The Invoice (5 page)

With some reluctance, I had to admit that I was actually pretty happy with my life. I didn't really have anything to complain about. No impoverished childhood, no addictions or abuse or emotionally cold upper-class teenage years at a prisonlike boarding school. The years I spent in our little terraced house on Fågelvägen seemed to have passed without any real conscious thought. My parents were dead now, but, to be fair, they were both well over seventy when they died, so not even that could be counted as particularly traumatic. And I still had my sister, even though we didn't see much of each other these days. The best thing about her was her kids. In limited doses. I was undeservedly happy with my tranquil existence here in my apartment, and I'd never really dreamed of anything more. I hadn't had a proper relationship since Sunita, and naturally I sometimes wished I had a girlfriend, but I had to admit that most of the time I was happy on my own, and the Internet came in very useful.

I didn't miss company. On the contrary, I was happy if I could avoid it. Especially compared to my sister's chaotic life, trying to juggle work and preschool and vomiting bugs and family therapy sessions. I couldn't really think of any injustice that had left any deep scars. Roger was always falling out with people. He often told me about the quarrels he had with his brother, or the National Insurance people, the Tax Office, people he owed money to, or who owed him money. Obviously I got upset and miserable sometimes, but most of the time I soon forgot about it and moved on. That sort of thing never really made much of an impression on me. I loved my parents, and of course I missed them, but I didn't actually have a problem accepting the fact that they were gone. That was just the way it was.

I tried to remember the last time I was properly angry. The previous week I swore out loud to myself when the handle of a paper bag broke and all my shopping fell out onto the pavement. I had to carry it all in my arms, and was seriously cross by the time I eventually made it back to the apartment. But it passed, and I was soon in a good mood again when I realized I had three copies of the
Metro
in the apartment with their crosswords still unsolved.

Maybe I didn't take problems seriously enough, and just took everything that was thrown at me without protest. Was I too gullible, too accepting? Should I set higher demands? Would I actually be better off if I was more suspicious, a better negotiator?

I heated up a slice of pizza in the microwave. It was good, but there wasn't enough of it. Then I sat at the kitchen table for a while, just thinking. The soft, warm summer air had become sticky and suffocating. It was difficult to think clearly, all my thoughts just bounced around. Any sense of true harmony was impossible to achieve. I noticed I was having trouble sitting still. So I phoned again. Even though it was past eight o'clock in the evening.

“I've actually been very anxious,” I said.

“You have?” Maud said. “When?”

I pushed my knife and fork together on the plate and suddenly realized I was thirsty. I should have had a drink before I called. I could feel my mouth sticking together with nerves.

“What?” I said. “How do you mean…?”

“What days?”

I gulped a few times.

“You mean I'm supposed to remember exactly what days—”

She interrupted me without apologizing. She was fed up of me now. I could tell. “If you want a deduction for anxiety, I need to know the precise times.”

“I can get a deduction for anxiety?”

“Provided it can be verified, or you can give us specific dates that can be compared with other activities that aren't incompatible with poor mental health, then obviously you can set reduced mental well-being against your total E.H. score. What year are we talking about?”

I nudged the cutlery round the edge of the plate, a bit like the hands of a clock, and did a quick calculation in my head.

“Er…this year,” I said.

“Month?”

I wasn't used to lying or making things up. My mouth felt even drier, and I got the impression it was audible in my voice. But on some level I felt I had to make the most of any opportunity, and took a chance.

“January,” I said.

“Okay, I can't see any note to that effect,” she said.

“No, but it's true.”

“Mmm…And on a scale of one to five, where one is normal and five incapable of any activity at all?”

“Well, er…five,” I said.

I thought it was probably best to exaggerate.

“Goodness,” she said. “What date?”

“The first.”

“The first of January?”

“Mmm. And the second and third.”

“Okay. Any other dates?”

I hesitated for a moment.

“No, that was about it…” I said.

“So everything was okay again on the fourth?”

“Yes, I suppose so…”

“Suddenly nothing?”

“Er…yes.”

I heard her take a sip of coffee or tea. A drink would have been nice.

