Britt-Marie Was Here (17 page)

“We wanted to invite you for dinner so we could ask you to be our coach. Sort of like when they offer a contract in
proper
soccer teams,” says Vega sourly.

“I’m not particularly taken with soccer,” says Britt-Marie as politely as she can, which quite possibly is not very politely at all.

“You don’t need to do anything, all you have to do is sign a bloody form and come to our bloody training sessions!” protests Vega.

“There’s this wicked knockout competition in town. The council is organizing it, and any team can take part, but you have to have a coach.”

“There has to be someone else in Borg you could give this assignment to,” says Britt-Marie and starts backing away into the hall.

“No one else has time,” says Vega.

“But we were thinking you don’t have anything to do, sort of thing!” says Omar with a cheerful nod.

Britt-Marie pauses and looks thoroughly offended.

Adjusts her apron.

“I’ll have you know I have a great deal to do.”

“Like what?”

“I have a list!”

“But I mean, God, this will hardly take anytime at all. You only have to be there when we’re training in case one of the competition organizers comes by! So they can see we have a sodding coach!” Vega groans.

“We’re training at six this evening in the parking area by the recreation center,” says Omar with a nod.

“But I don’t know anything about soccer!”

“Nor does Omar, but we still let him play with us,” says Vega.

“You bloody what?!” Omar exclaims.

Vega, apparently losing her patience, shakes her head at Britt-Marie.

“Never bloody mind, then! We thought you had it in you to be decent about it. This is Borg, so it’s not like there are so many other bloody adults to choose from. You’re the only one.”

Britt-Marie has nothing to say to that. Vega starts going down
the steps and makes an irritated gesture at Omar to come with her. Britt-Marie stays in the doorway, keeping her hands clasped together while opening and closing her mouth repeatedly, until at long last she calls out:

“I can’t at six o’clock!”

Vega turns around. Britt-Marie stares at her apron.

“Civilized people have their dinner at six. You actually can’t play soccer in the middle of your dinner.”

Vega shrugs. As if it doesn’t make any difference.

“Okay. Come over to ours and have dinner at six, then, and we’ll train afterwards.”

“We’re having tacos!” says Omar, nodding with great satisfaction.

“What’s tacos?”

The children stare at her.

“Tacos,” says Omar, as if the problem could only have been that she didn’t hear him properly.

“I don’t eat foreign food,” says Britt-Marie, even though what she really means is, “Kent doesn’t eat foreign food.”

Vega shrugs her shoulders again.

“If you don’t eat the tortillas it’s like having salad.”

“We live in one of the high-rises, block two, second floor,” says Omar and points down the road.

Of course it’s not there and then that Britt-Marie becomes the coach of a soccer team. It’s just the point at which someone tells her that’s what she’s become.

She closes the door. Removes her apron. Puts it back in the drawer. Then cleans the kitchen, because she doesn’t know how not to. Then she goes upstairs and fetches her cell phone. The girl at the unemployment office picks up after a single ring.

“Do you know anything about soccer?”

“Is that Britt-Marie?” asks the girl, although she should have learned by now.

“I need to know how one trains a soccer team,” Britt-Marie informs her. “Do you need a permit from the local authority for that type of thing?”

“No . . . or what I mean is . . . what do you mean?” says the girl.

Britt-Marie exhales. But does not sigh.

“My dear, if for example you want to have your balcony glazed, you need a permit. I’m assuming the same thing applies to soccer teams. Surely they’re not beyond the rule of law just because the players run about kicking things all over the place?”

“No . . . I’ve . . . or, I mean I assume their parents have to sign some letter to say they’re allowed to play in the team,” says the girl dubiously.

Britt-Marie makes a note of that on her list. Nods soberly to herself and asks:

“Ha. So can I ask, what’s the first thing you have to do at soccer practice?”

“I’d say . . . but I don’t know . . . the first thing you do at training . . . I mean, is to take the register?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have a register. You tick off the people who are there,” says the girl.

“A list?”

“Yes . . . ?”

Britt-Marie has already hung up.

She may not know a lot about soccer, but even the gods know that no one is more skilled at lists than Britt-Marie.

D
ino opens the door. He laughs when he sees Britt-Marie, who assumes she has pressed the wrong doorbell, but in fact it turns out Dino always has his dinner with Vega and Omar, and Dino isn’t necessarily laughing at her. Apparently, in spite of her first impressions, that is how things are done in Borg. People seem to have their dinners at other people’s homes just like that, and then go around laughing as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Omar comes running into the hall and points at Britt-Marie.

“Take off your shoes. Sami gets really pissed off otherwise because he just mopped the floor!”

“I do not get pissed off!” comes a voice from the kitchen, sounding fairly pissed off.

“He’s always in a foul one when it’s our cleaning day,” explains Omar to Britt-Marie.

“Maybe I wouldn’t be in a foul one if
we
had a fucking cleaning day, but it’s always
me
who has a fucking cleaning day in this place.
Every day!
” yells Sami from the kitchen.

Omar nods meaningfully at Britt-Marie.

“You see. Pissed off.”

Vega turns up in the doorway with a slumped upper-body posture, waving an invisible bottle of spirits, in imitation of Somebody.

“You know, Britt-Marie, Sami he has, what’s-it-called? Citrus fruit up the anus, huh?”

