“Sven said you forgot this.”
Britt-Marie takes it, dismayed. Contraband. Which she has now either stolen or bought on credit, depending on how positively you want to look at it. This is all highly vexatious, because Britt-Marie is not even sure now what sort of criminal she is. But there’s no doubt that she’s a criminal. Although Kent would certainly agree with Somebody that there’s nothing criminal about withholding cigarettes from the tax authorities and the police. “Get over it, darling! It’s not cheating if you don’t get caught!” he always used to say when she was signing off her tax return and she asked what all those other pieces of paper were that Kent’s accountant had slipped into the envelope. “Don’t worry, they’re completely legal tax deductions! Get on with it!” he’d say reassuringly. Kent loved deductions and loathed tax bills. Britt-Marie never dared admit to him that she did not understand the rights and wrongs of it.
Pirate gently touches her shoulder.
“They weren’t laughing at you. In the pizzeria, I mean. They were laughing at Fredrik. He was the boss at the trucking company when they all got fired, so they don’t like him.”
Britt-Marie nods and tries to look as if, in fact, she hadn’t been especially worried about it in the first place. Pirate seems encouraged by this response, because he goes on:
“Fredrik trains the hockey team in town, they’re wicked! The tall one who was with him in the pizzeria is his son, he’s as old as me but he’s almost got a beard already! You get that? Sick, isn’t it? He’s wicked at soccer as well but Fredrik wants him to play hockey because he thinks hockey’s better!”
“Why on earth does he think that?” asks Britt-Marie, because on the basis of her slight knowledge of hockey it seems to her one of the few things in the universe that is more ludicrous than soccer.
“Probably because it’s expensive. Fredrik likes things that most people can’t afford,” says Pirate.
“Why are you so dreadfully amused by soccer, then?” asks Britt-Marie.
Pirate seems to find the question mystifying.
“What do you mean? People like soccer just because they like soccer, that’s all.”
Ludicrous, thinks Britt-Marie, but she doesn’t say it. Instead, she points to a bag in the boy’s hand.
“What’s that?”
“Scissors and a comb and products and stuff!” says the boy blissfully.
Britt-Marie doesn’t ask what he means by “products” but she notes that he has a heck of a lot of jars, anyway. She fetches a stool from the kitchen, puts down towels on the floor, and gestures for him to take a seat. Then she washes his hair and cuts the uneven bits. She used to do that for Ingrid.
Suddenly words come tumbling out of her; she can’t understand why on earth she had to open her mouth, but:
“From time to time I feel unsure whether people are laughing at me or something else, you must understand. My husband says I don’t have a sense of humor.”
She is quickly silenced by her common sense. Embarrassed, she clamps her lips together.
The boy stares at her in the mirror with consternation.
“That’s a horrific thing to say to someone!”
Britt-Marie doesn’t answer. But she agrees. It is a horrific thing to say to someone.
“Do you love him? Your husband?” asks the boy so suddenly that Britt-Marie almost snips him in the ear.
She brushes down his shoulder with the back of her hand. Buries her gaze in his scalp.
“Yes.”
“Why isn’t he here, then?”
“Because sometimes love isn’t enough.”
Then they remain silent until Britt-Marie has finished cutting, and Pirate’s unruly mop has been tenderly coaxed into a hairstyle as neat as biological circumstances will allow. He stays where he is, admiring himself in the mirror. Britt-Marie cleans up and looks out into the parking area. Two young men are standing there, neither of them even twenty years old, smoking and leaning against a big black car. They’re wearing the same kind of jeans, ripped across the thighs, as the children in the soccer team. But these two are no children. They look like the sort of young men who would make Britt-Marie take a firmer grip on her handbag while passing. Not that she judges people, not at all, but one of these men actually has tattoos on his hands.
“That’s Sami and Psycho,” says Pirate behind her.
He sounds scared.
“Those are not names,” Britt-Marie informs him.
