In Every Moment We Are Still Alive Read online

  A bull mastiff lifts its nose and sniffs when we walk into the video shop. It’s the shop owner’s dog.

  Hi, I say.

  The owner is drinking cola from a half-litre bottle.

  Hi there, he answers. Karin stumbles along between the shelves. I help her to a stool by the cash counter. At first she smiles at the dog, but all of a sudden it seems to make her anxious. No film is entirely to her taste.

  What about Wenders, then, a documentary about Pina Bausch? I ask.

  Fine, she says.

  How are you feeling?

  Tired, she answers.

  Darling?

  Yes, I’m just tired, she says.

  I pay forty kronor for the films, and the shop owner asks: Will that be all?

  Yeah, thanks, I answer.

  You want a bag?

  No, thanks.

  He burps, apologises, and says: The run-up to New Year’s Eve is a good time for a film day.

  Okay, thanks a lot, I say.

  He calls out: Have a nice weekend. About ten metres away from the video shop Karin has to sit down on the window ledge of a ladies’ clothes boutique. The next pit stop is a bench underneath a frozen cherry tree. The air is cold and illuminated.

  How about now, darling? I ask.

  Pelvic girdle pain, I think, it hurts like crazy when I walk, she says.

  Before the hill on Lundagatan I find Karin another bench outside a closed ice cream kiosk. We can see the brick steeple of Högalid Church just beyond. I lead Karin up the stairs to our inside courtyard and then into the stairwell.

  The bedroom is only just wide enough for our double bed. At night we have to clamber onto the foot end and crawl up to the pillows. As a bedside table, Karin has a narrow oak plank fixed crosswise to the bedframe. On it she keeps a tin containing earplugs, a little glass bowl of hairbands, a bag of throat lozenges, her mobile phone, iPod, headphones, a leather-bound notepad, a couple of fine-pointed felt-tip pens, and novels standing upright. I rub the arch of her foot. Her feet are swollen and vaguely purple. The thought of giving birth makes Karin nervous, she frets about having opted for a vaginal delivery. She stares at me, as if attempting to make me understand how it’s going to feel, but I can’t possibly imagine. And Karin can’t either.

  Caro and Julian have gone to pregnancy yoga, she says.

  Is that like tantric sex?

  Are you at all interested in what I’m saying?

  ‘Pregnancy yoga’?

  You learn to breathe the right way.

  Do you have to go to pregnancy yoga for that?

  Tom?

  Karin?

  Please?

  Okay, okay, pregnancy yoga, sure, I say.

  You know it’s not just about that.

  I do?

  Yes.

  What is this?

  You know what I mean, she says.

  Look, I want to be involved, if that’s what you’re driving at, but I do have my book to get on with; hopefully it will lead to an advance so I can look for a job without too much stress after that—

  Or you’ll just start writing another book, she interjects.

  What do you want, you want me to stop writing?

  No, of course I don’t want that, she says, staring towards the kitchen.

  You need to say what you actually think.

  I don’t always know what I think right away, all right, I’m slow, I need time, can you just wait a moment?

  Okay, I say, before adding: Are you slow or reserved?

  The moment I don’t have the same opinion as you, you start saying I’m reserved.

  No, you’re not reserved, sorry, you have integrity. I’ll think about it, try to sleep a bit now, I’ll wake you in an hour.

  Uh-huh, okay, she says and puts in the earplugs, then takes them out again and says despondently: I’m afraid you’re going to disappear.

  Disappear? Oh please, Karin!

  Not physically, of course, but all you’ve done these last few years is read and write, I don’t want things to be like that, she says.

  Karin, how many times have we talked about this?

  And why have we talked about it?

  And what have I said?

  I know you have to hand in the manuscript in April, she says.

  Before we become parents, yes, after that I won’t have time. You’re not being fair now, I work hard, but at the same time I try to be a support to you, I mean, I came to the midwife, didn’t I?

  You say that like it’s some sort of achievement; this is our child.

  I did not say it like it was an achievement.

  Tom, do you really want this, for real?

