She wants to get busy cleaning up, but then has a merciless realization that the people she does not know, inside the pizzeria, have already done it. Somebody has already told them all what to do. And now there is nothing left to finish.
Britt-Marie is not needed here anymore.
She stands on her own in the doorway until the children stop playing. They go home, one after the other. At a distance, Sven waits patiently for Vega and Omar. He lets the children take the time they need. Vega goes directly to the backseat and closes the door behind her, but Omar wanders on his own along the plank and runs his fingers across the white jerseys. He leans over the candles on the ground, carefully picks one up that has gone out, and relights it by holding it over the flame of another, then puts it back. When he straightens up he sees Britt-Marie in the doorway. His hand moves almost unnoticeably away from his hip, in a little wave. A wave from a young man is much more than a wave from a child. She waves back as much as she can without showing him that she is crying.
She goes down to the parking area just as the police car pulls into the road and heads off towards the children’s house. Kent is waiting for her, sweaty, his shirt creased and hanging loose, his hair on end to one side of his large head—and he still only has one shoe. He looks quite, quite mad. It reminds her of how he used to look when they were children. Back then it never bothered him that other people would shake their heads at him; he was never afraid of making a fool of himself. He never needed anyone’s affirmation except hers.
He takes her hand and she presses her eyelids against his lips. Says, almost panting:
“Vega is afraid even if she mainly seems angry. Omar is angry, even if he mostly seems afraid.”
“Everything is going to be all right,” says Kent into her hair.
“I promised Sami their lives would work out,” sobs Britt-Marie.
“They’re going to be fine, you have to let the authorities take care of this,” he says calmly.
“I know. Of course I do know that.”
“They’re not your children, darling.”
She doesn’t answer. Because she knows. Obviously she knows that. Instead, she straightens her back and wipes her eyes with a tissue, adjusts a crease in her skirt and several in Kent’s shirt. Collects herself and clasps her hands over her stomach and asks him:
“I should like to take care of a last errand. Tomorrow. In town. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t always have to stand next to me, Kent.”
“Yes, I do.”
Then he smiles. And she tries to.
But when he starts walking back to the BMW she stays where she is with her heels dug into the gravel, as you do when enough is finally enough:
“No, Kent, certainly not! I am certainly not going into town with you if you don’t first put on both your shoes!”
36
One remarkable thing about communities built along roads is that you can find just as many reasons for leaving them as excuses to stay. Some people never quite stop devoting themselves to one or the other.
In the end it’s almost a whole week after the funeral before Britt-Marie gets into her white car with its blue door and drives off along the road that leaves Borg. Admittedly it’s not entirely the fault of the council employees in the town hall. Possibly, they are only trying to do their jobs. It is not their fault that they are not wholly aware of Britt-Marie’s precision when ticking off her lists.
So on the first day, a Monday, the young man who’s working temporarily on reception at the town hall looks as if he thinks Britt-Marie is trying to be amusing. The reception opens at 8:00, so Britt-Marie and Kent have turned up at 8:02 because Britt-Marie doesn’t want to come across as pigheaded.
“Borg?” says the temporary receptionist in the sort of tone you might use when pronouncing the names of beasts in fairy tales.
“My dear boy, surely you can’t be working for the council without knowing that Borg is a part of the local council!” Britt-Marie says.
“I’m not from here. I’m a temp.”
“Ha. And I suppose that’s meant to be an excuse for not having to know anything at all.”
But Kent nudges her encouragingly in the side, and whispers to her that she should try to be a little more diplomatic, so she grimly collects herself, smiles considerately at the young man, and says:
“It was very brave of you, putting that tie on. Because it looks absolutely preposterous.”
Following this, there is a series of opinions exchanged that could not exactly be described as “diplomatic.” But in the end Kent manages to calm down both combatants to the extent that the young man promises not to call the security guards, and Britt-Marie promises not to try to strike him with her handbag again.
One curious thing about communities built along roads is that you don’t need to spend very long in them before you’re deeply and personally offended when young men don’t even know these places are there—that they even exist.
“I’ve come here to demand that a soccer pitch should be built in Borg, for your information,” Britt-Marie explains with her most goddess-like patience.
She points at her list. The young man looks through a file. He turns demonstratively to Kent and says something about a “committee,” which is currently held up in a meeting.
“For how long?”
The young man continues going through the file.
“It’s a breakfast meeting. So, more or less, until about ten o’clock.”
Whereupon both she and Kent have to leave the town hall, because a newly aggressive Britt-Marie has taken umbrage at the idea of a breakfast that lasts until ten o’clock, causing the young man to break his promise about not calling the security guards. They come back at ten o’clock, only to learn that the committee is in a meeting until after lunch. They come back after lunch, when they find out that the committee is in a meeting for the rest of the day. Britt-Marie clarifies her errand to the young man, because she does not believe it should have to take a whole day to get it done. The security guard who the young man has called takes the view that her clarity is somewhat overstated. He tells Kent that if Britt-Marie does this one more time he’ll have no option but to take her handbag away from her. Kent sniggers and says in that case the security guard is a braver man than Kent. Britt-Marie doesn’t know whether to feel insulted or proud about it.