“Is this really true?” she said after a brief pause.

I was a hopeless liar. I knew it. It would have been embarrassing to go on.

“Well…no,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I guessed as much. How about you and I agree to stop messing about now? Then we can try to come up with a proper solution to this instead.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling pathetic. “Sorry.”

She murmured something. And I got the impression that she didn't think it was that big an issue. That she was prepared to overlook it, and that she'd probably experienced similar things before.

“But I do suffer from anxiety,” I said. “Honestly. I can't remember any specific dates or exactly how bad it was, but…well…I feel really bad sometimes.”

“Okay…”

There was a different tone to her voice now. Sympathetic, somehow. A bit like a psychologist, maybe. Perhaps they were trained to sound that way, to keep people calm.

“I often get anxious about nothing special,” I said.

“Oh?”

“And I don't know why. I get hurt easily, and I'm very sensitive about everything, without any particular reason. In the spring, for instance, when you'd expect to be happy and cheerful. I often feel a bit depressed then.”

I could hear her drinking more coffee as I talked.

“You realize that's all part of the experience, don't you?” she said eventually.

“Sorry?”

“And that it's the whole experience that you're paying for?”

I pulled my fork across the plate, knocking the knife off. It clattered against the porcelain. She went on: “Think about it like this: when you go to the cinema—one day you might see a comedy, the next a tearjerker. The experience isn't any the less valid as a result. It all gives E.H. points, you see. You know as well as I do that pain isn't a universally negative emotion, don't you?”

I said nothing.

“We wouldn't want to eat nothing but sweet things…just as little as we'd want to avoid all adversity. In fact, there has to be a degree of adversity for us to appreciate our blessings. I mean, think about the mix of ingredients in really good food dishes. Like that song Lasse Berghagen sings about Stockholm, ‘A mixture of sweet and salt'…”

I pushed the plate across the table. Raised my hand and massaged my forehead. She went on: “Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. Your case has already been assessed.”

“Is this a punishment?” I said suddenly. “Because I haven't mourned my parents enough?”

“What?” she said, sounding genuinely surprised. “What makes you say that?”

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I could feel myself getting a headache.

“Well, maybe it hasn't had time to sink in properly yet. I've just been carrying on as normal. Is that insensitive of me? I mean…maybe I haven't been as upset as I should have been…My sister did a lot of crying and screaming, then got all quiet and depressed and all that, but I…”

“Don't be daft,” she said gently. “This is nothing personal. Your score is entirely experience-based.”

“Can I appeal against it?” I said.

“Of course. But that can take a long time, and it doesn't alter things as they stand right now. You see, this is more than a national issue. It's a question of the division of resources. Obviously each country pays a large portion of its total with a collective national amount. But then the bill has to be divided. Between everyone. I'm sure you can understand that. Floods, famine, starvation…If you compare that with—what did you say?—feeling a bit miserable in the spring?”

“Mmm,” I said. I didn't feel like thinking about it anymore for the moment.

After agreeing that I would start by paying what little I had in the bank, we hung up and I realized that I was still very hungry. It occurred to me that I hadn't eaten anything all day apart from that slice of pizza. I went and made a cheese sandwich. I poured myself a glass of full-fat milk and downed it in one. As soon as I'd finished the first sandwich I immediately made myself another one. I felt insatiable. It was a wonderful feeling to be able to surrender to hunger, instantly, without restraint. The taste of the cheese, bread and milk married to form a wonderful union. Just then I couldn't think of anything nicer.

I sat back down at the kitchen table and realized that all was lost. There was no way to change the situation. I simply had to accept the facts. So what was likely to happen?

As I had already been told, they couldn't kill me. She'd said as much. Through the open window I could hear the birds' evening song. People laughing and talking to each other. Friendly voices. It was approaching the time of day when the whole city relaxed. The sound of voices and footsteps outside kept growing. People going to the pub, sitting at sidewalk bars. This whole situation no longer felt so important. In a way, the feeling of acceptance that was spreading through me was actually pretty good, relaxing. I made up my mind to drink the rest of the carton of milk. It tasted good, almost all the way to the end.