Jonas Khemiri - Everything I Don’t Remember

“Sure you can. All you have to do is remember.”

“I have a terrible memory, though. Maybe that’s why I need the objects.”

“But you remember who I am?”

“Barely.”

Both of us smiled and took a sip of our coffees. An expensively dressed family with little kids was sitting at the table next to ours. The son was like five and he was wearing a beige down vest. Samuel leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“You know how to make sure someone will remember you?”

“I guess there are probably several ways. But I guess one good idea is to try to evoke a strong emotion — isn’t that right? That what we remember most are the things we have the strongest feelings about?”

“Maybe. But there’s an easier way.”

“Which is?”

“You should make them associate you with a daily routine.”

Samuel started telling me about a memory from when he was ten. He was out in the country with his family, they were sitting in a hammock, it was dark, starry, they had been eating chips and he said to a relative, like, an uncle, “There’s something wrong with my teeth because now they’re all full of chips,” and his uncle said, “Oh no, there’s nothing wrong with your teeth, look, I have chips in my teeth too.” And he opened his mouth to show Samuel.

“Okay?” I said.

“I thought about it later that night when I was brushing my teeth. And then I thought about it when I brushed my teeth the next morning. And now, fifteen years later, it’s lodged in my memory — I’ll never forget that perfectly unnecessary conversation. And it was the routine that drummed it into me.”

“So if I want you to remember me forever, I should talk nonstop about tooth-brushing?”

“Mmhmm. Or try to associate yourself with something else people do every day.”

“Like drinking coffee?”

“Exactly. Coffee is good.”

Samuel looked around.

“But water’s even better. Just think if I could get you to associate me with drinking water. Then you’d never forget me.”

“How would you do that?”

“Like this, maybe?”

Samuel reached for the water glass on the table before us and poured it on himself. Not quickly, it didn’t splash, but quite slowly, so it formed a gentle waterfall that ran down his hair, nose, chin. You have no idea how much water a glass can hold until someone pours it onto himself. I was convinced he was only going to fake-pour it, like raise it over his head and then stop right before it came out. But no, he poured that whole glass of water on himself. The well-dressed Kungsholmen couples with their pleasant-smelling dogs and well-manicured nails and well-brought-up sons stared at him.

“Would you like a napkin?”

“Please.”

I went to grab a bunch of napkins, he dried himself off, he shook his head side to side to get the water out of his ear.

“So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Did it work? Will you think of me the next time you take a sip of water?”

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

I reached for the other glass of water, closed my eyes, and took a sip. I thought of him, I tried associating the non-taste of water with the person sitting next to me at this cafe. I opened my eyes and was met by his wide smile.

“What do you think?”

“There’s a chance I’ll remember you tomorrow.”

*

Midnight had passed, the party was lame, Laide’s friends were boring. A mix of perfumed Iranians, short South Americanos, ugly dykes, tattooed university chicks. Only Panther, Samuel, and I were there to fill up our Experience Banks. I was sitting on a barstool in the kitchen when Panther said:

“This party sucks. But maybe we can do something about it.”

She patted her breast pocket.

“I’ll get Samuel,” I said, heading for the dance floor.

*

We sat at the cafe until the insides of our cups were covered in brown tree-rings of dried coffee. Mostly we talked about memory, how you remember, why you remember, when you remember. He told me he had a friend with a photographic memory.

“It’s totally sick. He remembers everything. In perfect chronological order. No wait, you’ve met him, he came to the New Year’s party.”

“That big guy?”

“Right. Vandad.”

“He does not have a photographic memory, I can promise you that.”

“What about you — what kind of memory do you have?”

“I don’t know. A pretty good memory, I think. I remember what I need to remember. I don’t panic when I forget something.”

“I do. I don’t know why. It’s always been that way. That’s why I make lists.”

Samuel reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, hesitated for a second, and then pulled out a notebook.

“What do you write in that?”

“Everything I need to remember.”

“Like today: ‘Meet Laide at Petite France’? And then: ‘Pour water on myself’?”

“Exactly. For real, I used to do that when I was little. The first time I was going to call someone I had a crush on I had a long list of suggested topics of conversation. I was terrified that we wouldn’t have anything to say.”

“Do you still have the lists?”

“I save everything. That’s why I don’t write them in my phone. I still have the lists and the funny thing when you read them is that I had this terrible lack of imagination. Question one: ‘Do you have any plans this summer?’ Question two: ‘What did you do last summer?’ Question three: ‘Do you like summer?’ Question four: ‘Any plans for Christmas?’”

“Didn’t you ask me that?”

“Sure did. Thank God for the list!”

*

We sneaked into a bedroom, scattered fireworks unfurled in the sky like flowers, occasional volleys of bang-snaps rang out. Panther took out a putty-like lump wrapped in tinfoil paper, she heated it up with a lighter, she divided it into four pieces, stuck the biggest one back in her pocket, gave us each a little ball, and swallowed hers.

“What is it?” Samuel asked.

“A postcard from Berlin,” said Panther.

We swallowed them and when we came out the party was one hundred percent more fun. The music was better, the people more beautiful, even Laide seemed pleasant. Panther threw on a bathrobe from the bathroom and let it liven up the dance floor, I put on three songs in a row, Panther instructed the party people to imitate the bathrobe’s movements as if the bathrobe were a personal trainer, and no one questioned it, Panther shouted that this was what they should do and people caught on, the Iranians grinded on the university chicks, the university chicks hit on the South Americanos, the South Americanos raised their glasses for viva la revolución , the bass vibrated, the floor swayed, Samuel threw himself into the rhythm with that style of dancing that made it difficult to imagine that he worked at the Migration Board by day. He turned his hands into little birdies and pretended to be surprised when their beaks bit him on the nose. He stood perfectly still and tried to wiggle his ears. He waved his hands in the air as if he were directing an airplane to park. Sometimes I saw Laide beside him, she was trying to talk, twice I saw her pull his arm to try to make him stop dancing, but both times a new song he couldn’t stand still to came on and ten minutes later Laide was gone. “Did you see where she went?” Samuel asked when the buzz started to wear off and the party was almost over.

“I think she went home,” I said, without sounding happy about it.

*

As we left the cafe I felt confused. I had gone there with a clear goal in mind. I was going to be honest and straightforward: I’m sorry, but this isn’t working. It’s not even an option. You’re too young. Your friends are too druggy. Your cohabitant is too creepy. Your job is political, but in exactly the wrong ways. Your clothes are too disheveled. Your cheeks are too smooth. You’re too short. You’re too skinny. Your head is too big. Your beard is too nonexistent. Your eyes are too naïve. Your hair is too well-trimmed. So thanks but no thanks, I know where this is going so we might as well break it off now, it was short and perfectly fine while it lasted, let’s shake hands and say goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. I stopped walking. We kissed. A taxi honked.