The Father: Made in Sweden Part I (43 page)

They hang their coats on three hooks in the hall, and Felix stands there, scrutinising the large holes slashed in Leo’s coat. He runs his middle finger and index finger along the frayed edges, exposing the white lining, which spills out; he tries to poke and push it back in, but it springs out again just as fast.

If he turns the knife hole on the shoulder against the wall you can see the knife hole on the arm. If you turn the knife hole on the arm towards the wall you can see the hole on the shoulder.

And Mamma will be home any minute.

Mamma mustn’t see it.

Leo tiptoes past Pappa’s intermittent snoring behind the closed bedroom door and into the kitchen, grabs a roll of tape from the top drawer under the workbench, and tears off some short pieces in order to put the holes back together, but instead they get bigger. Felix finds a few needles, but no thread that’s the right colour no matter how many boxes and glass bowls he empties out on the hallway floor. Then they find a dry tube of glue on the desktop that neither of them can get anything out of even though they push until their fingertips hurt.

‘This won’t be good, Leo.’

‘We’ll turn the holes … like this … against the wall.’

‘She’ll see them!’

‘Well … then I’ll tell her it was from thorn bushes.’

‘That’s a stupid—’

‘What if Faruk kicked a football into some thorn bushes. And when I leant over to pick it up a couple of the thorns got caught and tore the sleeve in two places. Does that sound OK?’

Mamma comes home.

They sit quietly in the kitchen, listening. They hear her put her bag down on the chair and a bag of shopping on the floor, hear her hang up her coat in the hallway.

And she hurries straight past. Without looking.
She doesn’t see the knife holes
.

She goes into the kitchen, and when she hears Pappa snoring from the bedroom she asks what they had for lunch and dinner. Before Leo can answer, Vincent shouts from inside his room
ice cream
, and Leo adds that he made pancakes afterwards. And for a moment it seems she believes him.

‘Pancakes?’

Her eyes search the kitchen for the frying pan, which isn’t on the stove or the drying rack, for plates with remnants of strawberry jam.

Now Leo answers. Before Vincent.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes.’

She doesn’t get annoyed very often. But she is now. Every time the abrupt, anxious, drunken snores push their way through the bedroom door and flood the apartment, Leo can see it on her face.

‘I washed up. And put everything away. Everything. The frying pan. And the plates.’

She opens one of the cabinet doors. But not to the pans or plates. The one under the sink. She pulls out the rubbish bin, and they both see it at the same time. Empty bottles. And the wine rack, just as empty.

She
is
annoyed. But not at him or his lies.

‘OK. What do you want for dinner?’

She puts her hand on Leo’s cheek. Her skin is always so soft.

‘What do you say? Pancakes?’

‘Pancakes.’

He helps her by getting out the flour and eggs and milk and salt. And a bit of Pappa’s smoked pork, which he cuts into thick slices with a long kitchen knife and eats with onions.

Oven pancakes.

‘When did Pappa go into the bedroom?’

‘When we came home.’

‘Home?’

‘Yes.’

‘From?’

From the ice cream van. From two blackcurrant bottles. From lolly sticks that couldn’t be broken, just like a family can’t be broken.

‘From?’

‘School.’

The hand gently on his cheek.

‘From?’

The words in his mouth won’t come out, which is why he runs down the hall so fast when someone rings the doorbell. Anything that gets him out of the kitchen and away from having to answer Mamma with more lies.

‘Is your mother or father at home?’

He’s never seen the man standing in the stairwell.

‘Who are you?’

He’s tall. Almost as tall as Pappa. But has short hair. And kind eyes.

‘Are they? Are your mother or father at home?’

It doesn’t seem as if he’s selling anything. He’s not the caretaker, here to complain about them running around in the cellar or broken lamps in the car park. He might be a Christian, here to show them flimsy magazines with brightly coloured drawings of children playing with lions. Drawings that aren’t comics.

