Britt-Marie Was Here (8 page)

Not that she was thinking of doing any washing, but she can’t bear the thought of them all dirty. In a corner behind the tumble dryer she finds a whole sack of white shirts with numbers on them. Soccer jerseys, she understands. The entire recreation center is hung with pictures of various people wearing those shirts. Very likely they’re covered in grass stains, of course. Britt-Marie can’t for the life of her understand why anyone would choose to practice an outdoor sport while wearing white jerseys. It’s barbaric. She wonders whether the corner shop/pizzeria/car workshop/post office would even be likely to sell baking soda.

She fetches her coat. Just inside the front door, next to several photos of soccer balls and people who don’t know any better than to kick them, hangs a yellow jersey with the word “Bank” printed above the number “10.” Just beneath is a photo of an old man holding up the same jersey with a proud smile.

Britt-Marie puts on her coat. Outside the front door is a person who was clearly just about to knock on it. The person has a face and the face is full of snuff. This, in every possible way, is an awful way of establishing the very short-lived acquaintance between Britt-Marie and the face, because Britt-Marie loathes snuff. The whole thing is over in twenty seconds, when the snuff-face moves off while mumbling something that sounds distinctly like “nag-bag.”

At this point Britt-Marie picks up her telephone and dials the number of the only person her telephone has ever called. The girl at the unemployment office doesn’t answer. Britt-Marie calls again, because actually a telephone is not a thing you decide whether or not to answer.

“Yes?” says the girl at long last, with food in her mouth. “Sorry. I’m having my lunch.”

“Now?” Britt-Marie exclaims, as if the girl was joking. “My dear girl, we’re not at war. Surely it’s not necessary to be having your lunch at half past one?”

The girl chews her lunch quite hard. Bravely tries to change the topic of conversation:

“Did the pest control man come? I had to spend hours calling around but in the end I found someone who promised to make an emergency visit, and—”

“She was a pest control woman. Who took snuff,” Britt-Marie goes on, as if this explains everything.

“Right,” says the girl again. “So did she deal with the rat?”

“No, she most certainly did not,” Britt-Marie affirms. “She came in here wearing dirty shoes and I’d just mopped the floor. Taking snuff as well, she was. Said she was putting out poison, that’s how she put it, and you can’t just do that. Do you really think one can just do that? Put out poison just like that?”

“
No . . .
 ?” guesses the girl.

“No, you actually can’t. Someone could die! And that’s what I said. And then she stood there rolling her eyes with her dirty shoes and her snuff, and she said she’d put out a trap instead, and bait it with Snickers! Chocolate! On my newly mopped floor!” Britt-Marie says all this in the voice of someone screaming inside.

“Okay,” says the girl, and immediately wishes she hadn’t, because she realizes it is not okay at all.

“So I said it will have to be poison, then, and do you know what she told me? Listen to this! She said if the rat eats the poison you can’t know for certain where it will go to die. It could die in a cavity in the wall and lie there stinking! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Do you know that you called in a woman who takes snuff and thinks it’s absolutely in order to let dead animals die in the walls and stink the place out?”

“I was only trying to help,” says the girl.

“Ha. A fine lot of help that was. Some of us actually have other things to do than hanging about dealing with pest control women all day long,” says Britt-Marie well-meaningly.

“I couldn’t agree more,” says the girl.

There’s a queue in the corner shop. Or the pizzeria. Or the post office. Or the car workshop. Or whatever it is. Either way, there’s a queue. In the middle of the afternoon. As if people here don’t have anything better to do at this time.

The men with beards and caps are drinking coffee and reading the newspapers at one of the tables. Karl is standing at the front of the queue. He’s picking up a parcel. How very nice for him, thinks Britt-Marie, having all this leisure time on his hands. A cuboid woman in her thirties stands in front of Britt-Marie, wearing her sunglasses. Indoors. Very modern, muses Britt-Marie.

