Fredrik Backman - Britt-Marie Was Here [Britt-Marie var här]

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.”