Jonas Khemiri - Everything I Don’t Remember

The policeman’s voice: Her son?

Me: Do you have kids?

Her: One son. But he’s with my husband. He has a better life there.

*

Samuel wrote down the woman’s case number, went inside, and looked it up on the computer. A few minutes later he was back in the parking lot.

“I think it’s her salary that’s the problem. In the application it says she will only earn thirteen thousand kronor per month.”

“But I’m the one who helped her,” Laide said without waiting for her client to respond. “We were told that thirteen thousand was the minimum.”

“According to the rules, that’s too little if you write that you work full time.” Samuel lowered his voice and looked around. “Perhaps Zainab here can work a little less from now on? For example, if she could consider writing that she works at eighty percent for the same salary, there is a very good chance that her application will go through.”

He said it in that slow way you say things when you want it to be clear that what you want to say is different from what you’re actually saying. Laide looked at him and smiled.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They kept standing there in the parking lot. None of them quite knew how to end things.

“Was there anything else?” Laide asked.

“No.”

The client thanked Samuel, Samuel thanked the interpreter, everyone shook hands and said goodbye and instead of asking all those questions he’d been hoping to get into (who are you, where do you live, where are you from, what’s your favorite tea, what’s your personal definition of love, when will we meet again and what is your phone number) Samuel swiped his access card and took the elevator back up to his office.

*

Nihad continued:

“The frying pan was nearby, I could have reached it but I didn’t, I could have bitten off his tongue, but I didn’t do that either, I let him start, when it didn’t work he swore and said cruel things about my body, he said it was too disgusting, that I was too fat, that no one would ever want me. Then he propped himself above me and touched himself until he came, most of it landed on him, only a little got on me, he told me to lick it up but I couldn’t reach it with my tongue, then he grabbed my tongue and yanked it, then he kissed me, then he said I was too disgusting to touch, then he left, he walked toward his car, I kept lying there, I heard the elevator as it went down to street level, I heard the beep from his car, the engine when he turned the key, then it idled for a minute or two and then he drove off, he was gone, I kept lying there.”

*

The office was exactly as Samuel had left it before lunch. The copy-machine smell. The whiteboard. The desk. The plastic plants. The pale gray computer screen with stickers left behind by the person who worked there before him. And Samuel. Who suddenly, there in his office, felt as natural as a bear on a skateboard. He had a hard time sitting still, he was sweating, he felt like the walls were closing in on him, he wanted to get away, get out, move on. Finally he opened the case again, he saw that the contact person-slash-interpreter was named Laide. He entered her number into his phone.

*

Silence for a few seconds, then the policeman’s voice:

“Can you ask her to clarify if the act was consummated?”

“She says it was not consummated.”

“Can you ask her to describe in what way she resisted?”

“She says she was too afraid to resist.”

“Why didn’t she come in right away?”

“She was scared.”

“Can you explain to her that I am more than willing to make a report? I definitely think we should report it. But can you tell her there is a risk that this case will not proceed?”

“Do it yourself.”

“You’re the interpreter.”

“But she can understand you.”

“Yes, but I don’t think she understands me as well as you do.”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“Please, this is not a judgment on my part. I’m not a lawyer, and you’re not a lawyer, and she’s not a lawyer, right? So I’m sure we can agree that it’s up to the lawyers to determine what happened here, can’t we?”

Nihad’s voice: “What did he say?”

Me: “That it’s going to be difficult.”

Her voice: “But I know where he lives, I have his address, although I think he gave me a fake name.”

Me: “I understand that, but I’m not sure if he understands that.”

Her: “His blood is still on the sofa.”

The policeman’s voice: “What did she say?”

Her: “What did he say?”

Me: “He’s a fucking idiot.”

Her: “I know.”

Me. “Is there anyone else you can talk to?”

Her: “I don’t know, I’m so, I’m so, I don’t know what to do.”

Him: “What did she say? Can you try to get her to calm down? I know it’s hard, but it’s no help to anyone for her to act like this.”

Me: “Say you want to speak to a female police officer.”

Her: [moaning, crying, snuffling]

Him: “What did she say?”

Me: “That she would like to speak with a female police officer.”

Him: “She said that?”

Me: “Yes. She wants to speak with a female police officer.”

Him: “Are you aware that this conversation is being recorded?”

Me. “She wants to talk to someone else.”

The policeman sighs, a chair is pushed back, a door opens.

Her: “What did you say to him?”

Me: “That you want to talk to a female police officer.”

Her: “What will happen to me if I file a report?”

Me: “We’ll have to ask her. You have to talk to someone else, someone who is on your side.”

Her: “Thanks.”

Me: “No problem.”

Her: “What do we do now?”

Me: “We wait.”

*

Later that same night we were sitting in our shared kitchen, talking through what had happened. Samuel described (for the fourth time) what she had said and what he had said and what she had been wearing and how beautiful she was.

“The energy in that parking lot was extremely special. I swear, man, it wasn’t just in my head. She must have felt it, I swear she felt it.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Don’t know. What do you think?”

“No idea. But I would lie low if I were you.”

“Why?”

“I think it would be best that way.”

That was the best answer I could come up with, and I don’t know why I said it. I just answered with what I felt there and then. It isn’t the right time for Samuel to meet someone, I thought. Not now. Not her.

*

While we waited, Nihad said that her husband had accepted her decision to divorce him. He had never hit her. He was a good man who was being trained as a cook in a lunch restaurant in Nacka. But she would never be able to tell him about this. She had left him to be free and she had been allowed to borrow the apartment temporarily because she was desperate and now the sofa was ruined and the man who called himself Bill knew where she lived and. . She started crying again. I explained to her that since she was here on her husband’s permit there was a risk that she would be taken to a detention facility and be sent back now that she had confessed that her relationship with her husband was over.

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know. But if I were you I would get out of there. Fast.”

*

But was Samuel listening? Did he trust his best friend’s gut feeling? No, a few days later I came out of the shower and found Samuel at the kitchen table.

“Okay. Okay okay okay,” he called, half happy, half panicked. “I just did it. I pressed ‘send.’ I texted her!”

“Who?”

“Her. The contact person. The interpreter. I went the work route. I said thanks for last time and asked her to contact me if her client needed any more assistance. Best, Samuel, Migration Board.”