She has a white dog with her. Britt-Marie can’t think it’s very hygienic. The woman buys a pack of butter and six beers with foreign lettering on the cans, which Somebody produces from behind the counter. Also four packs of bacon and more chocolate cookies than Britt-Marie believes any civilized person could possibly need. Somebody asks if she’d like to have it on credit. The woman nods grumpily and throws it all in a bag. Britt-Marie would obviously
never consider the woman to be “fat,” because Britt-Marie is absolutely not the kind of person who pigeonholes people like that, but it does strike her how wonderful it must be for the woman to go through life so untroubled by her cholesterol levels.

“Are you blind, or what?” the woman roars as she turns around and charges directly into Britt-Marie.

Britt-Marie opens her eyes wide in surprise. Adjusts her hair.

“I most certainly am not. I have quite perfect vision. I’ve spoken to my optometrist about it. ‘You have quite perfect vision,’ he said!”

“In that case could you possibly get out of the way?” grunts the woman and waves a stick at her.

Britt-Marie looks at the stick. Looks at the dog and the sunglasses.

She mumbles, “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” and nods apologetically before she realizes that nodding won’t make any difference. The blind woman and the dog walk through her more than they walk past her. The door tinkles cheerfully behind them. It doesn’t have the sense to do anything else.

Somebody rolls past Britt-Marie and waves encouragingly at her.

“Don’t worry about her. She’s like Karl. Lemon up her arse, you know.”

She makes a gesture with her arm, which Britt-Marie feels is supposed to indicate how far up the latter the former is stuck, and then piles up a stack of empty pizza boxes on the counter.

Britt-Marie adjusts her hair and adjusts her skirt and instinctively adjusts the topmost pizza box, which isn’t quite straight, and then tries to adjust her dignity as well and say in a tone that is absolutely considerate:

“I should like to know how the repair of my car is progressing.”

Somebody scratches her hair.

“Sure, sure, sure, that car, yeah. You know, I have something to ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie?”

“Door? Why . . . what in the world do you mean?”

“You know, only asking. Color: important for Britt-Marie, I understand. Yellow door: not okay. So I ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie? If not important then Britt-Marie’s car is, what’s-it-called? Finish repaired! If a door is important . . . you know. Maybe, what’s-it-called? Longer delivery time!”

She looks pleased. Britt-Marie does not look pleased.

“For goodness sake, I must have a door on the car!” she fumes.

Somebody waves the palms of her hands defensively.

“Sure, sure, sure, no get angry. Just ask. Door: a little longer!” She measures out a few inches in the air between her thumb and index finger to illustrate how short a period of time “a little longer” really is.

Britt-Marie realizes that the woman has the upper hand in these negotiations.

Kent should have been here; he loves negotiating. He always says you have to compliment the person you’re negotiating with. So Britt-Marie collects herself and says:

“Here in Borg people seem to have all the time in the world to go shopping in the afternoon. It must be nice for you to have so much leisure.”

Somebody raises her eyebrows.

“And you? You’re very busy?”

With a deep patience, Britt-Marie puts one hand in the other.

“I am
extremely
busy. Very, very busy indeed. But as it happens I am out of baking soda. Do you sell baking soda in this . . . shop?”

She says the word “shop” with divine indulgence.

“Vega!” Somebody roars at once so that Britt-Marie jumps into the air and almost knocks over the pile of pizza boxes.

The child from yesterday turns up behind the counter, still
holding the soccer ball. Beside her stands a boy who looks almost exactly the same as her, but with longer hair.

“Baking soda for the lady!” says Somebody with an exaggerated theatrical bow at Britt-Marie, which is not at all appreciated.

“It’s her,” whispers Vega to the boy.

The boy immediately looks as if Britt-Marie is a lost key. He runs into the stockroom and stumbles back out with two bottles in his arms. Faxin. All the air goes out of Britt-Marie.