  I get out of the bed, stand up, and answer: Darling, it’s an absurd question, no, you know what, it’s an insult, we have to do this together, you’ll have to trust me. I’m going to finish this book, then I can put the writing aside if that’s what you want.

  That’s not what I want, I also want to be able to write, I want to publish my own book. I don’t have the energy for anything any more, I don’t want to be some housewife, sorry, I’m just so damn tired.

  It’ll work itself out, darling, I promise. In a year’s time everything will get easier, you’re going to be a fantastic mother, and you’ll publish many books, I promise, try to sleep now.

  I feel like a lump of dough full of hormones.

  Love you, I say, hugging her.

  So you’re not having doubts, then? she asks and extricates herself from my arms.

  Stop it now, please, I say.

  You said before you were having doubts.

  Uh-huh, yeah, well forget about it, it was a while ago, maybe it’s normal to feel a bit unsure about such a big life change? I answer.

  I just feel so weird.

  I’m not having doubts any more.

  Love you, she says and puts in her earplugs. She looks up at some pictures that I have stuck to the wall with Blu-tack next to the reading lamp. One is a postcard from her parents of the painting, Marine bleue, Effet de vagues, by Georges Lacombe, depicting a sea rolling in and a sky with heavy clouds. The other is one of the square ultrasound photos from Eken Midwives. Apparently you can see the profile of our child in it. The photo is blurred and if I hadn’t known it was an ultrasound image I wouldn’t have guessed there was a child there. It looks more like a cluster of fluorescent plankton in a deep, dark sea.

  * * *

  —

  In the oven is a Frödinge curd cake. In the last two days Karin has eaten four of them. I read the lid of the packaging.

  Hey, this might be irrelevant, but curd cake contains bitter almond, isn’t that fairly toxic? I say. Karin gets up from the sofa and I add: I figured there wouldn’t be enough of it in a curd cake to harm Scrunchie? She presses the palms of her hands against her temples.

  I’m so clueless, she groans.

  I call the Nutrition Information Helpline, the woman who picks up at the other end has never had that question before. Karin is relieved to hear that she can go on eating curd cakes, but she loses her appetite for them. Instead she wolfs down a whole jar of pickled gherkins and says:

  I read online that it takes eight bitter almonds to kill a child, God, I’m wincing just saying that. She lifts out a basket from the wardrobe. Inside she has some orange wool and a pair of knitting needles. Ullis called, she says.

  How is she?

  We were going to go for coffee one day, she answers.

  Nice.

  I don’t have the energy for it, I don’t have the energy for anything.

  That’s to be expected.

  I feel isolated, she says.

  Can’t you invite her here, then? I ask.

  Yes, I suppose I could do that. It’ll have to be after New Year in that case, I just don’t feel up to it at the moment.

  I sit on the floor beneath the sofa and I ask: What are you knitting?

  An umbilical cord hat.

  What’s that?

  It’s just like a normal hat, but
tied at the top, we’ll see if I manage it—I’m not a great knitter but it’s so small it shouldn’t take too long.

  I stretch towards the DVD case of the Wim Wenders documentary lying on the window sill and read the sleeve notes.

  Who would you say is your closest friend? she asks.

  Haven’t got a clue, I don’t think that way.

  Stefan? she asks.

  Maybe, no, not any more, I don’t know, though I’ve known him the longest.

  David, Alex, Hasse?

  They’re lovely, all of them.

  Andy?

  I don’t think they’d see me as one of their closest friends. I don’t know actually, why are you asking, are you planning a surprise party?

  I don’t know who I’d consider to be my closest friend any more. Johanna has her own life in Uppsala, she has her children, and Caro and Ullis turn into right ladettes when they’re with Elin, it feels like we’ve grown apart, I mean I love them, but it’s a bit sad, she says.

  How would you define ‘ladette’?

  You know, she says, wobbling her head from side to side.

  No.

  Well how would you describe someone who’s a bit of a lad?

  Someone who burps and farts and talks about sport and cunt.

