Фредрик Бакман - Anxious People

Jack gets out of an elevator, bewildered and curious. He’s clutching a letter in his hand. It landed on his doormat one morning, without a stamp. Inside was a note with this address on it, as well as the floor of the building and office number. Beneath that was a photograph of the bridge and another envelope, sealed, with another name written on it.

Zara saw Jack at the police station and recognized him, in spite of the years that had passed. And because she’s been living those same moments over and over again since then, she realized that he’s been doing the same.

Jack finds the right office, knocks on the door. Ten years have passed since a man jumped, almost exactly the same amount of time since a young woman didn’t. She opens the door without knowing who he is, but his heart turns to confetti the moment he sees her, because he hasn’t forgotten. He hasn’t seen her since she was standing on the railing of the bridge, but he would still have recognized her, even in darkness.

“I… I…,” Jack stammers.

“Hello? Are you looking for someone?” Nadia wonders, friendly but bemused.

He has to reach out for the doorframe, and her fingertips brush his. They don’t yet know how they’re capable of affecting each other. He hands her the large envelope, with his name written untidily on the front, and inside it are the photograph of the bridge and the address of her office. Beneath those are the smaller envelope with For Nadia written on the outside. Inside is a small note, on which Zara had written, in considerably neater handwriting, nine simple words.

You saved yourself. He just happened to be there.

When Nadia loses her balance, just for a moment, Jack catches hold of her arm. Their eyes dance around each other. She clings tightly, tightly, tightly to those nine words, but barely manages to formulate any of her own: “It was you… on the bridge, when I… was that you?”

He nods mutely. She fumbles for more words.

“I don’t know what to… just give me a moment. I need to… I need to compose myself.”

She walks to her desk and sinks onto the chair. She’s spent ten years wondering who he was, and now she has no idea what to say. Where to start. Jack walks cautiously into the office after her, sees the photograph on the bookcase, the one Zara always adjusted when she was there. It’s a picture of Nadia and a group of children, at a big summer camp six months before. Nadia and the children are laughing and joking, and they’re all wearing matching T-shirts bearing the name of the charitable organization that funded the camp. It collects money to work with children like the ones in the picture, all of whom have lost a family member to suicide. It helps to know that you’re not alone when you’ve been left behind. You can’t carry the guilt and the shame and the unbearable silence on your own, and you shouldn’t have to, that’s why Nadia goes to the summer camp each year. To listen a lot, talk a little, and laugh as much as possible.

She doesn’t know it yet, but the charity has just received a donation to its bank account. From a woman with headphones who has resigned from her job, given away her fortune, and crossed a bridge. They’ll be able to hold those summer camps for many years to come.

Jack and Nadia sit on either side of the narrow desk, looking at each other. He smiles weakly, and after a while she does the same, simultaneously terrified and full of laughter. One day, in ten years’ time, perhaps they’ll tell someone that was how it felt. The first time.

74

The truth? The truth about all this? The truth is that this was a story about many different things, but most of all about idiots. Because we’re doing the best we can, we really are. We’re trying to be grown-up and love each other and understand how the hell you’re supposed to insert USB leads. We’re looking for something to cling on to, something to fight for, something to look forward to. We’re doing all we can to teach our children how to swim. We have all of this in common, yet most of us remain strangers, we never know what we do to each other, how your life is affected by mine.

Perhaps we hurried past each other in a crowd today, and neither of us noticed, and the fibers of your coat brushed against mine for a single moment and then we were gone. I don’t know who you are.

But when you get home this evening, when this day is over and the night takes us, allow yourself a deep breath. Because we made it through this day as well.

There’ll be another one along tomorrow.

IF YOU NEED SOMEONE

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline:

Call 800-273-8255

Crisis Text Line:

Text “talk” to 741741

For information and support, whether it’s you yourself who needs it or someone close to you, take a look at:

zerosuicide.com

sprc.org

AUTHOR’S THANKS

J.Very few people have had the effect on my life that you have. The kindest, strangest, funniest, messiest, most complicated friend I’ve ever had. Almost twenty years have passed now, and I still think about you almost every day. I’m so sorry you couldn’t bear it any longer. I hate myself for not being able to save you.

Neda.Twelve years together, ten years married, two children, and a million rows about wet towels on the floor and feelings we’re still trying to find words for. I don’t know how you’ve managed to juggle two careers, yours and mine, but without you I wouldn’t be standing here now. I know I drive you crazy, but I’m crazy about you. Ducks fly together.

The monkey and the frog.I’m trying to be a good dad. I really am. But when you jumped in the car and asked, “What’s that smell? Are you eating candy?” I lied. Sorry.

Niklas Natt och Dag.I don’t know how many years we’ve been sharing an office. Eight? Nine? I can honestly say I’ve never known a genius, but you are the closest I’ve come. I’ve never had a brother, either.

Riad Haddouche, Junes Jaddid, and Erik Edlund. I don’t say it as often as I should. But I hope you know.

Mumand Dad, my sister, and Paul. Houshang, Parham, and Meri.

Vanja Vinter.Stubborn as hell since 2013, and the only person who’s worked with me throughout almost all my career. Editor, proofreader, extra pair of eyes, a whirlwind, and a really good friend for all of my stories. Thank you for always giving one hundred percent.

The Salomonsson Agency.Most of all, of course, my agent Tor Jonasson, who doesn’t always understand what the hell I’m playing at but always defends me just as doggedly. Marie Gyllenhammar, who has been like an extra member of the family when the machinery and circus spin too fast and I’m trying to find myself. Cecilia Imberg, who acted as an extra proofreader and linguistic adviser toward the end of this project. (In those instances where we disagreed about grammar, obviously you were right, but sometimes I make mistakes just for the hell of it.)

Bokförlaget Forum, my publishers in Sweden. In particular John Häggblom, Maria Burlin, Adam Dahlin, and Sara Lindegren.

Alex Schulman, who, when I was trying to make this book work, reminded me how it can feel when a text completely floors you. Christoffer Carlsson, who read and corrected and laughed. I owe you a beer. Maybe two. Marcus Leifby, my absolute first choice when I need to drink coffee and talk about Division 2 ice hockey and Vietnam War documentaries for six hours on a Tuesday.