“We’ll come back tomorrow, darling, don’t worry about it,” Kent says soothingly as they are walking out.
“You have your meetings, Kent. We have to go home, I understand that, of course I do understand that. I just hope that we manage to . . .”
She takes a breath so deep that it seems to be extracted from the bottom of her handbag.
“When Vega plays soccer she doesn’t feel any pain anymore.”
“Pain about what?”
“Everything.”
Kent lowers his head for a moment in thought.
“It doesn’t matter, darling. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
Britt-Marie adjusts the bandage on her hand.
“I’m aware of the fact that the children don’t need me. Obviously I am aware of that, Kent. I just wish I could give them something. At least if I could give them a soccer pitch.”
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Kent repeats, as he opens the car door for her.
“Yes, yes, you have your meetings, I understand that you have your meetings, we have to go home,” she says with a sigh.
Kent scratches his head distractedly. Coughs gently. Fixes his gaze on the rubber seal between the glass and the metal of the door, and answers:
“The fact is, darling, I only have one meeting. With the car dealer.”
“Ha. I didn’t realize you were planning to buy a new car.”
“I’m not buying. I’m selling this one,” says Kent, with a nod at the BMW that she has just got into.
His face is dejected, as if it knows this is what is expected of
it. But when he shrugs he does it as a young boy might, and his shoulders are light and relaxed as if they have just been liberated from a heavy burden.
“The company has gone bankrupt, darling. I tried to save it for as long as I could, but . . . well. It’s the financial crisis.”
Britt-Marie gawps at him.
“But I thought . . . I thought you said the crisis was over?”
He considers this for a moment, then simply says, “I was wrong, darling. Totally, totally wrong.”
“What are you going to do?”
He smiles, unconcerned and youthful.
“Start again. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Once upon a time I had nothing, remember?”
She does remember. Her fingers seek out his. They may be old, but he’s laughing:
“I built a whole life. A whole life! I can do it again.”
He holds her hands in his and looks into her eyes when he promises:
“I can become that man again, my darling.”
They’re halfway between town and Borg when Britt-Marie turns to him and asks how things have gone for Manchester United. He laughs out loud. It’s heavenly.
“Ah, it’s gone to pot. They’ve had their worst season in more than twenty years. The manager is going to get kicked out any moment.”
“How come?”
“They forgot what made them successful.”
“What do you do when that happens?”
“You start again.”
He rents a room from Toad’s parents for the night. Britt-Marie doesn’t ask if he’d prefer to stay in Bank’s house, because Kent admits “that blind old bat scares me a bit.”
The next day they go back to the town hall. And the next. Probably some of the people who work at the town hall believe that sooner or later Britt-Marie and Kent will give up, but these people are simply not aware of the profound implications of writing your lists in ink. On the fourth day they are allowed to see a man in a suit who’s a member of a committee. By lunchtime he has called in a woman and a man, both wearing suits. Whether this is because of their expertise in the relevant area, or simply because the first suited man wants to improve his odds of not being hit in the event Britt-Marie starts lashing out with her handbag, is never clarified.
“I’ve heard a lot of good things about Borg. It seems so charming there,” says the woman encouragingly, as if the village some twelve miles from her office is an exotic island only accessible through reliance on magic spells.
“I am here about a soccer pitch,” Britt-Marie begins.
“There’s no budget for that,” the second suited man informs them.
“As I already said,” the first suited man points out.
“In that case I have to demand that you change the budget.”
“That’s absolutely out of the question! How would that look? Then we’d have to start making changes in all the budgets!” says the second suited man, terrified.
The suited woman smiles and asks if Britt-Marie wants some coffee. Britt-Marie doesn’t. The suited woman’s smile intensifies.
“The way we understood it, Borg already has a soccer pitch.”
The second man in a suit makes a dissatisfied humming sound from between his teeth, and almost yells:
“No! The soccer pitch was sold off for the eventual building of apartments. It’s in the budget!”
“Well, in that case I have to ask you to buy back the land.”
The humming from between the suited man’s teeth is now also accompanied by a fountain of saliva. “How would that look? If that happened everyone would want to sell their land back! We actually can’t just go around building soccer pitches everywhere! We’d be swimming in soccer pitches!”
“Well,” says the first man in a suit and looks at his watch with a very bored expression.
Kent has to grip Britt-Marie’s handbag quite firmly at that point. The suited woman leans forward disarmingly and pours coffee for everyone, although no one actually wants any.
“We understand that you were employed at the recreation center in Borg,” she says with a mild smile.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right, but I have . . . I have handed in my notice,” says Britt-Marie, sucking in her cheeks.
