Britt-Marie Was Here (25 page)

When Britt-Marie doesn’t know what to say he goes on:

“I asked for you in the pizzeria. That woman in the wheelchair didn’t want to say where you were, but a couple of old blokes drinking coffee there were pretty keen to tell me. Do you know them?”

“No,” whispers Britt-Marie, unsure whether he’s making that up.

Kent holds out the flowers.

“Darling . . . I . . . damn it, I’m sorry! Me, her, that woman, it never meant a thing. It’s over. You’re the one I love. Damn it. Darling!”

Britt-Marie looks with concern at the stick he’s using to prop himself up.

“What on earth’s happened to you?”

He waves dismissively at her.

“Ah, don’t make a fuss about that, the doctors just wanted me to have it for a while after the heart attack, that’s all. The chassis has rusted up a bit, after it’s been parked up in the garage for half the winter!” He grins, with a nod at his legs.

She wants to hold his hand.

It doesn’t feel natural to have to invite him in. It never did, not even when they were teenagers. At her mother’s she wasn’t allowed to bring boys into the bedroom, so the first time Britt-Marie brought a boy in there, it was Kent. After her mother’s death. That boy stayed. Made her home his own and his life hers. So now it seems very natural to them both to be driving around Borg in their BMW, because in many ways they were always at their best when they were in the car. He in the driver’s seat, she the passenger. At this moment
they can pretend they have only been passing through, and leave Borg, as you do with places you send postcards from.

They drive into town and back. Kent keeps his hand on the gearstick, so that Britt-Marie can carefully reach out with the tips of her fingers of the hand that is not injured, and put them on top of his. Just to feel that they are both heading in the same direction. His shirt is creased and has coffee stains over his stomach. Britt-Marie remembers Sami talking about how some children look as if they live in the trees, and Kent does look as if he fell out of a tree in his sleep, hitting every branch on his way down. He smiles apologetically.

“I couldn’t find that blasted iron, darling. There’s no order to anything when you’re not at home. You know that.”

Britt-Marie doesn’t answer. She’s worrying about what people will think. Will they say he had a wife who left him while he was walking about with a stick and everything? Her ring finger feels cold, and she’s infinitely grateful for the bandage, which stops Kent seeing it. She knows he let her down, but she can’t get away from the feeling that she also let him down. What is love worth if you leave someone when he needs you the most?

Kent coughs and takes his foot off the accelerator, although the road lies empty ahead of them.

Britt-Marie has never seen him slow down for no particular reason.

“The doctors say I haven’t been so well. For a long time, I mean. I haven’t been myself. I’ve been given some darned tablets, antidepressants or whatever they’re called.”

The way he says it is the same as when he’s talking about his plans, as if they are all a foregone conclusion.

As if what made him come home late smelling of pizza was nothing but a production fault, perfectly easy to mend. Now everything is fine.

She wants to ask why he never called her, after all she had a cell phone with her. But she realizes he would have assumed she couldn’t switch it on. So she stays quiet about it. He peers out of the window as they drive back into Borg.

“Darned strange place for you to end up in, isn’t it? What was it your mum used to call the countryside? ‘Sheer mediocrity’? She was darned funny, your mum. And it is a bit ironic that you should end up in the sticks out here, isn’t it? You, who hardly put your foot outside our flat in forty years!”

He says it as a joke. She can’t quite accept it in that spirit. But when they stop outside Bank’s house he’s breathing so heavily that she can hear the pain he’s in. His tears are the first she’s ever seen in his eyes. There were no tears there even when he buried his own mother, while clutching Britt-Marie’s hand.

“It’s over. With her. That woman. She never meant a thing. Not like you, Britt-Marie.”

He holds the fingers of her unscathed hand, caresses them gently, and says in a low voice:

“I need you at home, darling. I need you there. Don’t throw away a whole life we’ve lived together just because I made one stupid mistake!”

Britt-Marie brushes invisible crumbs from his shirt. Breathes in the fragrance of the flowers in her arms.

“Boys are not allowed in my bedroom. Not then and not now either,” she whispers.

He laughs out loud. Her skin is burning.

“Tomorrow?” he calls out behind her as she’s getting out of the car.

She nods.

Because life is more than the shoes your feet are in. More than the person you are. It’s the togetherness. The parts of yourself in
another. Memories and walls and cupboards and drawers with compartments for cutlery, so you know where everything is.

A life of adaptation towards a perfect organization, a streamlined existence based on two personalities. A shared life of everything that’s normal. Cement and stone, remote controls and crosswords, shirts and baking soda, bathroom cabinets and electric shavers in the third drawer. He needs her for all that. If she’s not there, nothing is as it should be.

She goes up to her room. Opens drawers. Folds towels.

The cell phone rings, the display showing the number of the girl from the unemployment office, but Britt-Marie declines the call. Sits on her own on the balcony all night. With her packed bags next to her.

Y
ou look at me as if you’re judging me. I should like to inform you that I don’t appreciate it at all,” Britt-Marie affirms. When she doesn’t get an answer, she continues more diplomatically:

“It may not be your intention to look at me as if you’re judging me, but that is how it feels.”

When she still gets no answer, she sits down on a stool with her hands clasped together in her lap, and points out:

“I should like to point out that the towel has been left where it is so you can wipe your paws on it. Not as a decoration.”

The rat eats some Snickers. Doesn’t say anything. But Britt-Marie senses she is being judged. She snorts defensively.

“Love doesn’t necessarily have to be fireworks and symphony orchestras for every human being, I do believe you can look at it like that. For some of us, love can be other things. Sensible things!”

The rat eats Snickers. Makes a foray over the towel. Goes back to the Snickers.