“Sami is a name, I think. But Psycho is called Psycho because he’s a psycho,” says Pirate quietly, as if he doesn’t dare utter their names too loudly.
“I don’t suppose they have jobs to go to?”
Pirate shrugs.
“No one here has a job. Apart from some really old people.”
Britt-Marie puts one hand in the other. Then the other in the one. While trying not to be offended.
“The one on the right has tattoos on his hands,” she notes.
“That’s Psycho. He’s mad. Sami’s quite all right, but Psycho’s . . . you know, he’s dangerous. You have to avoid any trouble with him. My mother says I’m not allowed in Vega and Omar’s house when Psycho’s there.”
“Why on earth would he be in Vega and Omar’s home?”
“Sami is their older brother.”
The door of the pizzeria opens. Vega emerges with two pizzas and hands them to Sami. He kisses her on the cheek. Psycho grins insolently at her. She looks at him as if she just bought a new bag and he vomited in it. Then he slams the door. The black car pulls out of the parking area.
“They don’t eat in the pizzeria when Sven’s there. Vega said they’re not allowed to,” explains Pirate.
“Ha. Quite understandable. Because she knows they’re worried about the police, of course.”
“No, because she knows the police are afraid of them.”
Societies are like people in that way. If you don’t ask too many questions and don’t shift any heavy furniture around, there’s no need to notice their worst sides. Britt-Marie brushes down her skirt. Then she brushes Pirate’s sleeve. She’d like to change the subject, and without further ado he helps her out:
“Has Vega asked you yet?”
“About what?” asks Britt-Marie.
“If you want to be our coach?”
“Absolutely not!”
Extremely offended, she cups one hand into the other and asks:
“Anyway, what does that mean?”
“I mean a trainer. We have to have one. There’s a challenge cup in town; you can only enter if you have a team with a coach.”
“A cup? Like a competition?”
“Like a cup.”
“In this weather? Outdoors? That’s ludicrous!”
“No, I mean it’s an indoor competition. In a sports center, in town,” says Pirate. Britt-Marie is about to say a few choice words about the sort of people who like to kick balls around indoors when there’s a knock on the door. A boy about the same age as Pirate is standing outside. Long-haired, one might also add.
“Ha?” says Britt-Marie.
“Is Ben, like, here?” asks the boy.
It seems fairly unclear what the meaning of “like” is in the construction of the sentence. As if the boy just asked, “Is Ben almost here?”
“Who?” says Britt-Marie.
“Ben? Or, like, what they call him in his team. Pirate?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. He is here, but he’s occupied,” says Britt-Marie firmly and is about to close the door.
“With what, sort of thing?” asks the boy.
“He’s meeting someone. Or he has a date. Or whatever it’s called.”
“I know. With me!” says the boy with a frustrated groan.
Britt-Marie, who is not encumbered with any prejudice, puts one hand in the other and says:
“Ha.”
The boy is chewing gum. She dislikes that. It’s actually quite all right to dislike chewing gum, even if you are a person without any prejudices.
> “It’s, like, epically lame saying ‘date,’ ” says the boy.
“It was Pir . . . it was Ben who said it. In my time we said ‘meeting,’ ” says Britt-Marie, defending herself.
“Also epically lame,” snorts the boy.
“What do you say, then?” asks Britt-Marie, just a touch critically.
“Nothing. Just ‘out,’ sort of thing,” says the boy.
“I have to ask you to wait here,” says Britt-Marie and firmly closes the door.
Pirate stands in the bathroom, fixing his hair. He starts jumping up and down on the spot when he sees her in the mirror.
“Is he here? Isn’t he fantastic?”
“He’s strikingly rude,” says Britt-Marie, but Pirate obviously can’t hear anything, because the sound of his jumping echoes quite a lot in the bathroom.
Britt-Marie takes a piece of toilet paper, carefully picks a hair off Pirate’s jumper and folds it into the toilet paper, then flushes it down the toilet.
“I was under the impression that you went on dates with girls.”
