Jonas Khemiri - Montecore - The Silence of the Tiger

Dads tell you that the photos for the Sweden Picture competition have been sent in and now you just have to wait, soon we’ll have the perfect seed money to start a studio! And you listen a little bit but you’re mostly concentrating on the candy because there are so many that look suspiciously poisonous and absolutely must be tested before little brothers accidentally get poisoned by boob milk. You go up the hill toward the hospital and it’s fall sparkle sun from the sky and water gravel in asphalt cracks and taxis that line up and right before you take the revolving door in, Dads say seriously: We are the men of the house now.

Then you go in and Dads scratch off their Djurgården scarf and spell your last name twice to get the right ward. Then taking the elevator and your stomach that’s starting to feel weird and hospital floors with yellow stripes and hospital smell and rough hospital blankets. And then, then it’s pale Moms with dried spit in the corners of her mouth and shiny hair. Sleeping when you come, with her head bent at an angle a little like a crash test dummy. When Dads wake Moms with pattering cheek kisses, Moms stretch their hands like sunrises and smile the mom smiles that only they can make and nothing is nicer, especially not new little brothers who have skin like rotten old Indian men and small nails which are barely hard and sticky eyes and not even any hair on their yucky scaly heads.

But you still want to hold one of them, show Dads that you can, carefully against your shoulder, feel the little body near yours, the shoulders banana-soft, and the little nameless one sleeps and you watch the head, smell the baby smell, which is talcum powder and a little used diaper and a little newborn neck sweat. And then, when no one is looking, you pinch him as hard as you can in the back of his knee, mostly just to see what happens. And he screams himself blue in the face and almost has trouble getting air and you give him back to Moms, who shh and cuddle him quiet.

Before Grandma and Grandpa come, Dads want to take pictures with three sons at the same time; the nurse is called in and she smiles at Dads’ pride and immortalizes the mustache that is a big black double-u and you with your tongue stuck out and little brothers’ sleeping wrinkle faces. Dads are happy like a child, while you have grown up, have a stomachache from candy, and wish you were back at day care. Dads’ faces aren’t like everyday again until perfumed Grandma and crooked Grandpa can be seen in the hall.

And you remember the following time of sunny weekend breakfasts and Dads who make tea and cut pieces of fruit and curl croissants from dough that comes prepared out of tins that are on sale at the Hötorgshallen market. When the morning smell starts to spread, it’s Dads in striped pajama pants with leaking elastic who call to Moms and sons that now it’s time and you crawl up out of beds and land heavily on kitchen chairs while Dads whistle and cool the tea by pouring it from cup to cup again and again.

Moms sit at the kitchen table with gritty sleep eyes and she is still weak but still manages to read the paper; she makes circles around courses that should be perfect for Dads. She hmms when Dads say: Soon the results of the Sweden Picture competition will come, darling. Moms circle Swedish courses at the Workers’ Educational Association and programs to become a home language teacher and Dads say: If I can just have enough time I promise that my new collection is going to change everything. And Moms who fill their French voices with ultimate irony: Yes, time has really been in short supply. You’ve only lived here for … seven years.

Six years, darling.

Seven years, darling.

Moms look down at course catalogs and Dads suddenly look nervous. The silence around the table is thornier than usual; Moms puncture the croissant with a knife a little like she wants to murder it and Dads clear their throats kind of deep down in his stomach. No one says anything and you understand that it’s best to keep quiet.

Then it’s as though they both want to start a fight on purpose to get it over with and they start talking about names for little brothers and Moms want two nice classic Arabic ones, maybe Fathi or Muhammad, or why not Faizal after Grandpa. And Dads say definitely not. If it’s going to be Arabic it has to sound Swedish and work both ways; my sons are not going to be jobless and end up as mafiosos or riffraff …

Or subway drivers? Moms ask kindly and Dads’ throats swallow forth a compromise:

What about Camel?

Moms who laugh.

