Chapter 13
A balcony can change everything.
It’s six in the morning and Britt-Marie is enthusiastic. It’s a new experience for her. Somebody’s state of mind would rather have to be described as the hungover, irascible kind. Britt-Marie has woken her by knocking on the door of the pizzeria at six o’clock to ask her, excitedly, for a drill.
Somebody grudgingly opens up and informs Britt-Marie that the pizzeria and all its other financial activities are closed at this time of day.
Britt-Marie then questions why Somebody is there at all, because, as far as Britt-Marie can see, it can’t possibly be hygienic to live in a pizzeria.
Somebody explains as well as she can in her condition—eyes half-closed, with various scraps of food on her jersey that never quite made it to her mouth or for one reason or another came back out again—that she was “too much drunk” after the soccer match last night to make it home.
Britt-Marie nods appreciatively at this, and says she thought this was a wise decision, because one really shouldn’t drink and drive.
She doesn’t look at the wheelchair at all when she says it.
Somebody mutters and tries to close the door. But, as we already said, Britt-Marie is enthusiastic and will not be deterred. For Britt-Marie now has somewhere to put her balcony boxes.
Everything changes when you have somewhere to put your balcony boxes. Britt-Marie feels ready to take on the world. Or, at least, Borg.
Somebody doesn’t seem to respond so very well to enthusiasm at six in the morning, so Britt-Marie asks if Somebody happens to own an electric drill.
And in fact Somebody does own one. She fetches it.
Britt-Marie takes it with both hands and accidentally turns it on and, as a result of this, happens to drill Somebody’s hand just a little.
Somebody then takes back the drill and demands to know what Britt-Marie was intending to do with the drill.
Britt-Marie announces that she plans to put up a picture.
So now Somebody is in the recreation center, hungover and a little irascible, with a drill in her hand.
Britt-Marie stands in the middle of the room, looking enthusiastically at the picture.
She found it in the recreation center storage room early this morning, because Bank, as we know, had ordered her to make herself scarce in the house in the daytime, and in any case Britt-Marie was having trouble sleeping, what with all the emotions surfacing after the discovery of the balcony.
The picture had been leaning up against the wall behind an unmentionable pile of rubbish, covered in a layer of dust so thick that it looked like volcanic ash.
Britt-Marie took it inside the recreation center and cleaned it with a damp rag and baking soda. It looks very stylish now.
“I’ve never put up a picture before, you have to understand,” explains Britt-Marie, very considerately, when she notices that Somebody is looking exhausted.
Somebody finishes her drilling and then hangs up the picture.
It’s not actually a painting, just a very, very old information chart with a black-and-white map of Borg.
“Welcome to Borg” it says at the top. For someone who loathes traveling, Britt-Marie has always had a great love of maps.
There’s something reassuring about them, she’s always found, ever since Ingrid used to speak to her at night about Paris when they were children.
You can look at a map and point at Paris.
Things are understandable when you can point at them. She nods soberly at Somebody.
“We don’t have any pictures at home, me and Kent, you have to understand. Kent doesn’t like art.”
Somebody raises her eyebrows at the information chart when Britt-Marie mentions “art.”
“Could we possibly hang it a little higher?”
“Higher?”
“It’s very low,” Britt-Marie observes, obviously not in a critical way.
Somebody looks at Britt-Marie. Looks at her wheelchair. Britt-Marie looks at the wheelchair too. “But obviously it’s fine where it is, also. Obviously.”
Somebody mutters something best not heard by anyone and rolls off towards the door, back to the pizzeria across the parking area. Britt-Marie follows her because she needs Snickers and baking soda.
Inside there’s an overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke and beer. The tables are covered in dirty glasses and crockery. Somebody roots around behind the counter, grunting something to the effect of, “Headache tablets . . . where does Vega keep that shit?” She disappears into the kitchen.
Britt-Marie is tentatively reaching for two dirty plates when Somebody, as if she can sense what she is up to, yells:
“Don’t touch washing-up!”
Britt-Marie opens the cutlery drawer and starts arranging the cutlery in the right order. Somebody rolls forward and closes the cutlery drawer. Britt-Marie inhales patiently.