“Kent is my husband. I am his wife. I’m certainly not going to sit here and be lectured by a rat,” Britt-Marie clarifies. Then she collects her thoughts a bit, switches her hands around, and adds:

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. Being a rat. I’m sure it’s quite excellent.”

The rat makes no attempt to be anything but a rat. Britt-Marie’s next words come out in a long exhalation.

“It’s just that I’ve been a melancholic for a long time, you have to understand.”

The rat eats Snickers. The children play soccer in the parking area outside the recreation center. Britt-Marie sees Kent’s BMW through the doorway. He’s playing with the children. They like him; everyone likes Kent when they first meet him. It takes years to see his bad side. With Britt-Marie it’s the other way around.

In fact she doesn’t know if “melancholic” is the right word. She looks for a better expression, as in a crossword. Vertical: “Dejected individual.” “As felt by a non-happy person.” Or possibly: “Greek for black, followed by stomachache.”

“Maybe ‘heavyhearted’ would be a better word,” she tells the rat.

She has been feeling heavyhearted for a long time now.

“It may seem ludicrous to you, but in some ways I’ve had less time to be heavyhearted in Borg than I did at home. . . . It’s not as if I’ve been forced into the life I’ve lived. I could have made changes. I could have found myself some employment,” says Britt-Marie, and she can hear that she’s actually defending Kent rather than herself.

But on the other hand it’s quite true. She could have found herself a job. It was just that Kent thought it would be good if she waited awhile. Just a year or so. Who else would take care of everything at home, he asked, and by his way of asking it was clear to her that he wasn’t volunteering to do it himself.

So after waiting at home with her mother for a few years, Britt-Marie waited at home with Kent’s children for a few years, and then Kent’s mother became ill and Britt-Marie waited at home with her quite a bit for another few years. Kent felt it was best that way,
obviously just during a transitional period until all of Kent’s plans had fallen into place, and, of course, it was best for the whole family if Britt-Marie was at home in the afternoons in case the Germans wanted to have dinner. When he said “the whole family” he was obviously referring to everyone in the family except Britt-Marie. “Corporate entertainment is tax-deductible,” Kent always explained, but he never explained who would benefit by it.

A year turned into several years, and several years turned into all the years. One morning you wake up with more life behind you than in front of you, not being able to understand how it’s happened.

“I could have found myself employment. It was my choice to stay at home. I’m not a victim,” Britt-Marie points out.

She doesn’t say anything about how close she got. She went to job interviews. Several of them. She didn’t tell Kent about them, obviously, because he would only have asked what salary she’d get, and if she had told him he would have laughed and said: “Isn’t it bloody better, then, if I pay you to stay at home?” He would have meant that as a joke, but she would not have been able to take it in that spirit, and so, as a result, she never said anything. She was always there in good time for the interviews, and there was always someone else waiting there in the visitors’ room. Almost exclusively young women. One of them started talking to Britt-Marie, because she couldn’t imagine that someone so old was there for the same job as herself. She had three children and had been left by her husband. One of the children had an illness. When she was called in for her interview, Britt-Marie stood up and went home. You could say a lot of things about Britt-Marie, but she was certainly not someone who’d steal a job from someone more in need of it.

Obviously she doesn’t tell the rat about this; she doesn’t want to make herself out to be some sort of martyr. And then, of course, you never know what sort of life experiences the rat has had.

Maybe it lost its whole family in a terrorist attack, for instance; it’s the sort of thing you read about.

“There’s a lot of pressure on Kent, you have to understand,” she explains.

Because there is. Providing for a whole family takes time and has to be respected.

“It takes a long time to get to know a person,” says Britt-Marie to the rat, her voice growing progressively quieter with every word.

Kent digs his heels in when he walks. Not everyone notices these kinds of things, but that’s how it is. He curls up when sleeping, as if he’s cold, irrespective of how many blankets she gently spreads over him. He’s afraid of heights.

“And his general knowledge is outstanding, especially when it comes to geography!” she points out.

Geography is a very good skill to share the sofa with when solving crossword puzzles. Not so very easy to acquire, actually. Love doesn’t have to be fireworks for everyone. It could be a question of capital cities with five letters or knowing exactly when it’s time to reheel your shoes.

“He could change.” Britt-Marie wants to say it in a loud, clear voice, but instead it comes out in a whisper.

But he might, certainly. He doesn’t even need to become an entirely new person. It’s enough if he can become who he used to be before he was unfaithful.

He is taking medicine, after all, and they can do really amazing things with medicine nowadays.

“A few years ago they cloned a sheep, can you imagine?” says Britt-Marie to the rat.

At this point the rat decides to leave.

She puts away the plate. Washes up. Cleans. Polishes the window and looks out at Kent playing soccer with Omar and Dino. She can
also change, she’s sure about that. She doesn’t have to be so boring. Life may not turn out differently if she goes home with Kent, but at least it will go back to normal.

“I’m not ready for an unusual life,” says Britt-Marie to the rat, before she remembers that it has gone.

It takes time to get to know a person. She is not ready to get to know a new one. She has decided she has to learn to live with herself as she is.

She stands in the doorway watching Kent score a goal. He props himself up against the stick and leaps into the air, making a pirouette. It could not possibly be the sort of behavior the doctors would recommend after a heart attack, but Britt-Marie stops herself from criticizing him, because he looks so happy. She assumes there could also be advantages, health-wise, in being happy after a heart attack.

Omar nags about having a ride in the BMW, justifying this by the argument that it’s “wicked as hell,” and Britt-Marie realizes this must be something good, so she manages to stop herself from criticizing this as well. Kent manages to tell the boys how much it cost, which seems to impress them terrifically. The third time around he lets Omar drive, and Omar looks as if he’s just been given permission to ride a dragon.