Chapter 36 #2
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.”
It’s not a reasonable choice to give a human being.
One remarkable thing about communities built along roads is that you can find just as many reasons for leaving them as excuses to make you stay.