Chapter 32 #2
Something about that question impacts Britt-Marie. It may be the case that after Ben’s goal she really did come back to earth as a different human being. She doesn’t know. But she takes a deep breath and tells the girl everything.
About communities situated by main roads and rats and people who wear their caps indoors.
About boys’ first dates and jerseys hung up on pizzeria walls.
It all pours out of her. About Faxin and bamboo screens, beer bottles presented in cellophane, and IKEA furniture.
Pistols and crossword supplements. Policemen and entrepreneurs.
Doing the Idiot in the beam of a truck’s headlights.
Blue doors and old soccer matches. Purple tulips and whiskey and cigarettes and dead mothers.
Flu. Soft-drink cans. 1-0 against the team from the town.
A girl who covers a shot with her face. The universe.
“I suppose this must all sound very . . . silly,” she concludes.
The girl at the other end of the line can’t quite keep her voice steady as she replies:
“Have I told you why I work here, Britt-Marie? I don’t know if you know this, but you’re at the receiving end of an unbelievable amount of crap when you work at the unemployment office.
People can be incredibly mean. And when I say ‘crap,’ Britt-Marie, you should know that I really do mean that quite literally.
One time, someone sent me some shit in an envelope.
“As if it’s my fault that there’s a financial crisis, sort of thing? ”
Britt-Marie coughs.
“Might one ask how on earth they got it into the envelope?”
“The shit?”
“It must have been quite hard to . . . aim.”
The girl laughs loudly for several minutes. Britt-Marie is pleased about losing her voice, because it means the girl can’t hear that she’s also laughing. It may not be the universe, maybe not so, but the emotion levitates her slightly off the stool.
“Do you know why I work when there’s all this crap, Britt-Marie?”
“Why?”
“My mother worked for the social services all her life. She always said that in the middle of all the crap, in the thick of it all, you always had a sunny story turning up. Which makes it all worthwhile.” The next words that come are smiling:
“You’re my sunny story, Britt-Marie.”
Britt-Marie swallows.
“It’s inappropriate to talk on the telephone in the middle of the night. I should like to contact you again tomorrow.”
“Sleep well, Britt-Marie,” says the girl softly.
“You too.”
Britt-Marie sits on the stool with the palms of her hands cupped around the telephone.
She catches herself wishing so fervently for the rat to turn up that when there’s a knock on the door, she thinks it finally has. Then she comes to her senses and realizes that rats can’t knock on doors, because they don’t have knuckles. At least she thinks they don’t.
“Anyone home?” Sami calls out from the door.
Britt-Marie flies off her stool.
“Did something happen? Has there been an accident?”
He stands calmly leaning against the doorpost.
“No. Why?”
“It’s the middle of the night, Sami. Surely one doesn’t just show up unannounced at people’s homes like some vacuum cleaner salesman unless something has happened!”
“Do you live here?” asks Sami, with a grin.
“You must surely understand what I mean—”
“Chill, Britt-Marie. I was driving past and I saw your lights were on. Wanted to see if you fancied a cigarette. Or a drink.” He laughs at her expense.
She doesn’t appreciate that at all.
“Certainly not,” she hisses.
“Okay, cool,” he laughs.
She adjusts her skirt.
“But if you’ll make do with a Snickers instead you can come in.”
They each take a stool by the kitchen window. Look at the stars through the cleanest windows in Borg.
“It was nice today,” says Sami.
“Yes. It was . . . nice.” She smiles.
She wants to tell him she has to leave Borg first thing tomorrow and go home, but before she has time to open her mouth he says:
“Right, I have to go into town. I have to help a friend.”
“What sort of friend is that? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Magnus. He’s having problems with a few guys there. Owes them money, you know.”
Britt-Marie stares at him. He nods. Smiles ironically at himself.
“I know what you’re thinking. But this is Borg. We forgive each other in Borg. We don’t have a choice. If we didn’t there wouldn’t be any friends left to get pissed off at.”
She stands up. Gently takes his plate. Hesitates for a long time, then at long last tenderly lays her bandaged hand against his cheek.
“You don’t always have to be the one who steps in, Sami.”
“Yes, I do.”
She washes up. He stands next to her, drying the plates.
“If something happens to me can you promise you’ll look out for Omar and Vega and make sure they’re all right? Can you promise me you’ll find good people to look after them?”
“Why would something happen to you?” she asks, the color draining from her face.
“Ah, nothing is going to happen to me, I’m fucking Superman. But you know. If something does happen. Will you make sure they can live with some good people?”
She elaborately dries her hands on the towel, so he won’t notice that they are shaking.
“Why are you asking me? Why don’t you ask Sven or Bank or . . .”
“Because you’re not the type to walk out, Britt-Marie.”
“Neither are you!”
He places himself on the threshold and lights a cigarette. She stands to one side behind him, breathing in the smoke.
The sun hasn’t come up yet. She picks a hair off the arm of his jacket. Puts it in a handkerchief and folds it up.
“What soccer team did your mother support?” she asks quietly.
He grins, as if it’s quite obvious, and answers the question as all sons with mothers do:
“Our team.”
He drives her to Bank’s house. Kisses her hair. She sits on the balcony with her packed bags and watches him driving off towards town. He has made her promise that she won’t sit up all night waiting for his car to come back.
But she does it anyway.