Jonas Karlsson - The Room

Håkan hadn’t yet found a better solution for his papers, which were still threatening to slip onto my side, even though a couple of days had passed since our conversation inside the room. Yet I still felt somehow calm about the matter. He probably didn’t want to change his behaviour just like that, after being ordered to do so. Possibly because he didn’t want his colleagues to connect his sudden organised behaviour with our meeting the other day, but possibly also to demonstrate a degree of independence towards me. That would pass. I couldn’t deny him a degree of pride. If it turned out that he was consciously being obstructive and if things hadn’t improved within a week, I would have to raise the matter again.

The open-plan office around me was full of protracted and completely unstructured discussion about the forthcoming Christmas party. It was about what games would be played. What sort of punch would be served, et cetera. Questions and ideas were tossed into the air and drifted around the office. The same individual subject was discussed in several places at once without there being any central focus, or even any contact with the actual party committee. I did my best to ignore the whole fractured debate, and naturally declined any involvement. When Hannah with the long ponytail, who seemed to have some sort of responsibility for the party, came over and asked if I wasn’t going to consider attending, I used Ann’s old trick of completely ignoring her and carrying on with my work. I actually thought about using her line ‘Do you want help with something?’, but when I turned round to deliver it she had already gone.

The sixth time I found myself in the room it was in the company of the woman from reception. Completely unplanned.

Late in the day I had decided to attend the Christmas party after all, because I realised that a certain amount of information of the more informal variety tended to flourish on such occasions.

‘So you came in the end,’ Hannah with the ponytail said as I stepped out of the lift and saw that the entire office had been transformed.

There were sheets and various fabrics hanging everywhere. The lighting was subdued. It was hard to see. At first I considered not replying at all. Hannah with the ponytail was one of those women who laugh readily and can talk nonsense for hours without a single sensible thing being said. In principle I try to ignore people like that as much as possible. I simply choose not to think about them. Make up my mind that they don’t exist. And I didn’t think hers was a particularly pleasant way to greet guests. Especially not if you were one of the organisers. In the end I decided to give a clipped response.

‘I did,’ I said.

‘I mean, you didn’t seem very keen,’ she said.

She stood there looking at me for a while in silence. I looked back, calmly and neutrally, until she spoke again.

‘Well, we can probably find you a plate,’ she said, making it sound like a nuisance.

I realised a long time ago that dismissive remarks like that could easily be sexually motivated. Women of her age have that inverted way of approaching men of the same age. Particularly if you show a certain disinterest. I imagine it’s to do with status and an unwillingness to show any sort of inferiority. A sort of liberation, maybe even feminism? My generation of women always have to show they’re as strong as men, before finding clumsy ways of showing their affection.

I wasn’t going to let myself be moved.

I got a glass of the tasteless, blue-coloured punch that matched my blue shoe-covers in a most irritating way. I realised once again that it was time to get a pair of those indoor shoes. But at the same time it didn’t look like the other guests were paying much attention to the shoe-code that evening. Some of them were definitely wearing the same shoes they had arrived in. I took a stroll past the glassed-off manager’s office, trying to catch a glimpse of Karl’s shoes in the crowd, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.

He probably wasn’t there, because the office had been rearranged in a way that it would be difficult for a boss to allow. The sheets had been fastened with a staple-gun, which was bound to leave marks on the walls. Printers and phones and other electronic equipment had been covered in a way that was clearly a fire-hazard. Who knows, maybe they had also blocked the fire-escapes?

Here and there stood little clusters of candles, and someone had sprinkled some sort of glittery silver stars around them.

Somewhere a stereo was playing Christmas songs, but I never managed to identify where the noise was coming from.

People were standing in groups, noisily interrupting each other. It was obvious that they were all more relaxed than usual. Even John was participating in the small talk, which revolved around either the threat of cutbacks or the usual conversation about families and children and football.

A string of fairy-lights had been hung from one wall to the other. It was supposed to be a Christmas decoration, but the whole thing had been done in a very amateurish way and didn’t feel quite proper.

I walked around among people who made various excruciating attempts to engage me in conversation. As you might imagine, it was a pointless task.

Outside the snow was still falling and after a while I sank onto one of the two leather armchairs over by the window, mainly to try out what it felt like. I’d just made up my mind to leave when the woman from reception came over and sat in the other chair. She looked very neat and clean. She had two glasses of wine in one hand and a napkin in the other. She smiled at me, the way she did every morning, and I asked why she was here, seeing as this wasn’t her department.

‘No, I know,’ she said, slightly embarrassed. ‘It’s usually like this. I get invited to all the parties. I suppose everyone thinks I don’t have a department of my own.’

I did a quick calculation in my head.

‘Let’s see, there must be, what, eight departments?’

‘Nine, actually,’ she said with a laugh. ‘The maintenance department invite me to theirs as well.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I said, but she just laughed.

She took the napkin and started rubbing the bottom of her dress with it.

‘Have you spilled something?’ I asked.

‘Well, I didn’t,’ she said. ‘The punch splashed a bit, but I don’t know. It’s hopeless trying to get rid of stains like that. Especially if they’ve been there a while.’

We sat in silence for a time as she rubbed her dress. Eventually she looked up at me.

‘My name’s Margareta, by the way.’

‘Oh,’ I said, then thought that I ought to say something more.

She looked as if she were expecting a reply, but what could I say? What could I possibly have to say about her name? Her name was Margareta. Okay. Good. Nice name.

I looked round the room. People were laughing and it was getting a bit loud. Every so often someone would shout something. The armchair was much less comfortable to sit in than I had imagined. I shifted my buttocks slightly to find a better position. On a small table between me and Margareta there was a large bowl of sweets. I looked at them, trying to work out if I wanted one.

‘Don’t think much of the fairy-lights,’ I said after a while, pointing at the wall.

‘No.’ Margareta laughed. ‘I think it was Jörgen who put them up.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You seem to know a lot.’

She laughed again. There was something about her laugh that, besides indicating a certain interest in me, also managed to put me in a good mood. It was clear that she was slightly intoxicated, which made her seem — how can I put it? — more physical. It made me think of Marilyn Monroe. But I didn’t think that mattered much at the time.