Jonas Khemiri - Everything I Don’t Remember

The neighbor sticks his head up over the hedge and asks who I am and what I’m doing here.

*

Welcome. Have a seat. Relax. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise. One click of the panic button and they’ll be here in thirty seconds.

*

The neighbor says he’s sorry; he explains that after everything that happened they can’t be blamed for being suspicious of anyone they don’t recognize.

*

I had definitely pictured what it would be like in here, too. You know, more like in the movies. Thick iron bars, a disgusting toilet in the corner, bunk beds, and steamy showers where you have to be careful not to drop the soap. I thought I would have to walk around with a razor blade in my mouth twenty-four-seven to be prepared. But you can see for yourself. This is more like a hostel. The people here are chill. The toilets are clean. There’s even a workshop where you can make stuff out of wood. I was lucky to end up here.

*

The neighbor invites me in for coffee; we walk up the gravel slope together; he closes the door to the study and turns on the coffeemaker in the kitchen. Tragic, he says, shaking his head. It’s so incredibly tragic, what happened.

*

Two months and three days left. But it’s okay. I don’t think about it too much. I’m pretty happy here. Okay. It’s a long time. But then again, I don’t have to worry about how I’ll make rent. What do you want to know? Should I start with how I met Samuel? Do you want the long version or the short one? You decide. I have all the time in the world.

*

The neighbor sets out small white cups and places Ballerina cookies on a saucer. Who else have you talked to? he asks. So many rumors are going around the neighborhood. Some people say that Samuel was depressed and had been planning it for a long time. Others say that it was just an accident. Some people blame that girl he was dating, what was her name? Laida? Saida? That’s right, Laide. Others say that it was Samuel’s big friend’s fault, that guy who’s in jail, the one who would do anything for money.

*

The first time we met was in February, two thousand nine. I was making rounds with Hamza. He had received a tip that a certain person was at a house party in Liljeholmen. We went over there and rang the doorbell; Hamza stuck his foot in the door before the girl who had opened it had time to close it, and he did his spiel about how we knew someone who knew someone and we were here to celebrate her new apartment. At last she let us in from the cold.

*

The neighbor pours coffee into the cups, holds out the saucer of cookies, and says that he didn’t know Samuel particularly well. His grandmother, though, I knew her. When you’ve been neighbors for over twenty years, you get to know each other, it’s inevitable. We used to say hi when we ran into each other down by the mailboxes. We asked how things were going; we remarked upon the weather. One time, we had a longer conversation about the pros and cons of installing geothermal heating. She was a great woman. Honest and straightforward, stubborn and strong-willed. It’s really too bad everything ended the way it did.

*

I followed Hamza into the fancy apartment. We walked from room to room, we nodded at people who looked down at the parquet instead of saying hello. I wondered what we were doing there, because the people at the party didn’t look like people who would have business with Hamza. The guys were wearing suit jackets and the girls were wearing special indoor shoes; the fridge had a digital display and an icemaker. I thought, this will be quick, Hamza just has to find the right person, do what needs to be done, and I’ll stand there next to him to make it clear that this is no time for discussion.

*

The neighbor takes a sip of coffee and turns his face toward the ceiling to swallow it. The last time I saw Samuel? It was when he was here to pick up the car. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Thursday morning, it had rained overnight but the weather had cleared. I was sitting here listening to the radio when I saw someone sneaking around down by the mailboxes. I stood up and went over to the window to get a better look.

*

There was music in the living room. People were dancing politely, like shop mannequins. They had these smiles on them like Lego men. But in there among them was Samuel. And my first thought was that he was having an epileptic fit. He was, like, vibrating in time with the low-volume music. Then he got down on his knees and bounced like a guitar player. Then he shook his head side to side like he was pretending to be a church bell. It was two hours before midnight and Samuel was dancing like it was the world’s last-slash-best song.

*

The neighbor rises and goes to stand by the window. This is where I was standing. Right here. It was twenty minutes to nine. I stared at the mailboxes. I was holding the phone. I had a certain number to call in the event it was someone I didn’t recognize. But I quickly realized that it was Samuel. He was coming up the slope with the local paper and a few advertising flyers in his hand. He was wearing a shirt and jacket under his unbuttoned coat. He was walking slowly, looking at the ground.

*

Hamza kept going. I followed him. We found the right person, we had a short conversation, bills changed hands, everything went nice and smooth. When we were done, Hamza was thirsty and wanted a drink. We went to the kitchen. Hamza poured two drinks for himself and one for me. He chugged the first drink and did this big cartoon shudder. Then we stood there in silence. No one talked to us. We didn’t say anything to anyone. Now and then the girl whose party it was peeked into the kitchen to make sure we didn’t swipe anything.

*

The neighbor extends a crooked index finger. Do you see that birch? That’s where he stopped. He stared up at the charred treetops and the burned house. I remember thinking that he looked paler than usual. He raised one hand and patted himself on the cheek, as if he wanted to wake himself up or maybe comfort himself.

*

After a few minutes, Samuel and a girl with a downy mustache came into the kitchen. Samuel had dark circles under the arms of his T-shirt; the girl was wearing a red blanket without holes for her arms. She was talking evening plans, there was a club night at Reisen and a DJ had put them on the guest list at Grodan and later someone called “Horny Hanna” was having a party in Midsommarkransen. Samuel nodded and filled up his glass. I was thinking that he was about as muscular as a bow and arrow. Hamza went to the bathroom. I stayed put. This was a good time to say something. At this point you could stick out your hand and introduce yourself the way people do when they meet at parties. How’s it going? I could say. What’s up? How do you know the girl whose party this is? Which DJ is playing at Reisen? What is Horny Hanna’s exact address? But I didn’t say anything. I just stood there thinking that I should say something. Because there and then I wasn’t as used to hearing my own voice as I am now.

*

The neighbor sits down again and pours more coffee. Then about fifteen minutes must have passed. When Samuel came out of the house he was carrying a plastic bag that was so full it looked like the handles would break. He stuffed the bag in the backseat and was just about to get behind the wheel when he caught sight of me. He raised his hand to wave.

*

Samuel’s friend went out for a smoke. Samuel started opening and closing the kitchen drawers.