‘Mamma. She’s at home.’

No. He’s not here to talk about Jesus and he has no magazines in his hand. They usually come in pairs.

Leo’s stomach aches a little. Deep inside, below the ribs. It’s good that Pappa’s asleep, because this is surely one of those people who come here asking for Mamma or Pappa to discuss whatever Leo or Felix or Pappa has done. And who Pappa should not be awake to meet.

‘Thank you.’

Leo goes into the kitchen, listening: Pappa is still snoring. And he makes sure to stand with his back towards the bedroom when talking to Mamma, who’s stirring the pancake batter with a whisk, round and round in a plastic bowl.

‘Someone wants to talk to you.’

‘Who?’

He shrugs.

‘Someone.’

She washes her hands in warm water under the tap, dries them on the towel hanging on the oven door, and walks down the hallway to the front door.

‘Hello.’

The man holds out a skinny arm.

‘Hello, I’m Hasse’s father.’

Hasse? Hasse and Kekkonen? The ones who hurt my son?

‘And I’m Leo’s mother,’ she says, taking his hand. ‘And I’m glad you’re here. I’d been planning to contact you.’

The tall man nods and sighs.

‘I understand that. And appreciate it. Because … this is unacceptable.’

Mamma nods and sighs and opens the door a little more.

‘Come in. So we don’t have to talk in the stairwell.’

Hasse’s father steps in, but stops on the hall carpet. And she sees how he sees it, as if it were two hallways. Her wall. And Ivan’s. Her side with wicker baskets and drawings Felix has made for her. Ivan’s side with the long rows of old tools and that sabre that always has to be adjusted and moved so that it hangs exactly in the middle.

‘You have to understand – I’m not here to accuse you of anything.’

As he talks to her, he bends over trying to make himself shorter.

‘I’m here because I want to make sure that you speak to your son.’

Mamma changes her position, not just leaning on her right leg, but balancing on both, as if preparing. No one else can see it. But Leo can, he knows her. He knows that when she stands like that she’s mustering her strength.

‘And
I
would like to make sure that
you
speak to
your
son.’

‘I’ve already done that. We’ve had … plenty of time today. Four hours in Accident & Emergency.’

‘A&E?’

‘Yes, they—’

‘Today?’

‘Comminuted fracture. The result of “high-impact violence”, they said.’

Mamma turns to Leo, looking at his face, which has gradually turned from very swollen with dark blue patches to just a little swollen with golden brown patches. And her expression changes as she realises that
a week ago
has just become
today
and things have changed. That
your
son has become
my
son.

Leo looks down and listens and realises that the snoring has stopped.

‘A broken nose.’

‘I know that. I work in healthcare.’

Listens to the bedroom door being opened.

‘If I hadn’t been home today. If I hadn’t taken him straight to A&E. It might have been visible for his whole life.’

To the heavy steps coming closer.

‘They raised the nose. And straightened out the nasal wall.’

Mamma turns to Leo again. And only at that moment does she see Pappa, the sides of his hair tousled.

‘In that case … I am extremely sorry. I will speak with Leo shortly. And we’ll sort this out. And then we can go to yours. And we’ll talk all this through together. You and your son, me and my son.’

The heavy steps.

‘Sort this out?’

Pappa.

‘Sure as hell we’ll sort it out!’

Pappa passes Leo and goes over to Mamma, then passes her too, places himself between her and the visitor.

‘Right, Britt-Marie?’

The visitor is about to leave, his hand on the handle and the door halfway open, when Pappa takes a step closer.

‘Hey, don’t go. Come in. Come in! We’re going to
sort
this out.’

And he winks at Mamma.

‘Or maybe you’d prefer it if we invited you to dinner? Britt-Marie? We have a guest. Hasse’s father! Dinner!’

The tall visitor seems confused, he was about to go.

‘No … it’s really not necessary, the only thing I wanted was to discuss …’

Mamma smiles weakly at him. But not at Pappa.

