The Invoice (10 page)

It was somehow easier to talk to her now. It felt more like talking to a friend. Even if she was still using that factual tone of voice. I realized that to her ears I must sound like an extremely sensitive, intuitive person. She was so correct. So definite. I suddenly got the impression that I was the opposite. But what did that mean? Wrong? And abstract?

“You're good at Sporcle,” she said. “You get very high scores. Especially on film titles and directors.”

“Too right!” I said. “I'm right up there…well…somewhere in the middle.”

She laughed.

“You don't have to cover up anything,” she said. “Anyway, we've already got the information.”

“Mmm,” I said. “Okay, I'm pretty good.”

I ran my hand across the floor. I ended up with a pale gray strand of dust on my fingertips. I really should get the Hoover out.

“Is it fun, your job?” I asked after a pause.

“I'm not sure about fun,” she said. “It's exciting to be part of the big change, and the work feels useful…I mean, it's an important task…”

“That Georg,” I said.

“Yes?”

“He's…What's he like?”

She thought for a moment.

“I don't know the people up there very well. But as far as I know, he's smart, and knows the procedures very well. Out of everyone at W.R.D., he's probably the one who's best at—”

“Does he dye his hair?”

She fell silent again.

“Hmm…” she began. “Does he dye his hair? I don't actually know.”

“I bet he does,” I said. “He reminds me of a character in a film.”

“Oh?” she said.

“I just can't remember which one.”

I crumpled the piece of kitchen roll into a ball and dabbed my cheeks again.

“Have you always liked films?” she asked after a brief pause.

I sniffed a yes down the phone.

“How long have you worked in the video shop?”

I thought she ought to have that in her files, but took a deep breath and thought about it. I cleared my throat and made an attempt to steady my voice.

“Er,” I said, “it must be nine years now.”

She said nothing at first, as if she too was wondering if this really sounded like a ten-million-kronor life.

“So what's your favorite film?” she asked eventually.

“My favorite film? Oh, I don't know, it's so hard to choose. I almost always think there's something good in every film…”

I could hear her smiling at the other end.

“I could have guessed that,” she said.

“I mean, it's so hard to pick just
one
film.”

She muttered in what could been agreement, or just an indication that she knew I was going to say that as well.

“But there is one scene,” I said, after a pause. “In a Bosnian film called
The Bridge
.”

“
The Bridge
?”

“Yes, it isn't a very well-known film. You probably haven't seen it, but…it's, I don't know…I often think about that scene.”

“Why do you do that?”

“It's…How can I put it? It's good. It's a good scene. Anyway, what's your favorite film?”

She coughed.

“Mine?” she said. “Oh, I don't watch a lot of films.”

I was on the point of saying I could have guessed that, but stopped myself.

“But you must have seen some?”

“Well,” she said, “nothing very memorable.”

“So what do you do, then?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I work,” she said quickly, and laughed.

I joined in. These conversations of ours were starting to feel fairly intimate. As if we'd crossed a boundary. As if we could talk about things that really mattered. Openly and honestly. Without embarrassment.

“No, but seriously?” I said.

She didn't reply at first.

“Well, I do work a lot, you know.”

We both fell silent.

“So, what do you like most?” I eventually asked. “Films? Music?”

She laughed again. Unless it was more of a giggle.

“Art? Theater, maybe?” I went on.

“No, not theater,” she said.

“No?”

“No, I don't know…”

“Books?”

More silence. It was obvious that she wasn't used to this sort of role reversal. She wasn't at all comfortable answering questions, and would much rather do the asking herself.

“What do you do to relax?” I persisted.

“Well,” she said, “I like reading the paper…”

Another silence, and I didn't really know what to say. I let my eyes drift from the ceiling to the sofa with its threadbare cover. She made a rustling sound, then drank some more tea or coffee. I tried to imagine her at home. The silence was still fairly comfortable.

“What amount did you get?” I said.

