Jonas Khemiri - Montecore - The Silence of the Tiger

Why? You ask and Dads say: He seems very, very nice. He would be better for you …

And you remember that your pursuit of Dads’ approval is so great that you actually call Patrik. You go out to his Täby suburb where the houses are villas instead of square and boxy, where people have gardens instead of courtyards and their own basketball hoops instead of the one at the park. Patrik has lawyer parents and his own Atari in his room and you play the skyscraper game with double joysticks and Patrik shows you his model airplane collection and you play Ping-Pong in the basement and in the fridge they have three kinds of juice and cola that you can drink without asking permission. You realize that this is true luxury and what Dads have achieved is just a warm-up for what exists out there, because Patrik’s parents talk angrily about Social Democrat politics during dinner and say that they’re planning their sun vacation to France this summer and sit politely silent when you say that you thought their country house was on the Riviera. Then they ask you about your parents and you say that Dad is a photographer and Mom is more or less the vice CEO for Swedish hospitals in the county council and despite their smiles you feel minimally insignificant.

Late at night you watch Mafia films and eat cheese curls and when the credits are rolling Patrik says as though by chance that his real dad is from Chile. Is that true? Of course it’s true because Patrik’s middle name is Jorge and the Swedish dad is just a stepdad and in the same second you hear that, you realize Patrik must also be the same sort as you, Melinda, and Imran, and you tell him so, you say: But then you’re a blatte too! And Patrik considers this and scratches his elbow and says: blatte? You say: Of course. Blatte! And Patrik smiles nervously and doesn’t seem to know if he should be happy or sad.

Before you go home you let Patrik record the NWA cassette and you show him how you can hear the difference between Eazy-E and MC Ren and you teach him how you can rap along with all of Straight Outta Compton and carefully switch out every “nigga” for “blatte.” And you remember how the change is visible on the outside, how Patrik gets another kind of pride in his body, how with half-open eyes he rhymes in time in pretend English and how he says good-bye with a finger-twisted West Coast sign when you part ways at the subway.

You, you go home and are met by Moms who shush your greeting because Dads are lying with a moistened towel on his forehead. The migraines have started to come more and more often and little brothers have been sent out to the courtyard and you also have to be quieter than quiet. So you sneak into your room and turn on the music extra low. But extra low is not low enough because during the refrains you happen to turn up the volume and you CAN’T listen to “Gangsta Gangsta” quietly and soon Dads are standing outside your room and banging on the door and roaring. You connect the headphones instead. And think: Are Dads working twelve-hour shifts in the studio for this? Are Dads dead tired and falling shoulder first into the hall in the middle of the night with unbuttoned leather jacket, dirty shoes, and smile long gone for this? Have Dads lost contact with all his old friends for this? 19

And you remember that time when you and Dads are going to go to the city and look for Christmas presents and the year must be almost the nineties because Dads’ bodies have gotten rounder and rounder in the waist and Dads’ hairlines have started to retreat. 20It’s the final reprise of the Dynamic Duo, an awful remake with badly dubbed actors. You have your new jeans that hang just so, and in your earphones of course you have the new NWA single and Dads look at you and ask: Are you on the way to the circus? What do you mean, circus? Well, you are dressed like a clown! And for the first time in the history of the world not even Dads laugh at their own jokes.

Dads’ eyes seem colorless and the migraines seem to get worse every day and Moms want Dads to see doctors and take medicine but Dads say that medicine is for wimps and promise that everything is fine, it’s just a little trouble at home. What kind of trouble? No trouble. But you sense that something has changed because Dads have stopped sleeping at night and sit awake and call ten-digit numbers again and again, without ever getting an answer.

On the way into the city you suggest a classic visit to Central Station before you start the hunt for presents and then you add that “present hunting” is a funny word in Swedish, I mean you’re looking for Christmas presents and then of course it’s the same word as the word for witch-hunt, you know just like in a huge persecution. But Dads don’t react to things that have always been Dads’ ultimate humor, Dads just nod absentmindedly and get up to get off at Slussen, realize his mistake, and return to his seat.

At Central Station, of course, the Aristocats are sitting as though rooted to their corner table and it’s been a long time and hugs are given out and cigarettes are smoked and daughter pictures in wallets are shown. They’re the same photos as before but now the daughters are almost grown up and want to go to discos and apply to art schools and they laugh scornfully at poor Aristocats’ sudden attempts to cling to traditions they themselves have almost forgotten. It’s the same friends and the same Dads with phrases that have become trite. Instead of crawling down under the table and playing Ghostbusters you sit on the chair, and instead of pastries you force coffee with milk and double sugar into yourself like a real grown-up. Dads sit silently in the corner and everyone notices that they’re different but no one says anything. Instead they talk about V65 racing bets and the upcoming European Cup. Then Mansour starts a conversation about racist Sweden and as usual everyone agrees that all the universities are racist and the businesses are racist and the doormen are racists and store security is racist and security cameras are racist and Swedish Television is racist and journalists are racists and the telephone company is racist and Systembolaget is racist and the referee in the last European Cup match is racist and the horses in V65 are racists and Aziz says this last one and everyone laughs except Dads, who sit quietly, resolutely, fingering their berets and twirling their cigarettes. When Mansour says for the third time: But, but seriously … racism at the university is still the worst, because now my dissertation … he is interrupted by roaring Dads. Damn it, go home then! You damn idiot! What are you doing here? Get out! Go home! Do you know what the most racist thing is? It’s those electric doors over there, do you see them? They are so incredibly racist, you have to like go up to them for them to open! Look, what damn racists!

And Dads do everything in one movement; stub out their cigarettes, put on their berets, and knock over your water glass. Then they say good-bye and disappear toward the exit. You don’t really know what you should do because if you stay sitting it would be wrong but if you go it would be wrong so as usual you do the in-between thing and sit for six seven eight seconds before you say excuse me and bye and ahem yourself away toward the exit.

All the way to NK Dads walk a step ahead of you, mumbling that Pernilla is right in saying that the Aristocats are Aristoidiots. And it’s slushy snow and winter wind but you still hear how Dads say that they are lazy immigrants and they should help themselves instead of just sitting on their asses and complaining.

Inside in the warmth of NK Dads take out their wallets, which have a new American Express, and Dads look at you with the smiles from before and say: A party is a party, no penny-pinching! And just that quote makes everything a little like before because the Dynamic Duo is going to work together but instead of driving subways or looking for bottles or standing in the darkroom it’s Christmas present hunting. And for you Christmas present hunting is the simplest child’s play because you’re Muslim so it’s okay to buy all the presents on the same day. You laugh because you’re the only ones this close to Christmas who don’t seem to have present panic and stress faces and long, well-worn wish lists of things that sold out the first week of Advent. For you everything is simple — double Turtles for little brothers, check, insoles and tennis socks for uncles, check, deluxe bath salts and round green candies for Grandma, check. And for Moms a blender for several hundred crowns that you can make drinks and shakes with, check. Then the Christmas presents are almost done and Dads nod, pleased, and say: There are advantages to being Muslim, aren’t there? What do you want?