“I do go on dates with girls sometimes,” says Pirate.
“But this is a boy,” says Britt-Marie.
“This is a boy,” confirms Pirate with a nod, as if they are playing some sort of parlor game, the rules of which have not been explained to him.
“Ha,” says Britt-Marie.
“Do you have to decide on one or the other?”
“I know nothing about that. I don’t have any prejudices about it,” Britt-Marie assures him.
Pirate adjusts his hair, smiles, and asks:
“Do you think he’ll like my hair?”
Britt-Marie doesn’t seem to have heard his question, and instead she says:
“Your friends in the soccer team obviously don’t know that you go on dates with boys. Obviously I won’t mention it.”
Pirate looks surprised.
“Why wouldn’t they know?”
“Have you told them?”
“Why wouldn’t I have told them?”
“What did they say?”
“They said ‘okay.’ ” Then he looks unsure. “What else should they have said?”
“Ha, ha, obviously nothing, obviously,” says Britt-Marie in a way you could describe as not at all defensive, and then adds: “I have no prejudices about this!”
“I know,” says Pirate.
Then he smiles nervously.
“Is my hair looking nice?”
Britt-Marie can’t quite bring herself to answer, so she just nods. She picks off one last hair from his jumper, and awkwardly holds it in her hand. He hugs her. She can’t think why on earth he would get it into his head to do such a thing.
“You shouldn’t be alone. It’s a waste when someone whose hair looks as nice as yours is alone,” he whispers.
He’s almost at the door when Britt-Marie, still holding his hair in her hand, collects herself, clears her throat, and whispers back:
“If he doesn’t say your hair is looking lovely, then he doesn’t deserve you!”
Pirate turns around, runs back through the room, and hugs her again. She pushes him away, friendly but firm, because one mustn’t forget one’s boundaries. He asks her if he can borrow her cell phone. She looks doubtful, and warns him not to run up a large bill. He dials his own number, lets it ring once, then hangs up. Then he tries to embrace her again, laughs when she squirms, and runs off. The door closes.
Fifteen minutes later Britt-Marie gets a text message: “He said it! :)”
The recreation center goes quiet around her. She vacuums up all the hair from the floor just to make some noise. Washes and tumble-dries the towels.
Then she dusts all the pictures, taking extra care with the information chart and map, which Somebody hung three feet lower than all the other frames.
She removes the wrapper from a Snickers bar, puts it on a plate, puts the plate on a towel, and leaves it all on the threshold. Opens the front door. Sits for a long time on her stool trying to feel the wind in her hair. At long last she picks up the telephone.
“Hello?” says the girl at the unemployment office.
Britt-Marie inhales deeply.
“It was impolite of me to say that you had a boy’s hairstyle.”
“Britt-Marie?”
Britt-Marie swallows with concentration.
“Obviously I shouldn’t have got involved in that, I mean the sort of hairstyle you have. Or if you go out on dates with boys or girls. Not at all.”
“You didn’t mention anything about . . . that.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility that I just thought it, maybe so. In either case it was impolite of me,” says Britt-Marie irritably.
“What . . . but I mean, what do you mean by . . . what’s wrong with my hairstyle?”
“Nothing at all. That’s what I’m saying,” insists Britt-Marie.
“I’m not . . . I mean, I’m . . . I don’t like . . .” says the girl defensively in a slightly overbearing voice.
“That’s not for me to stick my nose into.”
“I mean, not that . . . you know . . . there’s anything wrong with being that way! Or not,” the girl persists.
“I certainly haven’t said anything of the kind!”
“Nor me!” protests the girl.
“Well, then,” says Britt-Marie.
“Absolutely!” says the girl.
There’s such a long silence between them that at long last the girl says, “Hello?” because she thinks Britt-Marie has hung up. And that’s when Britt-Marie hangs up.