“No,” she said firmly. “We don't discuss our personal amounts with…”

She didn't finish the sentence, and I never found out what she was going to call someone like me.

“Okay,” I said, “but you could still tell me, couldn't you?”

“It's completely against the rules for an employee to divulge…”

“How about bending the rules a bit?”

She didn't answer at first.

“Like I said, it's best not to make comparisons,” she said. “It's not helpful.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But…?”

She was breathing through her nose. I imagined I could see her smiling.

“Well, it came to a fair bit,” she said.

“How much?”

She laughed.

“Look, I really shouldn't…”

I could almost see her top lip curl. She was probably hoping I would leave it at that, that I would realize I had gone too far and drop the subject, but when I didn't say anything she finally came clean:

“700,000, more or less.”

We were both silent for a while as the amount hovered in the air between us.

“But,” I eventually said, “that's nothing!”

“Like I said, it's extremely difficult to make direct comparisons…”

I sat up.

“So what is it about you that means—”

She raised her voice as she interrupted me.

“Sorry, it was stupid of me to agree to this. I really don't want us to discuss my private—”

“But that's incredible,” I went on. “What have I got that you—”

“Like I said, it's hard to see how everything fits together…”

“Why didn't you end up with a higher—”

She interrupted me again, loudly.

“I got a low score in affirmation! Okay?”

“Okay.”

“My muscarinic cholinergic system doesn't allow for high results in certain areas,” she said, then fell silent as if she thought I should make do with that as an explanation.

“Mmm,” I said. “And in the sort of language you can actually understand?”

“I scored very low in the individual aspect. Low durability in the reward section.”

I pondered those words for a moment.

“What does that mean?”

“That I'm bad at…Oh, I don't know…”

Then it was like she suddenly lost patience.

“What do you want me to say?! How am I supposed to explain this to you? There aren't any easier words! I'm just bad at…”

“Rewarding yourself?” I said.

She said nothing for a long time.

“You need to learn to
Experience
,” I said.

She laughed.

“Like you?” she said.

“Like me,” I said.

“Hmm. And look where that's got you…”

The windows were open while we talked. The night outside was still and warm. Nothing but the sound of a party in the distance. Funny how you can always recognize the sound, no matter how distant it is. Young people, perhaps thinking of going off for a swim in the moonlight, maybe staying up all night. Getting hold of some wine or beer and falling asleep together in a park somewhere as the first light of morning started to appear.

I asked if she sang, and at first she sounded irritated, as if she thought I was making fun of her. But when I said she had a good voice for jazz, and that it would be exciting to hear her sing, she laughed and said she'd think about it, that she didn't know much about jazz, and that there was absolutely no way it was going to happen that night. I don't know how long we talked to each other, but my cheek was starting to feel very hot, and I had to switch the phone to my other ear. It felt odd hearing her voice on that side.

“I think you should go to bed now,” I said.

She laughed.

“Well, I tried that, but someone called and woke me up.”

“So why do you always answer?”

She didn't say anything to that.

“You don't have to pick up,” I said.

She still said nothing. But I could hear her breathing softly. Perhaps she was lying down. It felt like she was. I imagined I could see her in front of me, lying on her side, more or less the same as me, with the phone pressed against her cheek, her eyes closed.

“You've handled this really well,” I said. “The other day I thought you'd written a really nice report about me. I'm very happy with the way you've dealt with me. I feel both informed and well looked after.”

I heard her take a deep breath.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But you're happy with so little…”

I pressed the phone closer to my ear.

“I think you deserve to switch that phone off now,” I said.

Silence.

“If you don't want to talk, I mean…”

Another long silence. I put the phone in my other hand and carefully brushed some hair from my hot forehead.

“But if you do want to talk to me,” I said, “we can do that. I think that would be lovely. I really like talking to you. But if you'd rather not, that's fine too. But I think my case has been dealt with now, to put it in professional terms or whatever it is. You just have to hang up and go to bed. I wouldn't think any the worse of you if you did.”

