod, I tried to smile.

*

It was starting to get late, it was the last night, Panther’s guy didn’t show up and something had to happen. Samuel came back from the bar with a pen and paper, he
looked decisive.

“Let’s turn this around,” he said.

The plan was to have a competition. The goal: to make the night as memorable as possible. The strategy: everyone writes three challenges on a piece of paper. The pieces of paper are put in a
bowl. Whoever completes the most tasks in the shortest time wins.

“Wins what?” said Panther.

“I don’t know—just wins,” said Samuel.

“What kind of challenges should they be?” I asked.

“It can be anything. But it has to be possible to complete, on a practical level.”

I wrote, more or less:

*

Samuel said that on the last night they had Vietnamese and then they went to a soul club and all in all, it was an awesome trip.

“But—”

He paused.

“There was something about being away from you that made me . . . I don’t know . . . I really had time to think while I was there. I thought about us, about you, about me, about this
thing we’re trying to build up, this thing that’s on its way to being
us
. And you need to understand how awful I feel when you don’t answer my texts. You just go silent.
Like a fucking parent. And then I’m sitting there, in a foreign country, terrified that something happened.”

*

Then we folded up the scraps of paper and placed them in the tea-light holder on the table. Panther got Samuel’s list, Samuel got mine, and I got Panther’s. And I
hardly had time to read what Panther had written before Samuel was off and running. He went straight up to the table next to ours and said
änshyll-digung
and explained that he was so
terribly “
törstich
is it okay if I . . .” And then he started drinking from their bottles of beer. Then he slid out to the dance floor and grabbed a blond girl by the hair.
Then he went up on the stage, tapped the DJ on the shoulder, and stuck his arms out in a daring sort of Macarena dance. The DJ just looked at Samuel, his surprised eyes as round as his headphones.
When Samuel received no response, he smiled and leaned over and whispered something in the DJ’s ear. Then he left the stage and came back to our table. Panther and I applauded, but then I
discovered that it was just me because Panther was missing, she wasn’t in her spot, when I glanced toward the entrance there she was, standing on tiptoe and hugging a tall guy with dreads.
Samuel looked at Panther.

“Vandad. I love her. I want to be with her always.”

“Which one?” I said.

*

I wanted to respond, I tried to explain what happens inside me when someone leaves and how hard it is for me to trust people and that I had gotten the feeling that his texts
weren’t honest, that they were written only to reassure me, so that I wouldn’t worry, and for that very reason I started worrying, and— He cut me off.

“But Laide. Don’t you know that I love you?”

*

On the last day we woke up around lunchtime. Samuel and I were lying under the blanket in the cold bedroom. We were wearing the same clothes as the day before, we smelled like
cigarette smoke and yesterday’s beer. Samuel gave a start and quickly rose from the mattress.

“Everything okay?”

I nodded. Noises from the bathroom told us that Panther was awake—first the sound of puking and then an electric toothbrush. Samuel started tossing his belongings into his suitcase.

“When does the plane leave? We’re not going to miss it, are we? Should we take a taxi or are there any buses to the airport?”

“We’re going to take a taxi and you’re going to pay for it,” I jokingly said.

“Sure. Of course. I just have to make sure I have enough euros.”

Panther came out of the bathroom, stretched, and asked if we wanted breakfast.

“Is this the way you live here?” Samuel asked.

“Pretty much. When I’m not working.”

“When do you work?” I asked.

“When I need to. Should I call a taxi?”

The last sounds we heard after we’d hugged goodbye and gathered our bags to head down to the street were a few gags and the mechanical buzz of the electric toothbrush, like a
battery-driven bumblebee.

*

Samuel said it like he wasn’t even thinking about what would happen if I didn’t say it back. He said it like he’d just realized it himself. He said it like he
was overjoyed at the realization. He said it and then he smiled that brilliant, yellow-toothed smile that made girl cashiers postpone their breaks and made bouncers become suspicious. He said it
like he didn’t give a single fuck that the balance of power between us would be forever shaken if I didn’t respond in kind.

“I love you too,” I said.

An abyss opened up beneath us. We clung to each other and persuaded ourselves that we could fly.

*

Then we came home. I applied for more jobs. I applied to be a fish farmer, a fire-damage cleaner, a car re-conditioner. Always the same response. Or the same non-response. I
borrowed Samuel’s bike instead of buying a Metro pass. I returned bottles so I could afford food. All throughout, I kept thinking that things would work themselves out. But I wasn’t
sure how. Hamza started calling with updates about compounding interest.

*

Are you okay? Should we take a break? Should we stop there and continue another day? You look tired. Do you have allergies? We’re nearly there, so I’d prefer to keep
going. Would you like more coffee? Should we go sit out on the balcony?

*

In early July, Samuel called and his voice sounded like he’d been running.

“Are you at home?”

I was about to say “of course.” But instead I said:

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“We need your help.”

I had my shoes on before he had even told me what was up. I ran down the stairs just as he was saying that there had been “trouble at the house.”

“The house?” I asked.

“Yeah, Grandma’s house.”

Apparently someone who shouldn’t have been there had been there and the women were frightened, so Samuel and Laide were on their way over and he said it would be really great if I could
come by too.