The woman smiles even more mildly and pushes the coffee cup closer to Britt-Marie.
“There was never meant to be a position there, dear Britt-Marie. The intention was to close down the recreation center before Christmas. The vacancy was a mistake.”
The second suited man is droning like an outboard engine.
“A position not in the budget. How would that look?”
The first suited man stands up.
“You’ll have to excuse us. We actually have an important meeting.”
And on this note, Britt-Marie leaves the town hall. Having come to realize that her arrival in Borg was all a mistake. They are right. Obviously they are right.
“Tomorrow, darling. We’ll come back here tomorrow,” Kent tries to tell her again as they sit in the BMW. Silent and dejected, she leans her head against the window and keeps a tissue under her chin. A sort of determination appears in Kent’s eyes when he sees this, almost like something vengeful, but she doesn’t notice it at that point.
The fifth day at the town hall is a Friday. It’s raining again.
Kent has to force Britt-Marie to go. When she insists that it’s all useless anyway, he has no choice in the end but to threaten to write a lot of mischievous, quite irrelevant things in ink on her list. At this point she snatches back the list as if it were a flowerpot he had threatened to throw off a balcony, and then she reluctantly gets into the BMW, all the while muttering that Kent is a “hooligan.”
A woman is waiting for them when they arrive at the town hall. Britt-Marie recognizes her as the woman from the soccer association.
“Ha. I suppose you’re here to stop us?” notes Britt-Marie.
The woman looks at Kent, surprised. Nervously starts wringing her hands.
“No. Kent here called me. I am here to help you.”
Kent pats Britt-Marie on the shoulder.
“I made a couple of calls. I took the liberty of doing what I’m good at.”
When Britt-Marie steps into the suited people’s office, there are even more suits in there. Under existing circumstances, it seems, the soccer pitch in Borg has become a matter of interest for more committees than just the one.
“It has come to our attention that strong interests are backing the initiative for more soccer pitches within our council boundaries,” says a new suit, with a nod at the woman from the soccer association.
“It has also come to our attention that local business interests are ready to exert a certain amount of . . . pressure,” says another suit.
“Fairly unpleasant pressure, actually!” a third suit interjects, producing a plastic folder with various papers inside, and putting this on the table in front of Britt-Marie.
“We have also been reminded both by mail and various telephone calls that this is an election year,” says the aforementioned suit.
“We have been reminded in a fairly abrasive and persistent way, in fact!” the latter suit adds.
Britt-Marie leans forward. The papers are headed as “Working Group of Borg’s Official Partnership of Independent Business Interests.” In these papers it can be clearly seen that the owners of Borg’s pizzeria, Borg’s corner shop, Borg’s post office, and Borg’s car repairs workshop have sat down together over the course of the night and signed a collective demand for a soccer pitch. For safety’s sake, the owners of the very recent start-ups, “Law Firm Son & Son,” “Hairdressing and That,” and “Borg Good Wine Importers Ltd.” have also signed this demand. As it happens, all in the same handwriting. The only document that stands out as different is one from a man named Karl, who according to the document has just opened a florist’s.
Everything else is in Kent’s handwriting. He stands behind Britt-Marie with his hands in his pockets, slouching slightly as
if he does not wish to make too much of his presence. The woman with a suit serves coffee and nods excitedly:
“Actually, I had no idea there was such a flourishing business community in Borg! How charming!”
Britt-Marie’s common sense has to work hard to stop her running around the room with her arms stretched out like an aircraft, because she’s almost certain this would not be very appropriate.
The first man with a suit clears his throat and wishes to say another few words. He says:
“The thing is, we have now also been contacted by the unemployment office in your hometown.”
“Twenty-one times. Twenty-one times, we’ve been contacted,” another suit points out.
Britt-Marie turns and looks at Kent for guidance, but he’s now standing with his mouth agape, looking just as shocked as she is. An apparently randomly picked suit points at another paper.
“It has come to our attention that you have been employed at the recreation center in Borg.”
“Mistakenly so!” the woman in a suit says with a mild smile.
The random suit continues without missing a beat:
“The unemployment office in your town has made us aware of certain political responsibilities arising out of this. We have also been made aware of a certain amount of flexibility in the local council budget concerning further recruitment, which could be acted on now that . . . well . . . now that we are in an election year.”
“Twenty-one times. Twenty-one times we have been made aware of this!” another suit interjects angrily.
Words fail Britt-Marie. She stutters and clears her throat and then at long last manages to burst out:
“Might I just ask what on earth all this is supposed to mean?”
All of the suits in the room make restrained groans about how this must surely be quite plain and obvious. The suit sleeves slide back collectively to check if it isn’t time to have lunch. It is. A great impatience arises. One of the suits finally takes it upon himself to clarify the whole thing, and then looks wearily at Britt-Marie:
“It means that the local council will either budget for a new soccer pitch, or budget for you to keep your job. We can’t afford to do both.”