Montecore (14 page)

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 mustache 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 uniform, 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.

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 …