I was already on my way, I knew the deal, they couldn’t call the police so instead they called me, they needed some muscle for backup, they needed an extra brain to handle the situation.
Samuel texted me the address and I started running toward the house, then I saw on the map how far it was, turned back to the apartment, and grabbed Samuel’s bike.

It was our rule from the start that the house had to be kept a secret. I had told this to everyone who moved in.

“This is a temporary refuge and there are several people here who are under threat, so be careful who you give the address to.”

But one day Bill contacted Nihad and claimed that he knew where she was. He included the address of the house and described in great detail what he would do to her once he found her. We went
over. Samuel wanted us to call Vandad right away.

“Why?” I asked.

“For safety reasons.”

I don’t really know how sumo-sized Vandad was supposed to make the women any safer, but I let Samuel call him. I thought it couldn’t hurt to have more than two of us. And Samuel
guaranteed we could trust Vandad.

*

I whizzed toward Hägerstensvägen, I fought my way up Personnevägen, I flew across the E4 bridge. I tilted like a motorcycle through the curve onto
Älvsjövägen. When I arrived, Samuel and Laide were still on the commuter train.

“Wait down by the mailbox,” said Samuel. “Don’t go in by yourself, we don’t know whether he’s still in the house or not.”

I waited by the mailbox, I planted my legs wide between the two stone pillars at the bottom of the hill. I gazed up at the house that wasn’t a house. It was a palace. It
had three stories and a large yard and a separate garage. Even if it was painted brown and the curtains were drawn, it wouldn’t have been totally out of the question to make a hip-hop video
here. The honeys in bikinis could chill on the terrace, the guest rappers could park their Lexuses on the gravel hill, you could put the grill full of steaks and the coolers of frosty forties over
there by the bushes. I stood there lost in my thoughts until I noticed Laide and Samuel running toward me from the station.

They were holding hands. Their hair was the same shade of black. They ran in perfect rhythm, although one was running with knees as high as a gazelle (Laide) and the other was running as if he
didn’t want his body to leave the ground (Samuel). There are few things as difficult as running while holding hands, and I remember that when I saw them I thought: Okay. Maybe they are meant
for each other. Maybe I just have to accept it. Maybe I was wrong.

Although their faces were clouded with worry, they looked happy. Samuel hugged me and thanked me for coming. Laide nodded and headed up the hill.

“Wait here,” said Samuel. “We’ll go up and check it out. Keep an eye out.”

“For what?”

“A blue Saab station wagon,” Laide called.

I stayed put. I laid Samuel’s bike down across the gravel path like a roadblock. I imagined that there was a hip-hop video shoot taking place behind my back and that I was in charge of
security, I liked the feeling, I was in the right place at the right time and I kept an eye on every car that approached. They were mostly Volvos and Audis and BMWs and Mercedes, and the occasional
Toyota Prius. Fifteen minutes passed. Half an hour. Samuel called and said that they were almost finished.

“Is everything okay? Do you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine,” I replied. “I have everything I need.”

No blue Saab station wagon ever appeared. When Samuel and Laide came back down the hill, they thanked me for my help, they said everything had gone just fine, but I don’t know exactly what
they meant by that. “Fine” as in they had learned that the guy had been apprehended? “Fine” as in the girl he had threatened was going to move somewhere else?

“Can I buy you lunch as thanks?” said Samuel.

We went to a lunch place that was further down the same street. We filled our plates at the buffet. We sat down at a table. Samuel and I next to each other, Laide alone on the other side. We
were supposed to talk, we were supposed to get to know each other, we were supposed to become friends. But Laide seemed absolutely uninterested. She spent lunch with her phone out, looking up
different women’s shelters, she had a chat with a person who I think was someone’s lawyer. Between her calls I tried to ask questions, but she would only respond with one word at a
time, two at the max.

When we stood up to leave and Samuel went up to the register to pay, she said:

“THANKS for buying us lunch, Samuel.”

Then she glanced at me as if she wanted me to repeat after her like a trained monkey. I didn’t say thanks. I had nothing to thank him for. Samuel and I had a different kind of friendship,
one that was independent of money. So it had always been and so it would continue until the very end.

*

I never felt safe with Vandad. It didn’t matter how much Samuel talked about his loyalty. There was a darkness to Vandad. I couldn’t trust him. Every time we met he
did his utmost to make me feel like an outsider. In the middle of a sentence he would start laughing and elbow Samuel in the side.

“That reminds me of Berlin. Do you remember . . . ?”

Samuel nodded. Or:

“Shit, do you remember the night at East?”

Samuel smiled.

“Girlz up hoez down, right? Broz before hoez!”

Vandad raised his hand in a give-me-five and Samuel looked self-conscious as he returned it. I sat there like an idiot. Later, when I asked Samuel what was so funny about the night at East or
Berlin, he said you probably had to be there to get it.

One time, all three of us ate lunch together. Vandad cracked his knuckles and eyed me. Samuel was struggling to keep up a conversation. He asked if we had any plans for the weekend and what we
had done last weekend and the more I watched him struggle, the more forced the whole situation felt. At last Samuel went to the bathroom and Vandad and I were left behind in a tense silence you
could have cut with a knife. He looked at me and said: