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

“Hi there! At the health center,” says Somebody cheerfully.

“It smells of pizza,” Britt-Marie manages to say.

“Yeah, you know, health center is also pizzeria,” says Somebody, nodding.

“That hardly strikes me as hygienic,” Britt-Marie manages to utter.

Somebody shrugs his shoulders. “First pizzeria. You know, they closed down that health center. Financial crisis. What a shit. So now, you know, we do what we can. But no worry. Have first aid!”

Somebody, who actually seems to be a woman, points jovially at an open plastic case marked with a red cross on the lid, and “First Aid” written on it. Then she waves a stinky bottle.

“And here, you know, second aid! You want?”

“Excuse me?” Britt-Marie squeaks, with her hand on a painful bump on her forehead.

Somebody, who on closer inspection is not standing over Britt-Marie but sitting over her, offers her a glass.

“They closed down the liquor store here, so now we do what we can. Here! Vodka from Estonia or some shit like that. Letters bloody weird, you know. Maybe not vodka, but same shit, burns your tongue but you get used to it. Good when you get those, what’s-it-called? Flu blisters?”

Tormented, Britt-Marie shakes her head and catches sight of some red stains on her jacket.

“Am I bleeding?” she bursts out, sitting up in terror.

It would be terribly vexatious if she left bloodstains on Somebody’s floor, whether it’s been mopped or not.

“No! No! No shit like that. Maybe you get a bump on your head from the shot, huh, but that’s just tomato sauce, you know!” yells Somebody and tries to mop Britt-Marie’s jacket with a tissue.

Britt-Marie notices that Somebody is in a wheelchair. It’s a difficult thing not to notice. Furthermore Somebody seems intoxicated. Britt-Marie bases this observation on the fact that Somebody smells of vodka and can’t quite manage to dab the tissue in the right place. But Britt-Marie doesn’t have any prejudices about it.

“I was waiting here for you to stop looking deceased. Got hungry, you know, so I had a bit of lunch,” sniggers Somebody, pointing at a half-eaten pizza perched on a stool.

“Lunch? At this time of day?” mumbles Britt-Marie, because it isn’t even eleven o’clock.

“If you hungry? Have pizza!” Somebody explains.

Only then does Britt-Marie register what was said.

“What do you mean, a bump from ‘the shot’? Have I been shot?” she exclaims, fingering her scalp as if searching for a hole.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. A soccer ball in the head, you know.” Somebody nods and spills vodka on the pizza.

Britt-Marie looks as if she may even have preferred a pistol to a pizza. She imagines that pistols are less dirty.

Somebody, who seems to be in her forties, helps her up, assisted by a girl in her early teens who has turned up at their side. Somebody has one of the worst hairstyles Britt-Marie has ever laid eyes on, as if she’s combed her hair with a terrified animal. The girl’s hair is more respectable, but her jeans are torn to shreds across her thighs. Probably modern.

Somebody sniggers, without a care in the world.

“Bloody brats, you know. Bloody soccer. But don’t get angry, they weren’t aiming at you!”

Britt-Marie touches the bump on her forehead.

“Is my face dirty?” she asks, simultaneously reproachful and anxious.

Somebody shakes her head and rolls back towards her pizza.

Britt-Marie’s gaze falls self-consciously on two men with beards and caps, sitting at a table in a corner, with cups of coffee and morning newspapers. It seems abominable to her, lying there passed out in front of people who are trying to have their coffee. Yet neither of the men even glances at her.

“You only passed out a little,” says Somebody breezily, while shoveling the pizza into her mouth.

Britt-Marie gets out a small mirror from her handbag and starts rubbing her forehead. She found it very vexatious passing out, but nowhere near as vexatious as the thought of having passed out with a dirty face.

“How do you know if they were aiming at me?” she asks, with just a touch of criticism.

“They hit you!” laughs Somebody, throwing out her arms. “If they aim, they don’t hit. These kids bloody terrible at soccer, huh?”

“Ha,” says Britt-Marie.

“We’re actually not that bad….” mutters the teenage girl standing next to them, looking offended.

Britt-Marie notices that she’s holding the soccer ball in her hands. The way you hold a ball when that’s what you have to do to stop yourself from repeatedly kicking it.

Somebody gestures encouragingly at the girl.

“My name’s Vega. I work here!” the girl says.

“Shouldn’t you be at school?” asks Britt-Marie, without taking her eyes off the soccer ball.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” answers Vega, holding the ball as you do when you’re holding on to someone you love.

Britt-Marie grips her handbag more firmly.

“Let me tell you something, I was on my way to work when I was hit on the head. I’m the caretaker of the recreation center, I’ll have you know. This is my first day.”

Vega’s mouth opens in surprise. As if this, in some way, changes everything. But she remains silent.

“Caretaker?” asks Somebody. “Why didn’t you say so, lady! I’ve got one of them, what’s-it-called? Registered letters! With the key!”

“I’ve been informed I’m to pick up the keys at the post office.”

“Are here! They closed down the post office, you see!” shouts Somebody, rolling round behind the counter, still with the bottle of vodka in her hand.

There’s a short silence. There’s a tinkle from the door and a pair of dirty boots cross the unmopped floor. Somebody yells out:

“All right, Karl! I have packaging for you, wait!”

Britt-Marie turns around and is almost knocked to the ground by someone crashing into her shoulder. She looks up and sees a thick beard just below an unreasonably dirty cap, the whole appendage looking back at her.

There’s a growl from somewhere between the beard and the cap: “Look where you’re going.”

Britt-Marie, who wasn’t even moving, is deeply puzzled. Then she grips her handbag even more firmly and says:

“Ha.”

“ You walked into her !” Vega hisses behind her.

Britt-Marie doesn’t like it at all. She gets confused when anyone defends her — it doesn’t happen very often.

Somebody comes back with Karl’s packaging; Karl looks with irritation at Vega and hostility at Britt-Marie. Then he nods grumpily to the two men at the corner table. They nod back even more grumpily. The door tinkles merrily behind Karl as he lopes out.

Somebody pats Britt-Marie encouragingly on the shoulder.

“Never bloody mind about him. Karl has… like… what do you say? A lemon up his arse, you know what I mean? Pissed off at life and the universe and everything. People around here don’t like visitors from the city,” she says to Britt-Marie, and nods at the men by the table when she says “people.” They keep reading their newspapers and drinking their coffee as if neither of the women are there.

“How did he know I was from the city?”

Somebody rolls her eyes. “Come on! I’ll show you the recreation center, huh!” she shouts and rolls off towards the door.

Britt-Marie looks at a section that leads off the pizzeria, health care center, post office, or whatever it is. There are shelves of groceries in there. As if it were a mini market.

“Could I ask, is this a grocer’s?”

“They closed down the supermarket, you know, we do what we can!”

Britt-Marie remembers the dirty windows in the recreation center.

“Might one ask if you have Faxin available here?” she asks.