‘Ivan – Hasse’s father and I have already talked about this. I can explain it to you later. When Hasse’s father leaves.’

Pappa smiles.

‘Done?
I’m
not done. Leo is
my
son too. So … just come in. Join us, Hasse’s father.’

He grabs the door handle and pulls the front door shut with Hasse’s father still on the hall carpet. One arm gestures towards the kitchen and simultaneously stops Mamma from moving.

‘You wanted to sort this out.’

They sit at the kitchen table. Pappa at his spot next to the ashtray and Keno tickets, Hasse’s father in Mamma’s seat.

‘Yes.’

‘Sort out what, exactly? That our sons have been fighting? That my ten-year-old son hit your thirteen-year-old son this time? That they’re even now?’

Hasse’s father looks round, looking for Mamma, who isn’t there.

‘Even? Well, if that’s what you want to call it. My son came home this morning with some very serious injuries. A broken nose, and he—’

‘Wait.’

Pappa holds up a hand in front of Hasse’s father’s face. And nods towards the hallway, to someone hidden in the doorway.

‘Leo?’

Leo steps across the threshold.

‘All the way.’

He doesn’t go all the way, but comes a little further into the kitchen, to the refrigerator.

‘Leo, my son, this is Hasse’s father. He says you hit Hasse on the nose. Did you?’

The fridge seems never to have hummed as loudly before.

‘Yes.’

‘Once?’

‘Yes.’

He stands in a kitchen that has become a courtroom and the jury looks at him, one half smiling, the other half nodding seriously. Then the half that’s smiling takes some money out of his trouser pocket.

‘Here.’

And hands Leo a 50-kronor note.

‘The next time you need to get even you hit him twice. Then I’ll give you a hundred.’

Fifty kronor of Pappa’s money. Leo takes the note, running his fingers over it. It’s wrinkled and he flattens it out.

‘You can go now. Go to your brothers, Leo.’

Pappa then winks at Hasse’s father, as he did at Mamma.

‘So. They’re even now. Your son hit my son first. Then my son hit your son. Now they’re finished with each other.’

Pen in hand, he pulls the Keno coupons a little closer.

‘But
we’re
not finished with each other,’ he continues, placing a cross at a time in different patterns. ‘Because you came here, into my home,
and blamed everything on my son. When it was your little hooligan who started all this! And therefore, as you surely know, it’s you and me that will have to finish this. At this kitchen table. I promise you, I guarantee you … that every time your little hooligan hits anyone from now on,
anybody
, I’ll find
you
, and beat
you
. Every time.’

Hasse’s father stands up quickly from his chair.

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘You bet your life I am.’

‘I thought we could talk about this.’

‘We are talking. For now.’

Hasse’s father just stands there, silent. His face red.

‘You’re threatening me. You know I can report you for that. You understand that, do you?’

Pappa laughs, quietly, or seems to.

‘Good. Do it. Report me.’

Louder now, really laughing.

‘The fucking cops will thank me. Thank me! Because from now on they’ll know who your little hooligan is.’

And then it all happens so fast, just like at the table in the restaurant with the glass of orange squash. Pappa stands up and grabs Hasse’s father by his collar and presses him against the wall between the humming refrigerator and the door.

‘Don’t forget. That every time your little hooligan hits someone else, I’ll hit you. Every time!’

Pappa raises his voice and the door to Vincent’s room opens. Felix and Vincent peek out as Pappa pushes Hasse’s father against the wall, and then down the hall towards the front door.

‘Goodbye, Hasse’s father. Say hello to Hasse for me. Take care of his nose, squeeze it tightly, and shake it a bit, and say hello from Leo. From
Ivan’s son
.’

Britt-Marie is still standing in the hallway as the door closes and steps disappear down the stairwell. Her legs try to bend and her body wants to collapse on the floor, as if they just can’t take any more drunken aggression. But they don’t. Because she’s decided that they won’t.