Jonas Khemiri - Montecore - The Silence of the Tiger

Can you get your thing cleaned by the maids, you know like in the movie? asks Imran. Your royal penis is clean, doesn’t that scene rock?

Melinda sighs: Honestly, how old are you?

It gets a little quiet. The asphalt warms backs and the water bottle is passed around. It’s your turn. Wow, I mean, my dad … And you want to say that Dads are not at all some weak-ass animal photographer who take pictures of poodles. Dads are no old beach flirt who invented a Swede name as an alias to attract customers. Nonono, Dads are also super-educated like all other blatte dads. Dads also collect job application letters and thanks-for-your-interest letters in piles … Dads also have a totally political past and have sat in a concentration camp under Franco and been a huge threat to Pinochet and dissed Idi Amin on the radio plus pissed on the ayatollah on live TV. Dads also read secret books at night and teach you about the revolution and plan demonstrations for a free Cuba and a free Palestine and a free Chechnya and a free Iraq and a free Kurdistan. Dads collect cash in piles to start his own radio station and an intellectual bookstore and have torture scars and torture nightmares and a huge amount of hidden treasures in deposit boxes in countries we can’t return to … Wow, I mean, my dad …

And you try, you say: My dad is a photographer but not just any photographer because he is super close friends with world-famous Frenchmen named Cartier and Bresson and also he’s pretty tight with a guy named Capa and … You lose your place and say: But right now he mostly photographs pets. Everyone lies quiet, the spring sun trickles its light, and someone clears their throat.

Then Imran says his dad still has a bunch of factories with his name on them in Pakistan and Patrik says around his dad’s ranch there are certain bushes with cocaine: you can pick as much as you want and everyone gets to snort it for free at his parties. Melinda says her dad has bushes like that too and everyone nods and it gets a little more quiet before you go back to discussing the game. Seriously, bro, my block was cleaner than yours, and did you see how I screened him and did you see how I went backdoor and I swear if he hadn’t been there I would have dunked 360 two hands.

Sometime in the dawn of the nineties I telephoned your father’s studio as usual to inquire my finances. Your father’s voice responsed my ring and the words were exchanged as follows:

YOUR FATHER (in Swedish): Hello-this-is-Krister-you-have-the-animal-I-have-the-camera.

ME (in Arabic): It is Kadir.

YOUR FATHER (in Swedish): Hello?

ME (in Arabic): Stop being silly. I know it is you, Abbas, I can hear your voice!

YOUR FATHER (in Swedish): Hello? Is someone there? This is Krister Holmström, can I be of assistance?

ME (in Arabic): Arrest this idiotic spectacle, it is me, Kadir, your only and most antique friend!

YOUR FATHER (in Swedish): Oh, so strange, still a foreign language that I do not control!

ME (screaming): Hello, you damned betrayer, stop playing me as your father played you!

YOUR FATHER (whispering): Sorry, Kadir, it was a humoristic joke that unfortunately lacked humor. Excuse me.

I excused your father and we smoothed our conflict. Abbas began to summarize his latest happenings. He successively filled his voice with more and more bubbly happiness, a little like a well-chilled Dom Pérignon in a silver bucket.

“I have succeeded!” he auctioned. “My studio has reached establishment and many assignments are frequent to me!”

The telephone trembled with your father’s euphoria.

“Which assignments are offered you?” I interpellated.

“Can you imagine? My success is here. Soon we will probably be able to relocalize our address to the inner-city Östermalm, my children will be able to play with the children of fully Swedish journalists and politicians! My three sons will be like the generality of regular Swedes! No outsiderness will ever infect their souls! They will excel their mentalities and play tennis and practice piano and bear tidy collar shirts and be diplomaed with the highest grades and drape themselves in custom-tailored Boss suits.”

“And which assignments are offered you?”

“Many different ones. Mostly artistic fashion jobs and celebrity photographing and a great quantity of similar assignments. And sometimes pet portraits.”

“Praise my golden congratulations!”

“Your voice does not sound honestly happy.”

“It is.”

“No.”

“Hmm … Perhaps it is explained by that your life is modified while mine stamps static holes in the same place as usual. I have encountered a VERY serious poker tragedy. I MUST obtain my loaned finances. Otherwise there could be trouble.”

Your father stopped smacking his mouth with pleasurement and spiced his voice with a new solemn tone, which I did not recognize.

“Dear Kadir. I have guaranteed you your economy. Soon. But you cannot just blame your staticness on me! Do not follow the mistakes of other Arabs. Do as I did! Advance your position to the maximum instead of accusing the context.”

“But …”

“Look at me … I have installed my own photographic studio. Thanks to my two striving hands.”

“But …”

“If your ambition is to start a hotel you must wander new steps on the steep escalator that we can call your career! Understood?”

“In that case you must guarantee me the same faithfulness that I offered YOU, for God’s sake!!! If you do not return home with my finances soon you will be sorry!!!”

I realized that the use of discussing with your father was less (like subtraction) and parked my telephone with a crashing sound on its holder.

And you remember another timeand it’s the same spring sun and the same basketball court, the same friends and the same passed-around cola bottle that still has the faint soda taste. And Imran starts the contest by saying: By the way I have Melinda’s mom over this morning and it was nice because she swallowed my sperm like yogurt because she was crazy hungry, bro. And Patrik who right away wants to show that he’s learned the game says: Sure but your mom was at my house last weekend and she was so fat I swear she couldn’t get out of the apartment if you didn’t tempt her with a huge Snickers and oil the door frame. And Melinda says: But both your moms are so fat they’re as wide as they are tall! And you say: Tuskut because ALL your moms are so fat they have their own area codes! and Imran says: Shut up, whores, because your moms are so fat I swear they have the equator for waist measurements! and you say: Bitch, your mom’s so ugly I swear every time I see her I think of like a huge … butt-ugly … mutant!

And then it’s quiet for a few seconds before they roar their laughter and: WOOO! you lost, bro, just admit you’re out!

And they continue the contest according to classic tradition. Patrik says Melinda’s mom is so dumb she got fired from giving blow jobs and Melinda says Imran’s mom is so ugly she should live in the zoo and Imran says Patrik’s mom’s teeth are yellower than butter and Melinda says Patrik’s mom’s teeth look like a chessboard and Patrik shows both his palms and gives up. Imran can smell the scent of victory and yells Melinda’s mom is so fat she lost her watch in her fat rolls when he was finger-fucking her yesterday and Melinda fumbles, Melinda is going downhill, Melinda is counted out … Melinda has a brain fart and happens to say something about Imran’s dad selling polyester Indian whore clothes.

Suddenly Imran stands up and his eyes are lasers behind his glasses and in one second the atmosphere has changed from joking to absolute seriousness. Melinda flies up reflexively because fighting while sitting is impossible and there are religion insults like Muslim cunt and idiot Catholic and I spit on your Muhammad and fuck your pope and then fucking Somali lesbian whore and fucking ugly cunt Indian and you and Patrik get between them and try to stop it but Imran’s glasses are already off and Melinda’s guard is already up and there’s the first shove and there’s the next coming back and you yell calm down calm down but they still both have threat stares and their breathing is like breathless divers’ and they’re just about to start winding up when you hear yourself yell: QUIT IT! WE’RE BROS DAMMIT!