  I shouldn’t have asked.

  No, but really, you’ve got other friends, there’s Caroline, Edith, Josefine, Helena.

  Yeah, I know, but I hardly see them.

  Friends come and go, maybe in a few years you’ll find your way back to them, or if not you’ll get other friends. You could try to stay in touch as well, couldn’t you, maybe that’s not your strongest suit. Are you feeling bad, darling?

  I’m just tired, she says.

  In the evening light I can see tiny particles floating through the air.

  Shit, it’s so dusty, I say, waving my hand in front of me. You said earlier you feel isolated.

  I was just thinking out loud.

  Which makes it even more important, but what did you actually mean by it?

  I think it’s got something to do with the pregnancy, I’m just worn out, she answers and puts away her wool and knitting needles. Can I say something without you getting angry?

  That sounds worrying.

  No, no, it’s just that we’ve never gone abroad together, we go to Gotland in the summers, sure, it’s nice, but it’s just to my mum and dad’s, and then sometimes we go to your parents’ summer house.

  Okay.

  I know travelling makes you anxious, I do, and I know you want to be with your father because he’s ill and everything, but all the same, I don’t know, I don’t just want to get stuck here.

  If we book a trip for next summer, would that make you feel better, a honeymoon?

  Darling, sorry, I’m just so fed up with being tired all the time, she says, sipping some steaming hot tea from her spoon. Karin’s upper lip, the full, fine line of it and the faint clinking sound when her teeth skim against the curved steel, and the careful slurping and the heavy swallowing, makes me remember why I wanted to touch her that first time.

  What if Scrunchie ends up being really hard work, a nasty kid, God, one that’s so horrible the other kids are afraid of her? she says.

  I laugh and answer: Shall we watch this now before we have to take it back? I hold up the cover of Pina.

  Do you feel like watching it? she asks.

  Pina Bausch seems cool.

  It feels like I picked it, she says.

  What do you mean, feels like? —you did pick it, I’ve never liked Wenders much.

  Have you seen everything he’s done?

  Do I have to have seen everything to have an opinion?

  It would be more modest.

  What I’ve seen of his has been so damn stylized, same thing with Tarantino’s stuff, it’s fucking infantile, I hate that shit.

  Tom? says Karin with a look in her eye that makes me drop the DVD case.

  I pick it up, wave it in the air, and say:

  But I don’t mind watching this one. I hide behind the DVD cover, pretend to read the blurb, and say: I think this one’s good, I’m curious about it, a lot of dance, dance is good.

  Okay, she says.

  Did you get grumpy there for a bit?

  No, but you get so pissed off. Anyway, you’re the one who said to me I have to listen to everything by this or that artist so I can have an opinion, why should it be any different for you?

  True.

  Do you want to watch something else? she asks.

  No, I want to watch this with you, but do I get a red card if I have a glass of wine?

  Does it make any difference if I say yes or no?

  * * *

  —

  The thermometer outside my parents’ kitchen window indicates that it’s ten degrees below zero. The park, Tantolunden, lies hidden under snow, and people on Jägaregatan shuffle backwards into the wind. Harriet leans towards Karin, who’s sitting at the table, folding napkins.

  I didn’t quite catch what you said earlier, Karin, did you say that the baby doesn’t kick very much? she asks.

  Yeah, I don’t think it does, mainly it just moves about.

  Boy or girl, if I may be so bold? says Ammi.

  We don’t know yet, they couldn’t tell.

  She’s in the sixth month, says Mum, pouring some more wine into my glass.

  Round about now it develops a sense of smell, says Karin, it can recognise what you’re eating, apparently.

  Gosh, says Mum.

  I heard that babies recognise their mother’s smell immediately, as soon as they’re born, says Harriet.

  It’s kind of strange, isn’t it? I have two hearts inside me, says Karin.

  Yes, I guess you do, answers Ammi.

  Harriet stands next to me. She holds the cutting board for me and asks: Tom, you’re very busy, what is this, is it a seafood cocktail?

