Jonas Khemiri - Everything I Don’t Remember

My sister managed to calm herself down and wiped a tear of laughter from one eye. Two prim stylist girls at the table next to us were giving us the side-eye.

“What? Haven’t you ever seen someone laugh?”

The girls quickly looked down at their glasses and tried not to roll their eyes.

“Ugh, this fucking country.”

My sister shook her head and lowered her voice.

“And what’s the deal with his roommate?”

“I don’t know. But I get a sketchy vibe from him.”

*

[Silence. I clear my throat. Vandad sighs.]

*

On the way home from Babylon it felt like I had talked too much. I tried to ask a few questions.

“How’s work? What else is up with you? How are your friends?”

But as usual, it was hard to get anything personal out of my sister. She told me that the upcoming exhibit at work was expected to be really good, and that she was looking forward to her vacation.

“And how’s the love life?” I asked.

“Oh, fine. The usual. Nothing new. But I really have high hopes for this new exhibit. It’s probably going to be even better than the bird exhibit. It’s too bad you missed that one.”

*

[Silence. I make an offer. Vandad looks out the handle-less window.]

*

A week or so later I met Samuel at a Chinese restaurant by Skanstull. Samuel wanted to “celebrate something” and when I saw him he explained that this “something” was that we had been together for fifteen weeks. Together? I thought. It sounded so final. And fifteen weeks? I felt dizzy — the time had gone by so quickly.

The restaurant was new and it wasn’t until we had been seated and I had the menu in my hand that I recognized the name.

“Didn’t this place use to be on Fridhemsplan?” I said.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I mean, I recognize the name. I think this place was the target of a union boycott. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Oh.”

Samuel’s finger slid up and down the menu. It didn’t seem like he’d heard what I had said.

“The vegetarian appetizers are supposed to be crazy good.”

“Hello?” I said. “I think this place paid its employees really horrible wages.”

Samuel looked up from the menu. Then he looked over at the waitress.

“Shit, that sucks. Hope they sorted it out.”

“What do you mean, ‘sorted it out’?”

“I mean, the people who work here look pretty happy. Don’t they?”

“But we can’t eat at a place that was boycotted.”

“Are you serious?”

“Are you serious?”

We sat on opposite sides of the dark-wood table, over in the corner a bachelor party was about to go south, the waitress realized something was up and kept her distance. Samuel sighed.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. What do you say we go somewhere that doesn’t exploit its employees with slave-wage contracts?”

We stared at each other. Samuel looked around. He stood up and pulled on his coat.

“Do you know of anywhere else nearby?”

*

[Silence. I make another offer. Vandad shakes his head.]

*

We walked down Ringvägen, we found another place that looked cozy, but it was full. The next restaurant was closed. At last we ended up at a spot near a park. We managed to leave our bad moods behind and we talked about other things. I told him that Zainab’s request for a work permit had been granted and that she was ready to leave her husband.

“As long as she can find a place to live it will all work out,” I said.

“How was your pizza?” Samuel asked.

“Good. Yours?”

“Fine. But I’ve got to confess, I was pretty hungry for Chinese.”

We took the Metro back to my place. It was a little quieter than usual. Or maybe that’s just the way I remember it.

*

[Silence. I stand up, walk over to the window, take out my phone, check the balance in my bank account, swallow, think of the power bill, diapers, tenancy fees, loans, preschool tuition, cell phones, food, insurance, office rent. I make a third and final offer. Vandad doesn’t say anything. I say that I don’t even know if there’s going to be any book. I say that I’m awfully grateful for his time. I say that I truly hope we can continue. I promise to bring the money, in cash, to our final meeting. Vandad nods and points at the microphone: are you still recording?]

*

That weekend we talked on the phone. Samuel said he couldn’t come over because he had to help Vandad with something.

“Of course,” I said. “Sounds good. We’ll talk another day.”

We hung up. But right after that I felt, like, some sort of itch in my body, the call had been too short, there was more I wanted to say. I called. He didn’t answer. Ten minutes later he called back. I waited five, six, seven seconds, then answered. We had a perfectly normal conversation, we talked about how it was still cold and that he still had my hoodie from our first date and how hard it is to find the perfect hoodie, with double fabric in the hood and pockets that aren’t too baggy and then we ended up on the most expensive articles of clothing we’d ever bought and I don’t know what happened but two hours later my phone warned me that the battery was about to die and my ear was all spongy and warm the way it used to get when you were a teenager lying in front of the TV and talking on your home phone and even though we hadn’t been talking about anything in particular it was like we could talk about the simplest, most trivial things and even those things took on value. Sometimes I thought that our conversations, our hanging out together, our entire relationship was like sugar, a quick shot of energy straight to the blood. Before we hung up, Samuel said:

“Listen, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You know my grandma? It seems she’s going to get a spot at a home. She’s moving there in a few weeks and her house is going to be empty. My relatives want to make sure she’s happy at the home before they move forward with selling it. And if I know my family, that’s going to take at least six months.”

“Okay,” I said because I didn’t know what he was getting at.

“So what do you say?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you have anyone who needs emergency housing, just let me know. That Zainab woman, maybe?”

I said I would think about it. We hung up. It wasn’t like there was any shortage of people who needed help, the whole city was full of desperate people, students, undocumented immigrants, poor people, the homeless, everyone on the hunt for a safe place. The question was more like who would I contact and whether the house was safe from police-alerting neighbors or people who wanted to peer in. I decided to contact Zainab and Nihad. But first I wanted to see the house.

*

One day Samuel came home and asked if I wanted to hang out. There was no discussion — we slid down to Spicy House. We drank beer, we ate nuts. I told him about the lack of hours at the moving company and how I had started looking at other jobs.

“Like what?” Samuel asked.

“All sorts of things. Hotel receptionist. Insulation fitter. Scaffolder.”

“Any good news?”

“Still waiting for a response.”

Samuel told me how things were going with Laide. He said he was in love and that it was the greatest thing he’d ever experienced but he couldn’t quite explain what made Laide so special. Was it her saggy body, hairy forearms, doughy face, or small breasts? I wondered, but I didn’t say anything.

“Plus her taste in music is totally amazing. She loves Erykah, Lauryn, and D’Angelo. Just like me.”

“And you’re still totally crazy in love? Everything is just as perfect as it was at first?”