“I’m just trying to make things look nice around here.”
“Stop changing! I won’t find a crap!” Somebody exclaims when Britt-Marie turns her attention to the cupboard where drinking glasses are kept, not as if she’s choosing to do it but rather as if she has no choice.
“It’s quite extraordinary how you manage to find anything here at all,” Britt-Marie informs her.
“You’re putting in wrong place!” Somebody objects.
“Ha, ha, whatever I do is wrong, of course, isn’t that always the case?”
Somebody mumbles something incoherent, throws her arms up at the ceiling as if it’s the fault of the ceiling, and rolls out of the kitchen.
Britt-Marie stays where she is and tries to stop herself from opening the cutlery drawer again.
It works fairly well for about fifteen seconds.
When she goes out of the kitchen, she finds Somebody sitting in the shop eating fist-sized piles of cornflakes straight from the pack.
“You could at least use a plate,” says Britt-Marie and fetches a plate.
Somebody, extremely displeased, eats fist-sized piles of cornflakes straight from the plate.
“I don’t suppose you’re having any natural yogurt with that, are you?”
“I am, what’s-it-called? Lactose intolerant.”
“Ha,” says Britt-Marie tolerantly, and rearranges a few cans on a shelf.
“Please Britt-Marie, don’t move shit,” whispers Somebody, like you do when you have a severe headache.
“You mean my cleaning is wrong as well, is that what you mean?” asks Britt-Marie and goes over to the cash register, where she starts sorting cartons of cigarettes into color-coded piles.
“Stop!” Somebody yells and tries to snatch them out of Britt-Marie’s hands.
“I’m only trying to make it a bit nice in here!”
“Not together!” whines Somebody and points at one brand of cigarettes with foreign letters on the cartons, and another that doesn’t have foreign letters. “Because of tax authority!” says Somebody, looking very serious as she points at the cartons with the foreign letters: “Flying stones!”
Britt-Marie looks like she needs something to grab hold of so she doesn’t lose her balance.
“You mean they’re contraband?”
“Nah, you know, Britt-Marie. These, huh, they fall off a truck,” says Somebody apologetically.
“That’s illegal!”
Somebody rolls back into the kitchen. She opens the cutlery drawer and swears very loudly, then a long harangue follows in which Britt-Marie can only make out, “Comes here for to borrow drill and hang picture, I want to sleep but oh no, I’m criminal, Mary Poppins out there is starting recreation center and moving crap around. ”
Britt-Marie stays in the demarcation area between the groceries and the pizzeria, rearranging cans and cigarette cartons.
In actual fact she only meant to buy some baking soda and Snickers and then leave, but as it doesn’t seem responsible to purchase baking soda from someone who is clearly drunk, she has decided to wait until Somebody sobers up.
Somebody seems to have decamped to the kitchen, so in the meantime Britt-Marie does what she always does in these types of situations: she cleans.
It looks quite decent when she’s finished, it really does.
Unfortunately there are no flowers, but there is a vase on the counter next to the register with a white piece of tape stuck to it, where someone has written, “Tips.” It’s empty.
Britt-Marie washes it out and puts it back next to the register.
Then she gets all the coins out of her handbag and drops them in.
She tries to make them look fluffy, as if they were potting soil.
By the time she has finished, the vase looks a good deal more decorative.
“Maybe you wouldn’t develop so many allergies if you kept things a little more hygienic in here,” she explains considerately to Somebody when Somebody comes out of the kitchen.
Somebody massages her temples, spins the wheelchair around, and disappears back into the kitchen. Britt-Marie keeps working on the coins in the vase to make them look even more decorative.
The front door tinkles and the two men with beards and caps step inside. They also look hungover.
“I have to ask you to wipe your feet outside,” Britt-Marie informs them at once. “I’ve just mopped the floor, you see.” They look bemused, but comply.
“Ha. How can we help you?” asks Britt-Marie when they come back in.
“Coffee?” the men manage to say and look around as if they have stepped into a parallel dimension where there’s a pizzeria just the same as the one where they usually drink their coffee, except this one is clean.