Britt-Marie Was Here

As if what made him come home late smelling of pizza was nothing but a production fault, perfectly easy to mend. Now everything is fine.

  She wants to ask why he never called her, after all she had a cell phone with her. But she realizes he would have assumed she couldn’t switch it on. So she stays quiet about it. He peers out of the window as they drive back into Borg.

  “Darned strange place for you to end up in, isn’t it? What was it your mum used to call the countryside? ‘Sheer mediocrity’? She was darned funny, your mum. And it is a bit ironic that you should end up in the sticks out here, isn’t it? You, who hardly put your foot outside our flat in forty years!”

  He says it as a joke. She can’t quite accept it in that spirit. But when they stop outside Bank’s house he’s breathing so heavily that she can hear the pain he’s in. His tears are the first she’s ever seen in his eyes. There were no tears there even when he buried his own mother, while clutching Britt-Marie’s hand.

  “It’s over. With her. That woman. She never meant a thing. Not like you, Britt-Marie.”

  He holds the fingers of her unscathed hand, caresses them gently, and says in a low voice:

  “I need you at home, darling. I need you there. Don’t throw away a whole life we’ve lived together just because I made one stupid mistake!”

  Britt-Marie brushes invisible crumbs from his shirt. Breathes in the fragrance of the flowers in her arms.

  “Boys are not allowed in my bedroom. Not then and not now either,” she whispers.

  He laughs out loud. Her skin is burning.

  “Tomorrow?” he calls out behind her as she’s getting out of the car.

  She nods.

  Because life is more than the shoes your feet are in. More than the person you are. It’s the togetherness. The parts of yourself in another. Memories and walls and cupboards and drawers with compartments for cutlery, so you know where everything is.

  A life of adaptation towards a perfect organization, a streamlined existence based on two personalities. A shared life of everything that’s normal. Cement and stone, remote controls and crosswords, shirts and baking soda, bathroom cabinets and electric shavers in the third drawer. He needs her for all that. If she’s not there, nothing is as it should be.

  She goes up to her room. Opens drawers. Folds towels.

  The cell phone rings, the display showing the number of the girl from the unemployment office, but Britt-Marie declines the call. Sits on her own on the balcony all night. With her packed bags next to her.

  24

  You look at me as if you’re judging me. I should like to inform you that I don’t appreciate it at all,” Britt-Marie affirms. When she doesn’t get an answer, she continues more diplomatically:

  “It may not be your intention to look at me as if you’re judging me, but that is how it feels.”

  When she still gets no answer, she sits down on a stool with her hands clasped together in her lap, and points out:

  “I should like to point out that the towel has been left where it is so you can wipe your paws on it. Not as a decoration.”

  The rat eats some Snickers. Doesn’t say anything. But Britt-Marie senses she is being judged. She snorts defensively.

  “Love doesn’t necessarily have to be fireworks and symphony orchestras for every human being, I do believe you can look at it like that. For some of us, love can be other things. Sensible things!”

  The rat eats Snickers. Makes a foray over the towel. Goes back to the Snickers.

  “Kent is my husband. I am his wife. I’m certainly not going to sit here and be lectured by a rat,” Britt-Marie clarifies. Then she collects her thoughts a bit, switches her hands around, and adds:

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. Being a rat. I’m sure it’s quite excellent.”

  The rat makes no attempt to be anything but a rat. Britt-Marie’s next words come out in a long exhalation.

  “It’s just that I’ve been a melancholic for a long time, you have to understand.”

  The rat eats Snickers. The children play soccer in the parking area outside the recreation center. Britt-Marie sees Kent’s BMW through the doorway. He’s playing with the children. They like him; everyone likes Kent when they first meet him. It takes years to see his bad side. With Britt-Marie it’s the other way around.

  In fact she doesn’t know if “melancholic” is the right word. She looks for a better expression, as in a crossword. Vertical: “Dejected individual.” “As felt by a non-happy person.” Or possibly: “Greek for black, followed by stomachache.”

