“Indeed. Before I die I must have a finished portrait of myself, or my life will have been something worse than wasted. It will have been a lie!” He gestured dramatically in the air. “Ingmar Bergman, plumber! A simulacrum of my existence, made up of its constituents, the clients whose lives I have played a part in, whose pipes I have cut and soldered. Do you understand?”
“I have to confess, I don’t.”
“Ah well, how could you? You’re not an Ingmar Bergman, as I am...”
With this, he stood up to leave. I paid him three hundred and fifty crowns in cash.
Soon after, I read in the newspaper that he had been gored to death by an elk whilst picking blueberries in Gotland, where he had gone to visit a dying relative and do a bit of skating. Remarkably, the police found no evidence of foul play in his death, although they did concede that the elk had misbehaved. The Swedish Film Institute issued a mendacious statement in which reference was made to his “honorable life spent faithfully serving as a member of the plumbing fraternity,” while also calling attention to “the remarkable, visceral similarities in the manner of his passing to those depicted in countless numbers of Swedish films made by his beloved relatives.”
I threw away the newspaper.
I am now waiting to die myself. I must confess, I am sickened by the corruption of the world. How many hours, how many days have I sat here contemplating the meaning of Ingmar Bergman’s life? Slowly, the dim, mysterious words he imparted to me have lost their veil. I have stepped into the clear light of his purpose. If only I could have seen his photo-collage. I might then have understood his need to express himself in sculpted light.
Yet any half-sane person would surely ask himself why a photo-collage should be so important? Why does it really matter?
Two months after the news of his death, the toilet was blocked once again.
This time I paid for a proper plumber, who arrived on time. Unlike my Bergman, he didn’t have time for coffee. As soon as he’d sorted out the problem, he muttered some sort of goodbye in a heavy accent, and left without another word.
I stood in the window and watched him pack his tools into the back of his van. It occurred to me that, in one sense, he was an even greater mystery than Ingmar Bergman. There are people in this world who do not say very much, who have no avowed purpose other than putting bread on the table as efficiently as possible.
Had I been born an Ingmar Bergman I would have made a film about them.
HAROLD WAS A YOUNG STOCKHOLMER WHOSE LIFE FROM THE OUTSIDE SEEMED POISED FOR HAPPINESS. There was one problem, however, which he did his best never to discuss with anyone. In a nutshell, he was claustrophobic.
Wherever he lived, however spacious his apartment, it always struck him as slightly cramped. Sometimes he paced through his rooms dreaming of space, apparently the one thing he did not and could not have.
Often he played a little mental game, which involved him looking at, for instance, the living room whilst thinking to himself: “If this were twice as big, would I make it into two separate rooms? Or just have a bigger living room?”
He saw before him a billiard table, a highly polished glass drinks cabinet, and wall-to-wall built-in bookcases equipped with an old-fashioned ladder running smoothly along a runner set into the floor.
Then he saw himself, standing by the billiard table with a cigar in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other, a moustache like a black caterpillar crawling under his nose, and a beautiful, spirited Cubana in his arms, laughing infectiously as she kissed him, her sharp-heeled shoes drumming restlessly against the parquet.
What an overflowing cup of humanity he would have at his billiards evenings! Poets, philosophers, actors and ballet dancers, explorers, geneticists, maybe even the odd normal person, who would find himself in a minority, the toast of all and a great object of curiosity.
In real life Harold was a conscientious man who worked hard and kept his overcoat dry-cleaned and his shoes well polished at all times. Above all he had his positive-minded, capable Linda. They’d been living together for two years; it had worked well because Linda really was linda, as they say in Spain. She never failed to snuggle up to him and smother him in kisses. At the same time she was a sensible woman who brought home a salary and always made sure the bills were paid on time.
In spite of her good qualities, Harold never seemed to pluck up the courage to ask her to marry him. Occasionally when she was out he’d practice his marriage proposal in the bathroom mirror, but he was never quite convinced by his own performance.