  Yeah, sort of, prawns, lobster, mint instead of dill, a bit of mayonnaise, crème fraîche, sea salt, a dash of white wine, an obscene amount of vendace roe, silver onions just because they sound more upmarket than red onions, and then I dole out the whole caboodle on warm buckwheat pancakes.

  Ammi laughs. I hear my father’s voice from the sofa:

  How are things, Karin?

  Oh, fine thanks, Thomas, actually it just occurred to me I only said hello to you but I forgot to ask how things are with you?

  Not too bad, he says, then adds: The other day I woke up and I was in such a state that I was hallucinating, I thought I was on a spaceship, I thought I’d been abducted by aliens. Tom’s poor mum was an absolute poppet about it, she told me she wasn’t an alien although she did feel like one. I kiss Karin’s neck while they’re all laughing.

  Is there wine in the starter? she asks.

  Don’t fret, I boiled it, I tell her, then sit down next to Börje on the sofa and find myself in the middle of a conversation. Börje stretches his two-metre-long body and gets out a business card from his wallet, hands it over to my father, and says:

  Now that he doesn’t have to smuggle little plastic bottles of booze into restaurants any more, he finally feels important.

  Dad peers at the card and says: He’s a role model for anyone in the loony bin.

  Who are you talking about? I ask.

  Can’t you just sit tight for one minute and wait when we’re talking? says Dad.

  I stand up and answer: Sure I can. Then I lean my head against Karin’s shoulder and mix a drink. Börje waves at me.

  Yes, I say to him as I go back to standing by the sofa.

  He looks at me and says: Tom, you have a father who’s Superman—operations and medication, and here he sits, fitter than ever. He nods towards Dad and says: Cheers, Malmen.

  You’re classic, Börje, how long have you been saying that? asks Dad.

  A long time, says Börje.

  Must be fifty years, says Hans.

  Hans, if anyone here is Superman it’s you, Dad replies.

  H
e works with his body unlike the rest of us, we’re just a bunch of weaklings, he’s wrestling rams to the ground and tossing bales of hay while the likes of us are solving crosswords with the help of a magnifying glass, says Börje. Hans, aren’t you getting tired? You’re almost seventy.

  Early dinner, early to bed, he answers.

  Every day? asks my dad.

  Hans pulls his fingers through his big grey moustache. Livestock don’t take holidays, he replies.

  Dad leans his head back and says: As usual, Junior has picked a decent set of tunes.

  And as usual there’s a maddening lack of Elvis and George Jones, adds Börje.

  I sit on the sofa and drink my grog. Dad presses his hand against his forehead and concentrates on the music.

  This song is good, but damn it, I don’t know, he says. Börje seems to be filled with divided loyalties when he says:

  It’s old gospel, you know, a lot of people have recorded it over the years, well, I suppose it’s had its day.

  ‘Lonesome Valley’, I say.

  I recognise the voices, says Hans.

  Fred Neil and Vince Martin. I recorded it for Karin when we met, I was sure I’d be allowed to snog to that, but I wasn’t, I say.

  Possibly not an appropriate song lyric for a date, says Hans.

  Sharpen up, Tom, says Börje, raising his index finger like an old schoolmaster.

  Well, things worked out anyway, adds Hans.

  What the hell were you thinking? asks Dad, shaking his head at me.

  If a song makes you too happy all you want to do is dance by yourself, I answer.

  You dance by yourself when you’re happy? he asks.

  Malmen, we’re all outmoded, says Hans.

  The last time I danced with you, old man, was at your sixtieth birthday party because Mum wasn’t strong enough to pick you up, I say, and Börje quickly interjects:

  Tom, it’s great that you like older music, but it’s on CD, it’s unacceptable, it’s got to be vinyl, you know. He stands in front of my father’s record collection: several metres of country from the sixties and seventies in a sooty black upright bookcase made of solid wood. There’s something inimitable in the way Börje, with his big hands, lifts out an EP by George Jones, blows off the dust, and puts it on the turntable.

  It doesn’t get a whole lot better than this, he says and straightens his back.