Would you want to grow up in France and be called Chameau? Why not … Ali? And Dads: Why not Gösta, like Grandpa? And Moms: Gösta is an old-man name, darling. And Dads: Ali is an idiot name, darling. And Moms sigh and Dads sigh and their sharp eyes are aimed right at each other. Then Moms: What about Malcolm, then? And Dads: Like the radical Negro in the U.S.? On my gravestone …

And what started with a lovely weekend morning ends with seriousness and French swearwords and Moms who refuse to eat and emphasize every word with her teaspoon like a pointer and Dads who get up and look out onto the balcony walkway and suddenly swear way too loud and little brothers who wake up and wake each other up and now they’re both screaming and neither Moms nor Dads move, both just stare, both play the waiting game, and it’s like a chicken race but in a kitchen version and finally you get up, go to the bedroom, and stuff double pacifiers in double little brothers’ mouths.

Then comes the day when Current Photography finally presents the winners of the contest and Dads come in to you with nervous steps and ask you to translate. You, who have just started to learn to read, spell your way through the text while Dads walk around around in circles. They say that they were flooded with answers and that’s why the results have been delayed, and Dads shout: Forget that, who won, who won? Read the explanation! But in any case here they are, the hundred winners of the contest “The Sweden Picture.” And Dads come closer to you and together you flip pages up and pages down and there are pictures of sack races and blue-and-yellow flags, there are butterflies in close-up and naked children in summer wreaths, there are two photos of blades of grass with backlit fuzzy raspberries, there are misty lakes in the dawn, naked-bottomed night swimmers, rainy picnics, folk-costumed fiddle players. There are rainbows, travel trailers, handwritten kiosk signs, and three waddling cows. But no levels, no day-after vomit frozen in the snow, no iced bikes.

Dads swallow.

Dads page through one more time to be absolutely certain.

Dads go out and don’t come home for dinner.

Then comes the year when Dads need breaks from the stress of family life more and more often. Dads say: We’re just going down to the city to look for jobs a little and practice a little Swedish. And Moms look up from the chaos apartment where drying cloth diapers drape everything in white and double little brothers scream and poop and throw up and do everything but sleep.

The Dynamic Duo doesn’t wait for Moms’ answer.

The Dynamic Duo has more important things to do! The Dynamic Duo goes into the city and while Dads photograph flaneurs on Drottninggatan and extol the sunshine on the Åhléns clock, you collect redeemable bottles and sit waiting patiently on bike racks. Only once some drunk men yell: Damn oil Turks! And then Dads show you exactly how one carefully plays deaf, pack up his tripod, and wander toward Central Station.

Dads’ new friends are sitting gathered there, the gang that’s already got its own nickname: Aristocats. They’re sitting bent forward with pointy backs like dragons, and their smells are strong tobacco and their cheeks are prickly beards and their upper lips twisted mustaches. There’s the cook Nabil with shoulders as wide as castle walls and there’s Aziz, who you recognize from SL. There’s Mansour with the small round glasses and Mustafa with hippie braids and a little leather pouch on his belt. Everyone is extra nice because you are the only kid and they offer you throat lozenges and tickle and turn your cheeks red by showing you pictures of missing-teeth daughters and joke-planning marriages. Soon you slide down under the table and sit among grown-up legs and play Ghostbusters while Dads on the top side drink refills and billow smoke and tell about someone who was assaulted by racists in Skåne and Nabil’s cousin who was refused a residence permit and Mustafa’s voice says: It’s only damn Iranians who make it in this whore country … then you hear a magnificent voice that clears itself and shouts: But hello! You can’t forget Refaat! And you squat there under the table and hear Dads’ proud voice tell his friends about the almighty gifted businessman Refaat El-Sayed. Haven’t you heard of him? Is it true? The Egyptian doctor of chemistry who borrowed money and bought a pharmaceutical factory that was in danger of being shut down. Then he got convertible stock for his employees and now the stock value has gone up eleven thousand seven hundred percent. In two years! What do you say about that?