  “Maybe ‘heavyhearted’ would be a better word,” she tells the rat.

  She has been feeling heavyhearted for a long time now.

  “It may seem ludicrous to you, but in some ways I’ve had less time to be heavyhearted in Borg than I did at home. . . . It’s not as if I’ve been forced into the life I’ve lived. I could have made changes. I could have found myself some employment,” says Britt-Marie, and she can hear that she’s actually defending Kent rather than herself.

  But on the other hand it’s quite true. She could have found herself a job. It was just that Kent thought it would be good if she waited awhile. Just a year or so. Who else would take care of everything at home, he asked, and by his way of asking it was clear to her that he wasn’t volunteering to do it himself.

  So after waiting at home with her mother for a few years, Britt-Marie waited at home with Kent’s children for a few years, and then Kent’s mother became ill and Britt-Marie waited at home with her quite a bit for another few years. Kent felt it was best that way, obviously just during a transitional period until all of Kent’s plans had fallen into place, and, of course, it was best for the whole family if Britt-Marie was at home in the afternoons in case the Germans wanted to have dinner. When he said “the whole family” he was obviously referring to everyone in the family except Britt-Marie. “Corporate entertainment is tax-deductible,” Kent always explained, but he never explained who would benefit by it.

  A year turned into several years, and several years turned into all the years. One morning you wake up with more life behind you than in front of you, not being able to understand how it’s happened.

  “I could have found myself employment. It was my choice to stay at home. I’m not a victim,” Britt-Marie points out.

  She doesn’t say anything about how close she got. She went to job interviews. Several of them. She didn’t tell Kent about them, obviously, because he would only have asked what salary she’d get, and if she had told him he would have laughed and said: “Isn’t it bloody better, then, if I pay you to stay at home?” He would have meant that as a joke, but she would not have been able to take it in that spirit, and so, as a result, she never said anything. She was always there in good time for the interviews, and there was always someone else waiting there in the visitors’ room. Almost exclusively young women. One of them started talking to Britt-Marie, because she couldn’t imagine that someone so old was there for the same job as herself. She had three children and had been left by her husband. One of the children had an illness. When she was called in for her interview, Britt-Marie stood up and went home. You could say a lot of things about Britt-Marie, but she was certainly not someone who’d steal a job from someone more in need of it.

  Obviously she doesn’t tell the rat about this; she doesn’t want to make herself out to be some sort of martyr. And then, of course, you never know what sort of life experiences the rat has had.

  Maybe it lost its whole family in a terrorist attack, for instance; it’s the sort of thing you read about.

  “There’s a lot of pressure on Kent, you have to understand,” she explains.

  Because there is. Providing for a whole family takes time and has to be respected.

  “It takes a long time to get to know a person,” says Britt-Marie to the rat, her voice growing progressively quieter with every word.

  Kent digs his heels in when he walks. Not everyone notices these kinds
of things, but that’s how it is. He curls up when sleeping, as if he’s cold, irrespective of how many blankets she gently spreads over him. He’s afraid of heights.

  “And his general knowledge is outstanding, especially when it comes to geography!” she points out.

  Geography is a very good skill to share the sofa with when solving crossword puzzles. Not so very easy to acquire, actually. Love doesn’t have to be fireworks for everyone. It could be a question of capital cities with five letters or knowing exactly when it’s time to reheel your shoes.

  “He could change.” Britt-Marie wants to say it in a loud, clear voice, but instead it comes out in a whisper.

  But he might, certainly. He doesn’t even need to become an entirely new person. It’s enough if he can become who he used to be before he was unfaithful.

  He is taking medicine, after all, and they can do really amazing things with medicine nowadays.

  “A few years ago they cloned a sheep, can you imagine?” says Britt-Marie to the rat.

  At this point the rat decides to leave.

  She puts away the plate. Washes up. Cleans. Polishes the window and looks out at Kent playing soccer with Omar and Dino. She can also change, she’s sure about that. She doesn’t have to be so boring. Life may not turn out differently if she goes home with Kent, but at least it will go back to normal.

