Jonas Khemiri - Montecore - The Silence of the Tiger

Dads laugh until their eyes tear up while the train hisses on, rushes itself though the tunnel with white laser-light lamps, and suddenly you leave the solar system; you and Dads are lone cosmonauts in outer galaxies and Dads are Shoobacka and you are Varth Dader, and together you’re going to get fuel on a supersecret planet that’s light-years from here, and it’s almost an impossible task but nothing is impossible for us, right, Dad? And Dads speed up to supersonic speed and particles change shape and you go from people to beetles to toothpaste tubes to croissants before your bodies find their way back to Shoobacka and Varth Dader. You cross outer-atmosphere borders and blind yourselves into the light zone where hundreds of two-legged fuel paddocks are walking around in a white-shining hall, and Dads slow down the speed, the control levers go backward, and you land safely in a remote corner on the planet platform. You connect the oxygen tubes and cock the laser sword pistol. Dads turn the hydrogen-helium thingy that opens the doors while at the same time you open the pilot door and start zapping all the bad-guy guards. The fuel docks and right before the bad guys have time to get up again and send out the atom-bomb monster you shout: “Watch the doowth, the doowth awe clothing!” and Dads close the docking stations with a hiss and the pilot door fastens sideways with a clunk and you burn away at max speed toward the next station.

The third memory comes from the weekend mornings when you and Dads walk around Tanto park and back, you carrying the tripod and Dads clicking their softly humming system cameras at snowed-over park benches, frozen-down bicycles, and iced puddles with shoe prints in the middle. Between shots Dads adjust their scarves and tell you about all the names that to you are just names but soon become more alive than everything around you. You remember Dads fervently telling about Henry Peach Robinson, who said that photography is a true art because photography can lie. And Dads tell about August Sander’s photographic catalog of the German people and Atget’s gray Paris photos and Abbott, who captured all the nuances of New York. And in particular you remember how Dads’ eyes shine when they tell about Capa, Robert Capa with the velvet gaze, the world’s greatest war photographer, who was born in Budapest and who, in exile, developed his own way to speak, which his friends called Capanese. And here you always interrupt and say: But Dad, you have your own language, too! And Dads answer with a smile because what is more welcome than similarities to heroes? Besides, it’s true, because normal parents either speak Swedish or Not Swedish, but only Dads have their own language, only Dads speak Khemirish. A language that is all languages combined, a language that is extra everything with changes in meaning and strangewords put together, special rules and daily exceptions. A language that is Arabic swearwords, Spanish question words, French declarations of love, English photography quotations, and Swedish puns. A language where g and h rumble way down in your stomach, where you always “walk” abroad instead of traveling, where toys must always be picked up from the “ground.” A language where “daccurdo” means “okay” and “herb salt” is synonymous with “really good” (just because Moms love herb salt on popcorn). Treatment of illnesses is called “Vicks friction” and to rub in cream is to “Pond-ize” and to eat muesli with jam is to eat “TSO” (or “the same old”). Something soft is “Pernillish” and something sad is “extra blue” and something that is super great is “excellent!” When you greet someone you roar, “Hello, you damn fools!” and when you leave home you yell, “Beslema hemma.” Is there more? Sure; hundreds more special words. Pasta is “potties,” candy is “halloua,” soda is “gazouz.” … And you remember that for a while Dads call you Mowgli and themselves Bagheera and Moms always get a little mad when you salute at precisely the same time and call them Colonel Hathi (and Grandma Shere Khan). Names are never innocent, and names are even the reason for your existence! Because Dads have certainly explained that Moms were named Bergman before and we are called Khemiri, of course … And what does that mean? Exactly! The man from the mountain! We are the men from the mountain, les hommes de la montagne, montemen! Do you understand, my son? Your mother and I were meant for each other and NOTHING, not even Shere Khans, can stop a love that is so decided by fate.

When you come home from the photo session, your toes are lumps of ice and your stomach is rumbling, but you still follow Dads into the lab, Dads’ own room, which once upon a time was called the little bathroom. Now it’s converted, with a pale orange lightbulb because red light is for amateurs (who appreciate sharp shadows). Drying lines hang from the ceiling, on the steel table is the copying machine, and on the floor are the chemical basins. Dads go through it step by step, all the careful instructions, the light that has to be turned off, the air bubbles that must be tapped away. You get the honorable task of taping up the light gaps around the door. Then a sudden darkness, which only almost smothers you. You hear how Dads load the film on the spiral and turn until it clicks. Then the light is finally back, you can breathe normally again, Dads throw in the developer and start to agitate and tell the story of how one time in Tabarka he accidentally started with the fixer and the customer was a rich German tourist and Dads laugh and shake the spiral box while you let your gaze wander between all the cutout photos from Current Photography’s classics series that are nailed up on the wall. There’s that sailor who left his super-flexible nurse wife and then regretted it and now he’s back in the city and they’re kissing each other for the first time and the girl bends her back backward like a bridge and people in the neighborhood are so impressed that they throw small bits of paper and yell hooray and have started a big carnival on the street. And there’s that poor blurry soldier who’s being forced to walk in a gray sea up to his waist as punishment for stealing a medal from his general and you can see how angry the soldier is because in the background there are metal islands, boats, and a regular beach. And there’s the poor white-haired, bearded old man with laced fingers and leathery hands whom Dads call Einstein. He’s waiting for his grandchildren, who never want to come visit because they’re tired of how he always slurps his soup and needs help both putting on his slippers and trimming his mustache. Hello, are you listening? ask Dads and of course you nod while the instructions continue, pour the fixer back, rinse carefully for twenty minutes, open, dry, wash the equipment, prepare for copying. The developer fluid in the red, stop in the blue, fixer in the white, never mix together and never use tools in more than one chemical and remember to be careful because they’re flammable chemicals and one little mistake can destroy a future masterpiece and … The air begins to get humid. The mirror steams up. The chemicals stink. But still there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Dads are kneeling in front of the chemical basins with their butt cracks showing. Dads swear. And you are back with the old man Einstein; he twists his mustache and winks at you and says that you look brave sitting there in your long underwear, huddled on the flushing box of the toilet. The light is going to be turned off again soon, but you don’t need to be afraid, okay? It’s not dangerous, you know, dark is exactly like light, only it’s, hmm, a little less light? And he smiles his toothless hobo smile and the sailor, who’s done kissing, gives you a thumbs-up with one hand and pinches the nurse’s behind with the other and the soldier in the water waves to you and … Who are you talking to? Listen instead! Dads continue swearing about the bad copy machine, adjusting the aperture, dodging themselves sweaty. And finally on the fourth try the contours of the perfect copy emerge. Yet another snowed-over bicycle has been documented. Excellent! yell Dads.