Jonas Khemiri - Everything I Don’t Remember

“You know those built-in bookcases? I could never have ones like that.”

“Why not?”

“Every time I see them, I think they’re going to collapse.”

We took the stairs up to my apartment and fell asleep to the sound of the neighbors’ kids’ footsteps, electric kettles, gurgling pipes, and the mumble of morning TV.

*

The discontent grew stronger among those of us who had worked there longest. Bogdan called the new hires “pack mules” and Luciano said that if he didn’t get more hours next month he would have trouble making rent and upkeep. Marre had worked with one of the new guys the week before, apparently he was “a Romanian from Bulgaria or maybe a Bulgarian from Romania,” and he had told Blomberg some sob story about how he was here illegally and couldn’t work and had to support three children.

“But have you seen his fingers?” said Marre. “No ring anywhere.”

“Maybe he has kids without being married,” said Bogdan. “Like you do?”

“Hardly,” said Marre. “And I don’t have three kids. Plus can’t you work legally if you come from Romania or Bulgaria? Aren’t they part of the EU? I swear they just choose to work under the table because they don’t give a shit about insurance or retirement. People like him are the reason we’re in the shit.”

Bogdan and Luciano nodded and I agreed. I felt the same way. But at the same time, I wasn’t all that worried. I thought the job was just temporary anyway. I could always find something else. The world was full of possibilities. All you had to do was make use of your strengths, call your contacts, go out into the working world, and help yourself.

*

Another time Samuel told me that he had taken standard Arabic classes for five years and all he remembered were a few random words.

“Like what?” I asked.

“ Mohandis and fellah , for example.”

I laughed and asked if his teachers had focused on anything besides occupations.

“Yes, but those were the things that stuck. That and the fruits. I’ve forgotten everything else. But I can still read and write. It’s just the words themselves I need to brush up on.”

We were standing down by Söderbysjön, the sun was going down, dogs were swimming in the lake, birds were flitting about. I thought about it as we walked home, that it was typical Samuel somehow, to learn to read and write but not remember any of what he needed to be able to communicate naturally with people.

*

I think we’ll take a break there. We’re about halfway through. The juiciest stuff is coming up soon. But before we go on, I want to talk financials. How much are you planning to pay me for this? Do you want to go with a percentage of the book sales or a lump sum in advance? It’s up to you. I’m flexible.

*

Okay. I understand that you’re “super worried about getting bogged down in clichés.” But remember, I’m the one describing what happened. It’s up to you to rework it so it makes good fiction. We really did stand there in the sunset by Söderbysjön. The colors turned red and then blue. We turned into oblong shadows that wandered home through the dusky forest. We took off our clothes and lay down next to each other. We listened to each other’s heartbeats. If you want to write later on that something else happened, I guess that’s your prerogative. I’m just telling you the truth.

*

Okay. I understand what you mean. I hear what you’re saying. But I didn’t agree to meet you because I like charity cases. I’m not free. My time has a price tag. Even if I am stuck in here. I’m giving you my memories, my stories. It’s simple logic that you should give me some sort of monetary compensation.

*

For thirty years I had been looking for someone to make me feel like I was one with the world. And then there was Samuel. And I celebrated by building a bubble and keeping the world at a distance. But the world was bigger than us.

*

What the fuck do you mean “a couple thousand in cash”? Do I look like a whore? I want to know here and now what you’re prepared to give me to continue this story. There’s a lot left to tell. All the important stuff is coming up next and I’m not going to say any more until we have come to an agreement.

*

My friends were curious about Samuel, of course, and the more I withheld the details the more they wanted to know. I hesitated to allow them into our world. My sister, though, explained to my friends that I was hanging around with a guy named Samuel.

“He’s young. He’s beautiful. He has an extremely large head, very narrow shoulders, and when they first met I called him ‘the convert.’ Not as in Muslim turned Christian but as in gay turned straight.”

But my sister hadn’t met him either. I had no reason to show us off. Samuel and I were the couple, it wasn’t him and my friends or him and my sister. But now — in retrospect — I wonder if it wasn’t some sort of strategy to prolong our happiness. On some level maybe I knew we would become less us once we crashed into the outside world.

*

I don’t give a shit if “everyone else participated for free.” I’m not everyone else. I’m Vandad. And I’m not going to say another word until you come up with an offer that makes this worth my time.

*

One spring evening I had a glass of wine with my sister at Babylon. She had come straight from her job at the Museum of Natural History, she was wearing a T-shirt from a new exhibit under her denim jacket.

“Nice, huh?”

She showed me the print. It was two pandas hugging in a yin-yang type circle. One was smiling, one looked pained.

“I like this one’s face — check it out, it looks like he’s suffocating.”

I went up to the bar to order. The place was full of hipsters in skinny jeans, bearded queers, glitzy PR girls, and tattooed preschool teachers. We were sitting at a small table outside. Two druggies were walking around in the park in front of the place, digging through the grass, it looked like they had buried something and then forgotten where it was.

“Haven’t seen you for a while,” said my sister.

“You know.”

“Is he good?”

“We’re great.”

“How great?”

“Really great.”

“You’re glowing, sis.”

*

[No one says anything. Vandad looks at me. I look at Vandad.]

*

“This is the first time I’ve felt this way,” I said.

“Super,” said my sister. “But you said that about your ex-husband too.”

“Did I? But this is different.”

“You said that about Emil too.”

“Yes, I know. But I’ve never felt this. . whole.”

“But you said that about Sebbe too.”

“Oh, lay off — I’m sure I didn’t say that. He was a soccer hooligan, for Chrissake. There was nothing about him that can come close to what Samuel and I have.”

“Samuel?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Say that again.”

“What? Samuel?”

My sister laughed, drops of beer rained across our table.

“What?”

“No, no, it’s nothing. Sorry. It’s not his name. It’s just the way you say it. Samuel . I’ve actually never heard you say someone’s name like that before. Try saying it without smiling.”

“What are you talking about? I say it normally. Samuel. Samuel?”

My sister laughed some more, the druggies looked up from their digging.

“That’s what I’m telling you. This is different.”

“What does he do?”

“He works at the Migration Board.”

My sister had to hold onto the edge of the table so she wouldn’t fall off her chair laughing.

“Stop. It’s not like you think. He doesn’t deal with asylum cases. He only works on bureaucratic stuff.”