She didn't make a sound. But she didn't hang up.

I lay down on the sofa and put the phone to my normal ear again.

“In
The Bridge
,” I began, “close to the end of the film, it's so moving. They see each other in a café. Well…”

I wasn't sure if I should describe the scene, but something in the atmosphere, now that we were just sitting and listening to each other's silence, led me to carry on.

“They were lovers before…but they haven't seen each other for several years, for the entire duration of the war. Then suddenly, one day…She's there in the café and he just happens to pass by. There's something going on, I think they're both due in court…They can't let on that they know each other. The atmosphere is strained. Neither of them dares to speak. They're about to go to court. They're on different sides of the case. She's there with her family, who are the accused…He's there to give evidence against her brother or uncle or something. He catches sight of her from the square outside. And, as I said, they haven't seen each other for…actually, I'm not really sure. I don't remember the rest of the film that well. But it's been a while, anyway. Quite a long time. Several years. And suddenly there they are. He's standing. She's sitting down. Yes, that's it. She's sitting at a table in the café. And suddenly they catch sight of each other. They look at each other. Neither of them says anything. Neither of them does much at all, in fact. There's no big reaction, but rather the reverse: almost no reaction at all. But it still means so much. It's like a perfect example of a really good film scene. If you watched it out of context you wouldn't understand a thing. You'd just see two people staring at each other. Not even that, in fact. Because they really don't do much. They look at each other and realize who the other is. I think he looks at his watch at one point. He realizes that there's still plenty of time before the trial starts. He decides to sit down on the spare chair at the same table. And, well, a worse actress could have made a right mess of it by overacting and trying to show her old infatuation, anxiety, anguish or excitement, sadness, anything at all. But she doesn't. She doesn't move a muscle. Yet we still know exactly what she's feeling. And that's precisely why we know. They sit there for a long time, on either side of the table, next to each other, but both facing away. Watching people go past in the street. She raises her cup of tea or coffee or whatever it is at regular intervals. His arm is resting on the top of the table. He's holding a packet of cigarettes and turns it every so often, standing it on end, then laying it down again. At one point a waiter comes over and takes an order, and then an old man comes over and talks to her. Presumably a relative. We don't hear what they say because there's music throughout the scene, but he's probably telling her it's time to head off to the courthouse. Once again, a less talented actor could have spoiled things by acting out too much anxiety or angst or whatever. But the man just sits there.

“Once the other man has left they just go on sitting like that, facing away from each other. Him with his arm on the table, holding the packet of cigarettes in his hand. She's still holding her coffee cup. Suddenly he lets go of the cigarette packet and moves his hand a couple of centimeters toward her. Neither of them says anything. They both seem fully absorbed in watching the street. Gradually she moves her hand toward him, and for a moment the backs of their hands touch. One of her fingers trembles slightly. He takes a breath. Her little finger nudges his. That's all. It's so well done. It's so sensual. I mean, bloody hell, I can feel myself shiver just describing it.”

Maud let out a laugh at the other end of the line.

“It sounds very good,” she said.

“I know, it really is!” I said. “It's bloody brilliant!”

She laughed again.

We carried on talking until early in the morning. The sun rose slowly above the rooftops and shone its rays into the apartment. Birds twittered as Maud talked more about her work. She revealed that she was hoping to get a position on the distribution committee, in phase two, when all the money was going to be shared out. I understood that she had been aiming for that the whole time, that that was what motivated her. I ended up listening to long descriptions of how the redistribution process would work, and tried to ask interesting follow-up questions.

We played a quiz on the subject of “me.” Maud was unbelievably good at it, even if I suspected that she was cheating and looking at her files occasionally, although she claimed she was lying in bed and didn't have any professional material at hand.

“It's been a while,” she laughed. “But I really am in bed now.”

“Good!” I said.