  “I’m not ready for an unusual life,” says Britt-Marie to the rat, before she remembers that it has gone.

  It takes time to get to know a person. She is not ready to get to know a new one. She has decided she has to learn to live with herself as she is.

  She stands in the doorway watching Kent score a goal. He props himself up against the stick and leaps into the air, making a pirouette. It could not possibly be the sort of behavior the doctors would recommend after a heart attack, but Britt-Marie stops herself from criticizing him, because he looks so happy. She assumes there could also be advantages, health-wise, in being happy after a heart attack.

  Omar nags about having a ride in the BMW, justifying this by the argument that it’s “wicked as hell,” and Britt-Marie realizes this must be something good, so she manages to stop herself from criticizing this as well. Kent manages to tell the boys how much it cost, which seems to impress them terrifically. The third time around he lets Omar drive, and Omar looks as if he’s just been given permission to ride a dragon.

  Sven isn’t wearing his uniform when he steps out of the pizzeria, so she hardly notices him until they’re just a few feet apart. He looks at the BMW, looks at Britt-Marie, and clears his throat.

  “Hello, Britt-Marie,” he says.

  “Hello,” she says, surprised.

  She holds on to her handbag very hard. He digs his hands deep into his pockets like a teenager. He’s wearing a shirt and his hair is water-combed. He doesn’t say it was for her sake, and before she has time to say anything irrational her common sense blurts out:

  “That’s my husband!”

  She points at the BMW. Sven’s hands sink even deeper into his jacket pockets.

  Kent stops the car when he sees them, gets out with his stick swinging self-confidently in one hand. He reaches out to Sven and his handshake is a little longer and harder than it needs to be.

  “Kent!” Kent crows.

  “Sven,” Sven mumbles.

  “My husband,” Britt-Marie reminds him.

  Sven’s hand goes back to his jacket pocket. His clothes seem to be rubbing uncomfortably.

  Britt-Marie’s grip on her handbag gets harder and harder, until her fingers hurt, and maybe also some other parts of her. Kent grins jauntily.

  “Nice kids! That curly-haired one wants to be an entrepreneur, did he tell you?”

  He laughs in the direction of Omar. Britt-Marie looks down at the ground. Sven is grim when he looks up at Kent.

  “You can’t park there,” he notes, moving his elbow towards the BMW without taking his hand out of his pocket.

  “Oh, right,” Kent says dismissively, tiredly waving his hand at him.

  “I’m telling you you can’t park there and we don’t let teenagers drive cars around here. It’s irresponsible!” Sven says insistently, with a ferocity Britt-Marie has never seen in him before.

  “Relax, will you?” Kent grins, with a superior air.

  Sven is vibrating. He points through the lining of his jacket with both index fingers.

  “Either bloody way you can’t park there, and it’s illegal to let minors drive your car. You just have to accept that, wherever you come from. . . .”

  The last words are spoken at a much lower volume. As if they have already started regretting themselves. Kent supports himself against his stick and coughs, slightly at a loss.

  He looks at Britt-Marie, but she doesn’t look back at him, so he peers at Sven instead.

  “What’s the matter with you—what are you, a cop?”

  “Yes!” says Sven.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” laughs Kent, immediately sobering up his face and straightening his back and making a scornful salute.

  Sven blushes and fixes his gaze on the zipper of his jacket. Britt-Marie’s breathing speeds up and she steps forward as if she’s about to move between them physically. In the end she just puts her feet down hard in the gravel and says:

  “Please Kent, why don’t you just move the car. It is actually in the middle of the soccer pitch.”

  Kent sighs, then nods mischievously at her, and holds up both hands as if someone is threatening him.

  “Sure, sure, sure, if the sheriff insists. No problem. Just don’t shoot!”

  He takes a few demonstrative steps forward and leans over Britt-Marie. She can’t remember the last time he kissed her on the cheek.

