Jonas Khemiri - Everything I Don’t Remember

Then she talked about all the awesome things she’d found at an art bookstore in Söder that was having a liquidation sale.

“It was so incredibly cheap — like, Berlin prices.”

Then she told us about a Norwegian curator who kept calling her twenty-four-seven and wanted to do an exhibition of her stuff in Oslo.

“It’s super cool,” she said. “Even if Oslo isn’t exactly Berlin.”

I felt like I ought to say something, I had been quiet far too long, here was my chance.

“It sounds a little sketchy,” I said.

“What does?”

“Why would a curator want to do an exhibition?”

“Maybe because it’s his job?”

We looked at each other. A quick smile fluttered across her face. I had misunderstood something. I didn’t quite get what. I prepared myself for the mockery and laughter and being told I was an imbecile. I could picture how Samuel would high five and pinch me on my side and call me “Mr. Curator” for the rest of the night. But it didn’t happen. Instead Samuel asked what the theme of the exhibition would be and whether it was Time Pieces or maybe Notre Dame that he was interested in showing, and Panther seemed grateful that she could finally turn the focus of the discussion back onto herself. I didn’t say much more that night. Samuel didn’t either. But I remember thinking about it afterwards, that in front of a friend he had known for more than ten years, Samuel took my side. Instead of mocking and demeaning he smoothed things over and had my back. That was a sign that our relationship— Erase that. A sign that our friendship was real.

Then we went out and one of us owned the dance floor (Samuel) and one of us bought cocaine (Panther) and one of us sat in a corner keeping an eye on the drinks (me). On the way home, after we said goodbye to Panther and it was just me and Samuel in the taxi, I said things I’d never said to anyone. I talked about my nightmares, I described the pillow when I woke up and the sound of screaming that somehow lingered in the room after I woke up, as if the air molecules had changed and were still vibrating when I opened my eyes. I said all of this in a taxi even though the driver was in the front seat and I wasn’t even worried that Samuel would start laughing and use it against me. Instead he said:

“I know the feeling.”

And even though he didn’t explain it any more and even though he didn’t have a dead brother, I believed him when he said it.

*

Panther says that before they hung up they talked about her for a bit. Samuel asked a few questions and I answered them. I gave him a short summary of everything that had happened since last time we talked, though since so much had happened the summary took a pretty long time. But I want to make it clear that we didn’t spend our entire last conversation talking about me. We were interrupted by a nurse. A female voice said something in the background.

“Okay,” Samuel replied. “She’s done now. I have to go.”

We hung up. Our last conversation was over. It had lasted forty-five minutes. It was a few minutes before noon. I thought about how quickly the time had passed. Far too quickly. I’m sorry, it’s starting again, I don’t know what to do about this, how many tears can a body hold, anyway? I don’t even feel all that sad right now, you know, this is just a physical reaction [reaching for the roll of toilet paper].

*

We had been friends for a few months when Samuel said that Panther was moving to Berlin.

“When?” I asked, and I felt happy.

“In a few weeks. She’s just going to take off. Leave me here.”

We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I didn’t quite understand why he looked so sad. He drained his glass, signaled for a refill, and asked if I wanted to go somewhere else.

“There’s an end-of-term party at her art school tonight. I was planning to go. Want to come?”

I wasn’t sure, I liked it better at Spicy House.

“Come on. It’ll be fun. Think of the Experience Bank!”

“Experience Bank?”

“No matter how boring it is, we’ll still remember it. And that makes it all worth it, don’t you think?”

One hour later we were standing in front of an old building that looked like a boat factory. Bouncers were checking names against the list, Samuel had RSVPed for him plus one. But the bouncers were no typical bouncers. They greeted everyone with a smile and instead of black flak jackets and headsets they were wearing terrycloth playsuits — I mean like the kind that babies wear, but adult-sized, and one of them had a giant lollipop in his front pocket.

“What the fuck was that?” I whispered to Samuel as we were on our way in.

“Oh, I’m sure it was part of the art.”

But he wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t either, because at that party, absolutely anything could be art. We went from room to room and Samuel nodded at guys that looked like girls and girls that looked like little boys. Everyone’s clothes were either really colorful or entirely black. Some of them gave me sideways glances, they noticed that I didn’t fit in, my skin wasn’t pale enough, my muscles were too big, my leather jacket too black, and I smelled like cologne instead of sweat and rolling tobacco.

*

Panther ponders the question for a long time before she answers. Do I regret anything? Of course I regret some things. Everyone does. Anyone who says they don’t is lying. Everyone walks around with feelings of loss and sadness and shame. It’s perfectly normal. And I get that his family is trying to convince themselves that it was an accident. After all, they were the ones who were on him like bloodhounds at the end, with a thousand calls about insurance clauses and renovation money and loan qualifications and inheritance distributions. In the end he couldn’t take it anymore. He made up his mind. He was ready. He made the decision. We’re the ones who have to live with it.

*

Panther’s room was full of people and the art was hanging on the walls, it was mirrors painted over with different texts and headlines. Panther herself was wearing an American flag like a toga, with a knot over one shoulder, she hugged me and Samuel, she said that she had been waiting all night for us and then she disappeared to say hi to some other people.

“What do you think?” Samuel asked as we stood in front of a piece of art, each with a plastic glass of red box wine in hand.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Because I didn’t know. We went from room to room, looking at art that was sometimes art and sometimes turned out to be an ashtray that someone had left behind from an after-party. The girls looked rich, or they must have been rich, because only rich girls can go to a party with so little make-up and such unshaved armpits and such dirty canvas bags without being ashamed. The only room we stopped for a little bit extra in was at the far end of the building. Someone had made a work of art with a glowing warm furnace.

“I like this,” I said.

“Me too,” said Samuel.

We stayed in the room, the warmth warmed us, the fire crackled. Suddenly Samuel put out his hand and rested it on the furnace. He held it there until I swatted it away.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“Just wanted to check how hot it was.”

I looked at him and wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him. Then I looked at the fire and thought that if good art was this good I could definitely learn to like art.

*

Panther sighs and throws up her hands. But at the same time it’s really hard to know what you could have done differently. I don’t think it’s possible to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. There’s something self-centered about the whole idea that it’s up to you to take care of everyone around you. People live their own lives and when they don’t want to do that anymore there’s not much you can do. I’m convinced that this would have happened even if I hadn’t moved to Berlin. Even if I had been a little better at keeping in touch. What about you — do you feel guilty? Do you wish you had done something different?