Jonas Khemiri - Montecore - The Silence of the Tiger

Then Dads shoot the stump of road where there are three one-way signs in forty meters and say: What is more Swedish than that?

Then Dads get down on his knees in front of some red-and-green lumpy wino puke, click the camera, and cry: What is more Swedish than that?

While Dads document motifs, you fill the bags with so many bottles that the handles get totally sticky and you leave a trail of drops of brown liquid behind you.

On the way home you discuss which other motifs would be suitable for the photo collection. And you suggest midsummer celebrations and Disney on Christmas Eve and Lucia processions, and Dads say: Too typical. And you suggest blue-and-yellow flags and snuff and those ugly Graninge boots, and Dads say: Too typical. And you say Skansen, travel trailers, and Fjällräven backpacks and Dads say: Too typical! It has to be subtle and obvious simultaneously. No damn Dala horses … like for example … Dads think. Levels! Levels are the most Swedish instrument in the world. Everything in Sweden must be just right, not too much and not too little! And if you deviate the tiniest bit the air bubble slides away and everything gets crooked. Levels, I’m going to photograph levels en masse! say Dads and put the camera back in its case.

While waiting for the elevator, Dads mumble with a voice that is barely a throat clearing: Thanks for the help. And you grow to a height of about four or five meters and have to bend over triple to fit in the elevator and you promise yourself to almost never again eat childish Pez candies.

The Dynamic Duo is done with its first task, and the bottle money is saved in that special cabinet with a padlock that Moms call the armoire and Dads call the mémoire .

Moms’ stomachs growuntil the skin gets split marks and soon Dads stop taking double shifts at SL and start being home in the evenings, taking a break from the photography, and helping make dinner. Every evening it’s recipes from Anna’s Food and you help with the translation as well as you can. Cumin, who is cumin? And you make things up sometimes and say the right thing when you can and most of the time the food tastes a little strange and it never looks like the pictures; it ends up being meat casserole with raisins and oatmeal pancakes roasted in the toaster and the family specialty, which is saffron cod. And Dads joke and blame the cookbook and say that Anna is a real marketing ploy and presumably a racist Swede and Moms pretend not to hear and just answer that it must be time soon because otherwise we will starve to death.

And you remember that night when the suitcases stand packed in the hall and Dads have tried to make oven pancakes and the remains are sitting brown on the oven glass and Dads swear his dinbookborrasentak because the scorchiness doesn’t want to come off and you’re eating TSO and rye bread while Moms lie on the sofa with double pillows under her head. Suddenly you hear Moms’ cries and it’s a different tone, not just: I want water, or: Can someone change the radio station? And Dads rush into the living room and Moms are lying ready and you hear the loud breathing and Dads shout: Call the taxi! And you, who have been specially educated for this very task, call the taxi with an adult voice while Dads hold hands and Moms shout owowow and you say the address and Moms’ Swedish last name so the taxi will come extra fast and Dads give you a thumbs-up from the living room. Don’t worry, Grandma will come soon, whisper Moms before they disappear down in the elevator but of course you worry, because Moms hold a world record in stomach size and have to bend her back diagonally backward so she doesn’t tip forward and you stand on the walkway and see how Dads guide her out to the taxi, Dads walk with his arms around Moms like he is playing hula hoop and Moms hold one hand on her back and the other under her stomach and right before the taxi is going to leave Dads turn up toward you and give a thumbs-up.

Soon Grandma and Grandpa come and they are the world’s finest retired couple, Grandma with sun wrinkles and the more and more crooked Grandpa, who just has time to turn on the radio before he falls asleep on the same sofa where Moms have just been lying. Grandma — the definition of kindness. Grandma, who always shouts: It doesn’t matter! if one happens to smash some plate that has a valuable special mark. Grandma, who bakes gingersnaps and pancakes that make regular baked goods collapse in shame. Grandma, who has devoted her entire life to helping others, first as a swimming instructor in her former home country, Denmark, then as a missionary’s assistant in Africa, and then as a social-services lady in Stockholm. Then she met Grandpa and became a family raiser and then Grandpa’s accident happened and she was there for support and said her constant One should be thankful that it wasn’t the right hand. Grandma, who collects things for charity in black garbage bags and sends them to orphanages in Eastern Europe. Grandma, who is your great hero the night that little brothers are born because Grandma calms you down and sits beside you hour after hour and she strokes your eyelids and hums songs which don’t have words while Moms lie in hospital rooms and push and snort and toss her head back and forth. It’s More morphine! shouted with a disaster voice and it’s nurses who are watching nervously and sweaty doctors with backward coats and mouth papers and beeping noises from heart monitors and the whole time Dads who stand pale at the head end and sponge with a little towel and try to soothe. It’s screams and blood pails and nurses who are changing shifts and red-drenched white coats that whisper about the poor Turk dad with the crazy Swedish wife in number four. It’s doctors who say we might lose her, and doctors who say it might be too late. And of course it’s Moms who regret it, Moms who swear that this is the absolute last time, Moms who say Swedish swearwords that Dads have never heard before. It’s the green heart monitor which changes waves and beep beep beep toward a long line and beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. And it’s emergency runners who take out the iron and rub it into a current and shout stand clear! And bzzzzzt and waiting and rubbing and clear! and bzzzzzt until Moms come to life again, keep on pushing, keep on swearing. And then finally Moms exert herself until she throws up and then, with a plopping sound, two screaming little brothers hop out into nurse arms and they smile and laugh and it’s a river of blood and you made it! and Dads who choose the exact wrong time to say: There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

Then Dads who hold the receiver with the hand that Moms didn’t crush, first calling the Tunisian relatives and rejoicing and then Grandma and asking to speak to Grandpa. Then Dads who come home whistling in the dawn with his eyes ringed in black and his beard rough. And you who have become a big brother.

The next day Dads button on their work tie with little SL logo and put on loose creased pants which shine in the sun and you share a little Paco Rabanne and Dads say: We will remember this day for always. Dads are right. You take the subway and stop at the newspaper stand, Dads choose a bouquet while you get to pick bulk candy, and Dads say: Throw in as much as you want! And it’s a lifelong dream that’s being fulfilled, you start to fill the bag with all kinds and all colors and it’s mint chocolate and Ferraris and fried eggs and Turkish pepper and chalk licorice and raspberry boats but also big toffee squares and whips and salty suckers, which you know Moms like. Then show the bag to Dads and the scale arrow spins far and the cashier guy laughs because it comes to almost a hundred crowns. You prepare yourself for putting some back, but Dads just smile and pay and shout: Today is a party, no penny-pinching! just like the dad in Emil in the Soup Tureen and soon you’re out on the street again and it’s Dads with the best bouquet and you with the biggest bag in honor of Moms and you munch and of course you have to try one of each on the way up to the hospital.