  “I checked into the hotel in town. Bloody rathole, you know how it is in places like this, but I noticed there was a restaurant opposite. It looked okay, under the circumstances,” he says so Sven will hear. When he says “circumstances” he makes a superior sort of gesture at the pizzeria and the recreation center and the road. He revs the engine more than he needs to when he moves the car. When he’s done, he gives his business card to Omar, because Kent likes giving people his business card almost as much as he likes telling people what his belongings cost. The boy is deeply impressed. Britt-Marie realizes that she doesn’t know at what exact point Sven turned around and left, only that he’s gone now.

  She stands alone outside the pizzeria. If something within her has been knocked down and shattered, she tries to tell herself, it is all her own fault, because these feelings she has inside should never have been set free in the first place. It is far too late to start a new life.

  She has dinner with Kent at the restaurant in town. It has white tablecloths and a menu without photographs and seems to have a serious attitude about the cutlery. Or at least it does not treat it like a joke. Kent says he feels alone without her. “Lost” is the word he uses. He seems to be taking her seriously, or at least he isn’t treating her as a joke. He’s wearing his old, broken belt, she notices, and she realizes this is because he did not find his usual one that she mended just before she left. She wants to tell him it’s lying neatly rolled up in the second drawer of the wardrobe in the bedroom. Their bedroom. She wants him to shout out her name.

  But all he does is scratch his beard stubble and try to sound unconcerned when he asks:

  “But this copper, then . . . is he . . . how did you become . . . friends?”

  Britt-Marie does her utmost to sound similarly unconcerned when she answers:

  “He’s just a policeman, Kent.”

  Kent nods and blinks with emphasis.

  “You have to trust me when I say I know I made a mistake, darling. It’s over now. I’ll never ever have contact with her again. You can’t punish me for the rest of my life because of just one false move, right?” he says, and softly grabs her bandaged hand across the table.

  He’s wearing his wedding ring. She can feel the white mark on her finger. It??
?s burning and denouncing her. He pats the bandage, as if not even reflecting on why it’s there.

  “Come on now, darling, you’ve made your point. Loud and clear! I understand!”

  She nods. Because it’s true. Because she never wanted him to suffer, only that he should know that he was wrong.

  “You obviously think this thing with the soccer team is ludicrous,” she whispers.

  “Are you joking? I think it’s absolutely fantastic!”

  He lets go of her hand as soon as the food comes, and she immediately misses it. Feels like you do when you come out of the hairdresser after having more hair taken off than you wanted.

  She places her napkin neatly in her lap, pats it tenderly as if it were sleeping, and whispers:

  “Me too. I also think it’s fantastic.”

  Kent lights up. Leans forward. Looks deep into her eyes.

  “Hey, darling, let’s put it like this: you stay here until the kids have played in this cup that the curly-haired one was going on about today. And then we go home. To our life. Okay?”

  Britt-Marie inhales so deeply that her breath starts faltering halfway through.

  “I would appreciate that,” she whispers.

  “Anything for you, darling,” says Kent with a nod, and then stops the waitress to ask for the pepper mill even though he hasn’t tried the food yet.

  It’s normal food, of course, but before common sense puts the brakes on, Britt-Marie briefly considers telling Kent about how she has tried tacos. She wants him to know that there have been a lot of things going on in her life lately. But she stops herself, because it probably doesn’t really matter now, and anyway Kent wants to tell her things about his business affairs with the Germans.

  Britt-Marie orders French fries with her food. She doesn’t eat French fries because she doesn’t like them, but she always orders them anyway whenever she goes with Kent to restaurants; she always worries that he won’t have enough food to satisfy him.

  While he’s reaching across the table for her fries, Britt-Marie peers out of the window and for a moment she has a feeling that there was a police car in the street. But this could merely have been a figment of her imagination. Ashamed of herself, she looks down at her napkin. Here she is, a grown woman, with fantasies of emergency vehicles. What would people think?