Everything was fine in Harold and Linda’s world, except for this contentious issue of space—because, at the end of each menstrual cycle, Linda became depressed at the thought of her unborn children.
Every month a child died inside her, leaving a void.
October came round again and she had her thirty-seventh birthday. They went out for a Chinese meal with friends. It was a success. They talked about property, future movements in property prices, whether to buy or rent. One woman had thought it better to rent, a man had disagreed with her. Then the subject of Europe came up. Someone advocated that Sweden should join the foreign exchange mechanism. Someone else insisted it should not.
Harold had concentrated on making the duck pancake rolls and occasionally offering one to Linda. On the way home, Linda grabbed his arm, squeezed it and said, “Harold? Why do you never say anything? When we’re with people.”
He thought about it. “It’s because everyone else is so busy talking. And I’m not sure they really want me to interrupt.”
“But that’s not the actual reason, is it?”
“No,” said Harold. “To be honest, I don’t really care about those things. Property, Europe…”
“Aren’t you at all interested? I mean we have a property and we live in a country in the European Community.”
“Do you mind if I’m honest? Those things bore me rigid.”
“What do you want to talk about, then?”
They walked home in silence.
He woke up abruptly in the night. Linda was sitting up in the bed like a little owl, gazing at the duvet with her sharp nose in profile.
He was unnerved. “What is it darling? Have you got a stomach ache? Can I make you some camomile tea?”
“I don’t have a stomach ache.”
“Oh, isn’t it that time of the month?”
“I want a child,” she said. Her words filled the room and rumbled against the walls, even rattling the front door slightly.
Harold wound up his thoughts, then mechanically released them. “Anyone can have a child,” he began. “But a happy child, that’s a rarity. A happy child with two happy parents, that’s almost unheard of. The world is a harsh place. Maybe it’s better to leave the children where they are, in the unexpressed world where they’re blissfully unaware of ever having lived at all. Where no human ties or disappointments or pain will ever plague them. Anyway, we don’t have much space in this flat.”
“I can feel my children inside me. They’re knocking against my insides and they want to come out. Harold, why can’t you just oblige me?” she whispered. “Take off your pajamas and put away your condoms. Come inside me every night. Enjoy yourself.”
The idea was appealing, but Harold felt worried by her insistence.
Winter started creeping in, unwelcome as always. People put on their frowns before they went out. It was also a cool period in Harold and Linda’s relationship.
When they set off for work in the mornings, they rarely stopped off at the café to have a cappuccino together like they used to. It was a relief to perform only a cursory muzzling of their lips, then murmur a quick goodbye and walk on in blessed solitude.
In spite of always trying to do what one should, Harold was not a popular person. Many of their friends actually disliked him, and had made it clear to Linda that she should leave him before it was too late. Harold couldn’t understand why people didn’t like him. Old ladies smiled at him pleasantly enough as he walked down the pavement, but men and women of his own age frowned and looked away.
Was there anything wrong with being a well manicured, carefully presented clean-shaven young banker with fur-lined kidskin gloves, a leather briefcase and a cashmere overcoat? Was there anything contemptible about listening to what people said, agreeing affably whenever it was possible to do so?
II
The day after Linda’s birthday, as he was making his way to the office, Harold experienced something very unsettling. At first he put it down to too many whisky sours the night before, but there it was: the world was moving, very slightly, all round him. To be specific, it wasn’t so much the world as a section of the pavement on the corner of Nytorgsgatan. When he tried his foot against the paving stones they were springy like the mossy surface of a bog.
He stood, irresolute for a while, watching as other hurried walkers crossed the flexing section of the pavement. None of them noticed. In fact, several of them were more concerned about the spectacle of Harold standing there glaring at the ground, and occasionally kicking it with his highly polished brogues.
The bells of St. Maria struck eight-thirty and Harold moved on.
In the evening when Harold returned he’d bought a steel-tipped umbrella, which he dug into the tarmac by a lamp post. Soon enough he’d made a little hole, knelt down and poked his finger through. He got down on his knees and peered into the hole. Nothing. Just black. An odd smell came up through the hole. Was it sulphur? Or some sort of natural gas? He straightened up. What was needed here was a torch and a plumb line.