We talked a bit about Roger, and Maud wondered if he was really a particularly good friend, and I had to explain that he did have his good sides, even if it was hard to spot them at first glance.

At some point in the early hours of the morning I asked if I could have her cell phone number, so my calls wouldn't have to be redirected to her, but she said that was against the rules, they weren't allowed to give out any private numbers.

“They're very strict about that,” she said.

Eventually the early birds began to emerge from their doorways down in the street. I could hear their rapid footsteps. The street cleaners drove around, and slowly it got warmer and warmer inside the apartment as we carried on chatting about all manner of things. We debated, laughed, disagreed with each other, fell silent, listening and waiting for the other to speak, the way I thought only teenagers did, and I could feel my head getting more and more fuzzy. The conversation became increasingly fragmented. I lurched from one emotion to the other. Laughed and cried. Lay there quietly and listened. Argued calmly at times, and held long, vaguely philosophical monologues. Every now and then I would lose my train of thought and stop abruptly in the middle of a sentence. Maud just seemed to get more and more giggly. It was nice to hear her like that. I began to worry about how she was going be able to cope with a day's work when she hadn't had any sleep, but decided not to broach the subject in case it led to her hanging up, because I didn't want that. Not now, when we seemed to have crossed some sort of line and anything seemed possible. Besides, she was a grown woman. Anyway, what did I know? Maybe she was on some sort of flextime. She certainly gave the impression that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. Considerably better than me, for instance.

I might have dozed off on the floor for a nanosecond. Perhaps Maud did as well. I felt tired, but in a good way. Drowsy, almost like being drunk. Every so often I would make an effort to pull myself together, and when Maud finally began to hint that it might be time to end the call, I got it into my head to try to summarize what I had meant to say at the outset.

“Okay, well, er…” I began, letting out a big yawn. “So, what now, then…? Do you think it would be feasible to…? I mean, it ought to be possible to correct my, er, E.H. score?”

I barely managed to get the sentence out, and Maud just giggled at me.

“Hmm…you mean change it?”

“Yes?”

“Based on what you've told me tonight?”

“Yes?”

“Hmm…No, I'm sorry.”

We sat in silence for a while, and eventually I couldn't help laughing too. It was all just too much. I rolled onto my side and ended up with the phone pressed between my cheek and the floor.

“Oh, what the hell!” I said, and sighed. “I don't know. I suppose my life isn't that bloody awful.”

“No?”

Now she sounded both amused and surprised.

“Well,” I said, “I mean, it depends entirely on what expectations you have, doesn't it?”

“I think it sounds pretty good,” she said.

I sighed again.

“Yes, but ten million kronor? Come on, I'd have thought you'd get a bit more for that sort of money…”

I got up on my knees, looked out through the window, and caught sight of the potted plant on my neighbor's balcony. It was barely recognizable. The leaves were drooping over the edge of the pot, and there was something brown sticking up from the middle. I went and got a glass of water from the kitchen and tried to reach it with a few quick throws. Most of the water missed, and I wasn't sure if I was doing any good at all or just making the situation worse for the poor plant. I lay back down on the floor, took several deep breaths, and suddenly felt a fresh wave of tears rising up inside me.

“And I can't help thinking about Sunita,” I said. “It seems so incredibly tragic.”

“Sunita?” Maud said.

“Yes, it was all a long while ago now, but I still find myself thinking about it the whole time. It still hurts…”

Instinctively I put my hand to my heart. As if she could see me. As if it could somehow emphasize the pain I felt.

“Sunita?”

“Yes.”

“Who's Sunita?” Maud said in an entirely different tone of voice.

“Sunita. She was the great love of my life. We could have—”

Maud interrupted me.

“Hang on. We don't have any information about…”

“What?” I said.

I rolled onto my stomach and leaned my elbows on the floor. Down the line I could hear her get out of bed and tap at her computer.

“I haven't got anything about a Sunita,” she said.

I got up on my knees, rubbed my eyes, and tried to think straight.