Jonas Khemiri - Montecore - The Silence of the Tiger

22. Write me, Jonas. Why are you relating this return to the clothing department? This is a lie! I know for certain fact that all you did was show your erected tongue and your stretched-up middle finger to the guard. And he did not even see you! Who are you trying to dupe? And why? This does not prophesize well …

Dearest greetings!

Are you reading this in a sitting position? Good. For euphoric news comes from having been presented to me: Your father is alive and in excellent vigor!!! Two hours ago I received an e-letter where he excused his expanded silence with that during the past time he has prepared an anonymous project that will most likely securitize his position in the exclusive photographic bureau Magnum! I congratulated him heartily for not being murdered. Right now he is apparently back in New York after some very stinging weeks in Rwanda, where he has documented the trail of genocide. Among other things, he wrote about a woman whose pregnancy was terminated in the seventh month by two soldiers who gambled about the sex of her child; they knifed up her stomach, defined the sex, and left her to die in the puddle of blood. Your father is gathering his strength in his roof loft and trying to decide if his next target should be the landless Brazilians or the Untouchable Indians.

He terminated with the note that there are many times when, despite his great success, he misses his wife and his children. Is that not a bizarre coincidence? I have, in accordance with your directives, not informed him of our relation. Perhaps you can still try to telephone him? Even if you seem certain in your declaration to “fucking never make the first move,” I inject you the number to his Tunisian portable telephone. It works globally: +216-********. In case you change your mind. Nine years of silence between a father and a son is really rather nine years too long. And regardless of whether you capture him at a peace conference or in an intellectual tête-à-tête with Tariq Ali, I promise that a call from you would grow his gladness to hurricanish strength.

Now to your delivered text. I realize that you do your extreme to extract literary talent from yourself. You are learning. But are still not totally stable. Carefully inspect my affixed footnotes for a complete survey of those times that you injected too-large glides of truth. Why have you named the document Montecore , by the way? Perhaps you have spelled wrong? Do you want to refer to the manticore, the lion monster from your role-playing? Or is Monte Corps intended, as in the army of the mountain? Or Monte-coeur, as in the heart of the mountain? Calm my confusion.

Are you now ready to terminate the book? Is your stomach fluttered by as many butterflies as mine? It is time to form the turbulent time that we can call Sweden’s nineties. I am letting you bear the relay rod of the narrative and inviting to you to formulate yourself freely. On the condition that in this section you allow my commentary to compete on the same level as you do, somewhat in the form of a duel. En garde, monsieur! Let us try together to understand how the conflict between father and son grows to the radioactive explosion that motivates your modern silence.

Your affirmative friend,

Kadir

The first thing you rememberis the basketball court in Melinda’s courtyard, just three gates and a pedestrian bridge from the studio, the basketball court with two shred-netted baskets where you start hanging out every day after school, you, Melinda, and Imran. And sometimes Patrik, mostly because it’s cool to have someone along who always has money for candy and is always worst at twenty-one. Because in his entire life, Patrik has only ever played badminton and the recorder and his basketball clothes still have just-bought folds and his jump shot is a huge joke and once in the beginning he said: Nice triple-timer! when Melinda made a killer layup. But of course he can still hang out with you, because you’re no haters and everyone have to learn sometime.

Now the time is different because spring is starting to seem like summer and Patrik has learned how to trash-talk the mothers of opponents and replaced his upper-class i with a believable Spanish accent where h is pronounced ch and s is pronounced th . Sometimes you’re interrupted by some Swedelows in matching club jerseys who try to test you and they have a real leather ball that’s marked KFUM SÖDER and it’s three against three against one basket and you play center and Melinda is guard and Imran is power forward while Patrik warm the bench and twirl a towel in the air and roar WOO! every time you make a steal. Together you own the basket and it’s three-pointers and blocks and alley hoops and three poor Swedelows who are sent home with sweaty tails between their legs. Then lying on your backs on the sun-warmed asphalt, with a ball each for a pillow, celebrating the victory with water from Melinda’s cola bottle with a faint diluted soda taste that never disappears while the sun trickles itself down through the squares of the fence.

Sometimes you talk Dads and then Imran say his dad were a world-famous clothing designer in Pakistani Baluchistan. But then we move here and Dad couldn’t get a loan to start his own brand so that why he had to do imports with synthetic tops from China and that the only reason he sells those damn sequin skirts because in Pakistan his name world-famous like as famous as Kenzo and Gucci and that Prada.

And Patrik says: My dad was an anarchist journalist who fled Chile and met Mom at Konsum when they both were reaching for the same leek and Dad was super slick and just like: If you want the leek you’ll have to take me too. He and Mom fell totally in love but then she apply at like a hundred jobs at Swedish newspapers and of course she barely got interview and so she ditch Sweden and now he has own business that ships soap on the Atlantic and he’s totally loaded and live in Chile on a huge lot with a white luxury house with a veranda and servants and a new wife and like three or four lovers who are models with tiny g-strings who can only dream of getting to live on his ranch and hang out by his pool. They all “please please let us come dance at your barbeque parties.” And my dad all “maybe, I have kind of a lot of bitches at this particular party …”

There’s a little pause as Melinda gets ready and starts telling her parents are educated chemists who came to Sweden on research grants from Nigeria with two minimal Melinda sisters in their baggage. Soon they stay in Sweden because they loved the calm and the security and soon Mom get a job and here, have you seen this? Out of her wallet Melinda wriggles a photo that shows her parents standing in a lab with smiles so white their lab coats seem dirty, they look like total angels with gigantic Afros and shoes with pimp heels. Then the rest of the sisters were born and I came last and Dad wanted to stay but couldn’t get a job even though he looked everywhere and spoke good Swedish and fluent French and perfect English and a little Portuguese. Then finally he get a job as a truck driver for some book warehouse in Södertälje but then he get tired of his coworkers because they were huge racists and put notes on his locker with copies from animal books with pictures of baboons and the first time it happen it don’t bother Dad, you know, he’s a chill guy, he never would snitch too soon. But then it happen again and again and every time he come back from lunch there new monkey pictures on his fucking locker and there were gorillas and chimpanzees and one time some goddamn fucking panda and one day he just say bye to the job and bye to Sweden and now he traveling around the world as a medical machine engineer and right now he at Singapore and we still keep in touch and last week he send a top-class black top of the finest silk. After school I swear I going to leave racist Sweden too and move. Where to? asks Imran. Melinda smiles that smile that only she has. To the castle that Dad built in Nigeria, on my mother’s grave I swear it looks like the palace Eddie Murphy’s dad have in Coming to America . There’s elephants and tigers and gazelles and a bunch of fountains and rose flowers on the floor and we can just hang around our entire lives and never come back to fucking whore Sweden …