Back home, Linda was curled up in the sofa watching a DVD on how to improve your diet and fitness for pregnancy, while at the same time lacquering her toenails, as if intentionally ignoring the fact that Harold was slightly phobic about lacquered toenails, which made him wince.
Harold had the uncomfortable feeling that he was not a man at all and felt himself retreating through puberty into boyhood. His voice grew high-pitched in his throat, and his limbs lost their hair, once again acquired a chubby softness.
“Darling,” he squeaked.
“What?”
“Why are you so angry with me? What have I done?”
“Harold. You have done nothing. You have never done anything.” She turned her face to him, and he was astonished that she had also receded into childhood. Her hair hung down in damp ringlets. She wore a soft yellow towelling robe which scarcely reached down to her knees and she’d tucked her favorite doll under her arm. “By the way, I just had a shower,” she said. “I am very clean.”
“I can see that.”
“If you want a shower too, that might be nice. There’s nothing worse than a dirty man.”
“You used to say you loved my smell,” said Harold.
“Yes but that was just after I met you. I was still at the stage of trying to brainwash myself that you were perfect. Now I know you’re not.”
Harold put down his briefcase, relieved that she was talking to him at least. “How can you say I’ve never done anything?”
“Because you haven’t. When I think of your life, I think of a big yawning emptiness.”
Harold closed the front door and went into the kitchen without another word. He put on the coffee and sat in the window seat to read the newspaper. It was full of a repetitious banality that almost made him feel sick. The only headline he inadvertently caught before folding it up and hiding it under the table was “Man Eaten by Cat.” He considered what it would be like being eaten by a cat. Surely one would have to actually want to be eaten? Only a debilitated, possibly comatose person would lie still long enough for its tiny jaws to inflict mortal wounds. That must be the answer. The man had a stroke and, after a few days of lying motionless on the floor, the cat started eating him.
The coffee pot was bubbling and Harold quickly turned it off to avoid any bitter aftertaste. While the milk was heating up he took the newspaper and went to the ceramic-tiled fireplace in the corner of the living room. He opened the little brass doors, stuffed the newspaper inside, then put a match to it.
Linda smelt the smoke. “What are you doing?” she called out.
“I’m burning the newspaper.”
“Why? I haven’t read it yet.”
“Don’t.”
Linda stood in the doorway, looking at him strangely. “Why shouldn’t I read the newspaper?”
“Newspapers create an image of life that’s not only false but evil,” said Harold. “They waste our time; stop us from thinking; lull us into a false sense of security.”
He went back into the kitchen, boiled the milk and poured himself a nice café latte. “Do you want coffee?” he called out.
“I’m not drinking coffee.”
“Why not?”
“It makes you less fertile.”
Oddly enough, sitting there looking out of the window at the bored people walking along the river with their dogs, stopping to say hello to other bored people, fumbling for something to say, he wanted nothing but to open the now-burnt newspaper and sit there with his coffee, reading a pack of lies about how all this was normal.
Linda walked into the kitchen. “Are you having a bath?”
“No. I’m tired.”
“I’m going to bed,” she said.
Harold looked at the kitchen clock and realized with a shock that it was ten-thirty at night. It had taken him four hours to get home from work and have a cup of coffee.
III
The next morning, Harold woke up with a sense of purpose. Linda lay demonstratively with her back to him even though she was awake. He ignored her, got up, showered, shaved; then after breakfasting on yogurt, sliced apple, pumpernickel bread with hard Austrian cheese and pickled gherkins, he brought Linda breakfast in bed on the pretty, floral-patterned tray they had bought in Florence.
He knew what she liked when she was down: a slice of cake, a cup of herbal tea and a lit candle.
He sat by her side for a while. She tried not to show that she was pleased.
“Aren’t you going to work?” he said.
“I’ve got a pain,” she said. “In my stomach. I think I better stay at home, rest a bit. What about you? You’re going to be late.”