She assumes that she has what is sometimes in crossword clues known as an “out-of-body experience.” For a few moments she forgets all about the grocery shop and the pizzeria and the men with beards and cups of coffee and newspapers. Her heart beats as if it’s just been released from prison.

The boy places the bottles on the counter like a cat that’s caught a squirrel. Britt-Marie’s fingers brush over them before her sense of dignity orders them to leave off. It’s like coming home.

“I . . . I was under the impression that they’d been discontinued,” she whispers.

The boy points eagerly at himself: “Chill! Omar fixes everything!”

He points even more eagerly at the bottles of Faxin.

“All the foreign trucks stop at the petrol station in town! I know them all there! I fix whatever you like!”

Somebody nods wisely.

“They shut down petrol station in Borg. Not, you know, profitable.”

“But I fix petrol in can, if you like, free home delivery! And I can get you more Faxin if you want!” the boy hollers.

Vega rolls her eyes.

“I’m the one who told you she needed Faxin,” she hisses at the boy and puts the jar of baking soda on the counter.

“I’m the one who fixed it!” the boy maintains, without taking his eyes off Britt-Marie.

“This is my younger brother, Omar,” sighs Vega to Britt-Marie.

“We’re born the same year!” protests Omar.

“In January and December, yeah,” snorts Vega. If anything, Britt-Marie notices, the brother looks slightly older than her. Still a child, but approaching that age when they can become quite pungent.

“I’m the best fixer in Borg. The king of the castle, you know. Whatever you need, come to me!” says Omar to Britt-Marie, winking confidently without paying any attention to his sister, who’s kicking him on the shin.

“Twit,” says Vega with a sigh.

“Cow!” answers Omar.

Britt-Marie doesn’t know if she should be concerned or proud that she actually knows that this means something bad, but she doesn’t have much time to reflect on this before Omar is lying on the floor, holding his lip. Vega goes out of the door with the soccer ball in one hand and the other still formed into a fist.

Somebody titters at Omar.

“You have, what’s-it-called? Marshmallows for brains! Never learn, do you?”

Omar wipes his lip and then looks as if he’s letting go of the whole business. Like a small child forgetting to cry over a dropped ice cream when he catches sight of a glittering power ball.

“If you want new hubcaps for your car I can fix it. Or anything. Shampoo or handbags or anything. I’ll fix it!”

“Maybe some Band-Aids?” hollers Somebody mischievously and points at his lip.

Britt-Marie keeps a firm grip on her handbag and adjusts her hair, as if the boy has offended the both of them.

“I certainly don’t need either shampoo or a handbag.”

Omar points at the bottles of Faxin.

“Those are thirty kronor each but you can have them on credit.”

“On
credit
?”

“Everyone shops on credit in Borg.”

“I certainly don’t shop on credit! I can see maybe you don’t understand such a thing in Borg, but there are some of us that can pay our way!” hisses Britt-Marie.

That last bit just slips out of her. It wasn’t quite how she meant to put it.

Somebody is not grinning anymore. Both the boy and Britt-Marie have red faces, caused by different kinds of shame. Britt-Marie briskly lays down the money on the counter and the boy picks it up and runs out of the door. Soon the thumping can be heard again. Britt-Marie stays where she is and tries to avoid Somebody’s eyes.

“I didn’t get a receipt,” Britt-Marie states in a low voice, which is not at all incriminating.

Somebody shakes her head and smacks her tongue.

“What does he look like, IKEA or something? He doesn’t have, what’s-it-called? Limited company, you know. Just a kid with a bicycle.”

“Ha,” says Britt-Marie.

“What else do you want?” asks Somebody, her tone noticeably less hospitable as she puts the jar of baking soda and the bottles of Faxin in a bag.

Britt-Marie smiles as helpfully as she can.

“You have to understand that one has to get a receipt. Otherwise one actually can’t prove that one isn’t a criminal,” she explains.

Somebody rolls her eyes, which Britt-Marie feels is unnecessary.