Dino and Omar laugh until they are hyperventilating. Britt-Marie responds with a brisk series of polite nods, because this is as close as she gets to laughing out loud. She removes her shoes, goes into the kitchen, and nods cautiously at Sami. He points at a chair.

“The food is ready,” he says and removes his apron, before immediately roaring towards the hall:

“Grub’s up!”

Britt-Marie checks her watch. It’s exactly six o’clock.

“Are we waiting for your parents?” she asks considerately.

“They’re not here,” says Sami and starts putting coasters on the table.

“I suppose they’re delayed coming home from work,” Britt-Marie says pleasantly.

“Mum drives a truck. Abroad. She’s not home much,” says Sami curtly, putting glasses and bowls on the coasters.

“And your father?”

“He cleared off.”

“Cleared off?”

“That’s right. When I was small. Omar and Vega were just born. I guess he couldn’t take it. So we don’t talk about him in this home. Mum took care of us.
The food’s ready now so come here before I fucking beat the hell out of you!
”

Vega, Omar, and Dino saunter into the kitchen and start devouring their food, hardly stopping to chew it; it might as well have been liquidized and served up with straws.

“But who takes care of you now, then, when your mother’s not here?” asks Britt-Marie.

“We take care of us,” says Sami, offended.

She doesn’t know exactly what common conversational practice
is after that, so she gets out the carton of cigarettes with the foreign letters on it.

“Of course I usually bring flowers when I’m invited for dinner, but there’s no florist in Borg. I’ve noticed you like cigarettes. I suppose cigarettes must be like flowers for someone who likes cigarettes,” she explains, as if to defend herself.

Sami takes the carton of cigarettes. He looks almost emotional. Britt-Marie sits in a spare seat and clears her throat.

“You’re not afraid of cancer, I suppose?”

“There are worse things to be afraid of,” says Sami with a smile.

“Ha,” says Britt-Marie, and picks up something from her plate that she has to assume is a taco.

Omar and Vega start talking at the same time. Mostly about soccer, as far as Britt-Marie can make out. Dino says almost nothing, but he laughs the whole time. Britt-Marie doesn’t understand what he’s laughing at. He and Omar don’t even need to say anything before they burst out laughing, all they have to do is look at each other. Children are unfathomable that way.

Sami points at Omar with his fork.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Omar? Take your fucking elbows off the fucking table!”

Omar rolls his eyes. Removes his elbows.

“I don’t get why you can’t have your elbows on the table. What difference does it make?”

Britt-Marie observes him intensely.

“It makes a difference, Omar, because we’re not animals,” she explains.

Sami looks at Britt-Marie appreciatively. Omar looks at them both with puzzlement.

“Animals don’t have elbows,” he objects.

“Eat your fucking food,” says Sami.

When Omar and Dino are done, they stand up and run into another room, still laughing. Vega puts her plate on the dish rack and looks as if she’s expecting a diploma for effort. After that she also runs off.

“You could say thanks for the food,” Sami calls out after them, pissed off.

“Thanks for the food!”
the children roar from an indefinable part of the flat.

Sami stands up and clatters demonstratively with the plates in the sink. Then he looks at Britt-Marie.

“Right. So you didn’t like the food, then?”

“Excuse me?” says Britt-Marie.

Sami shakes his head, says something to himself punctuated by several “fucking” references, then snatches up the carton of cigarettes and disappears onto the balcony.

Britt-Marie stays in the kitchen on her own. Eats what she is almost sure must be tacos. They taste less odd than she expected. She stands up, puts what’s left of the food into the fridge, washes up and dries the plates and cutlery, and opens the cutlery drawer. Leans over it, catches her breath. Forks-knives-spoons. In the right order.

Sami is standing on the balcony, smoking, when she comes out.

“Very nice dinner, Sami. Thanks for that,” she says, one hand firmly clasped in the other.

He nods.

“Sometimes it’s nice if someone says it tastes good without your having to ask every time, you get what I mean?”

“Yes,” she says. Because she does get it.

Then she feels that it would be in order to say something polite, so she says:

“You have a very nice cutlery drawer.”

He looks at her for a long time, and then grins.

“You’re okay, Coach.”

“Ha. Ha. You’re also . . . okay. Sami.”

He drives them all to their practice session in his black car. Vega argues loudly with him all the way—which, in Borg, is not very far. Britt-Marie doesn’t understand what the argument is about, but it seems to have something to do with that Psycho fellow. Something about money. When they stop, Britt-Marie has a sense that something ought to be done to change the subject, because this Psycho makes her nervous in much the same way as too much talk about poisonous spiders. So she says:

“Do you also have a team, Sami? You and those boys you were playing with the other night?”

“No, we don’t have a . . . team,” says Sami, and looks as if it was a bit of a strange question.

“So why do you play soccer, then?” asks Britt-Marie, puzzled.

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” asks Sami, just as puzzled.

Neither of them are able to come up with a good answer.

The car stops. Vega, Omar, and Dino jump out. Britt-Marie checks the contents of her bag to make sure she hasn’t forgotten anything.

“Are you ready, Britt-Marie?” asks Vega, as if she’s already bored.

Britt-Marie nods with a good deal of concentration and points at her bag.

“Yes, yes, obviously I’m ready. I should like to tell you that I have made a list!”