The rat is one hour and six minutes late for dinner. It rushes in and lunges at the biggest possible piece of Snickers that it could carry, stops for a second and stares at Britt-Marie, then runs back outside into the darkness. Britt-Marie wraps the rest of the chocolate in plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge. Washes up the plate. Washes and tumble-dries the towel and hangs it in its place. Through the window she sees Sven emerging from the pizzeria. He stops by the police car and looks over at the recreation center. Britt-Marie hides behind the curtain. He gets in the car and drives off. For a short moment she was afraid he was going to come over and knock on the door. Then she got disappointed when he didn’t.
She turns off all the lights except in the bathroom. The sheen of the lone lightbulb finds its way out from under the door and lights up the exact area of the wall where Somebody hung up the information chart, slightly too low but obviously not too low. “Welcome to Borg,” Britt-Marie reads, while she sits on a stool in the darkness and looks at the red dot that first made her fall in love with the picture. The reason for her love of maps. It’s half worn away, the dot, and the red color is bleached. Yet it’s there, flung down there on the map halfway between the lower left corner and its center, and next to it is written, “You are here.”
Sometimes it’s easier to go on living, not even knowing who you are, when at least you know precisely where you are while you go on not knowing.
15
People sometimes refer to darkness as something that falls, but in places like Borg it doesn’t just fall, it collapses. It engulfs the streets in an instant. In cities there are so many people who don’t want to sit at home all night that you can open dedicated premises and run entertainment industries that are open only at these times. But in Borg, life is encapsulated once darkness falls.
Britt-Marie locks the door of the recreation center and stands on her own in the parking area.
Her pockets are full of neatly folded toilet paper, because she did not find an envelope. The sign above the pizzeria is turned off, but she can make out the shadow of Somebody moving around inside. Something in Britt-Marie wants to go and talk to her, possibly to buy something. Another considerably more rational something orders her to do no such thing. It’s dark outside. It’s not civilized to walk into shops when it’s dark outside.
She stands by the door listening to the radio inside, which is playing some sort of pop music.
Britt-Marie knows this because she’s not at all unfamiliar with pop music. There are many crossword questions about it, and Britt-Marie likes to keep herself informed. But this particular song is new to her; a young man is singing in a cracked voice about how you can either be “someone” or “no one at all.”
Britt-Marie is still holding on to the carton of cigarettes covered in foreign letters. She doesn’t know how much foreign cigarettes cost, but she gets out a considerably larger than reasonable amount of money from her handbag and folds it in the toilet paper until it looks like a small envelope with a phenomenal capacity for water absorption. Then she carefully tucks it under the door.
The young man keeps singing on the radio. As hard as he can. About nothing much.
“Love has no mercy,” he sings. Again and again. Love has no mercy. Kent wells up in Britt-Marie’s chest until she can’t breathe.
Then she walks by herself along a road that heads out of the community in two directions. As darkness collapses. Towards a bed and a balcony that are not her own.
The truck comes up on her right, from behind. Too close. Too fast.
That’s why she throws herself across to the other side of the road. The human brain has a monstrous ability to re-create memories of such clarity that the rest of the body loses all sense of time. An approaching truck can make the ears believe they are hearing a mother screaming, can make the hands believe they are cutting themselves on glass, can make the lips taste blood. Deep inside, Britt-Marie has time to yell Ingrid’s name a thousand times.
The truck thunders by, so close that her heart can’t tell whether it’s been run over or not, in a rain of hard lumps of mud gouged out of the road surface. Britt-Marie takes a few tottering steps; her coat is wet and dirty, and there’s a howling in her ears. Maybe a single second passes and maybe a hundred. She blinks at the headlights with a growing awareness that the howling is not coming from inside. There’s actually a car sounding its horn. She hears someone yelling. She holds up her hand to shield her eyes from the headlights of the BMW. Fredrik, the man who came to the café earlier, is standing in front of her, shouting furiously.
“Are you bloody senile or what, you old bat?! What are you doing walking in the middle of the fucking road! I almost killed you!”