Montecore (23 page)

ABBAS’ DEPARTURE FROM HIS FRIENDS

Here you’re once again
a little unsure about what Kadir means. His departure from the Aristocats? Or some other departure? You remember, anyway, that the Aristocats’ visits to the studio become more and more rare,
and that the only time Dads speak Arabic is on the telephone with people in Tunisia. Sometimes it’s with Amine and then Dads speak so loudly that the windows rattle, and sometimes it’s with Cherifa and then Dads promise to come down soon with the whole family. But most often it’s Kadir. Kadir, who’s started to call more and more often at stranger and stranger times. Sometimes early in the morning, three times in a row, and sometimes in the middle of the night and sometimes on the customer line, again and again until Dads, sighing, unplug the phone. With Kadir, Dads’ voices are quieted to a hissing. They talk about money and finances and
chamsa mie
and
attini flous
and then Dads who suddenly slam the phone down and say to you, sighing: You must be very careful who you choose as a friend. You can’t trust anyone. Remember that. And you nod and promise. Then Dads: By the way, why do you only play with that Melinda? You should call that boy, what is his name, who you met last summer? Patrik!

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?
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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.
²⁰
It’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?

You go up to the CD section and you get to pick three discs, anything you want, and you take Eric B. & Rakim’s
Paid in Full
and Public Enemy’s
It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back
and Eazy-E’s solo album and when you’re standing there in line Dads inspect the discs and ask: Why are you just listening to black music? Huh? Why are you just listening to a bunch of yo yo nigga bitch? Do you want to be black?

And you answer: Isn’t Otis black?

Dads sigh. Otis is a totally different matter. Otis is love and soul and the pain of the heart. Not a bunch of bitch this and nigga that.
²¹

On the way down the escalator you try to find your way back to the good mood. What do you want for a Christmas present, Dad?

Me? I don’t want a Christmas present. I am content with my sons’ love. And maybe a … Prada tie.

But you’re Muslim, you joke, and Dads continue the joke just like you used to do. I will say what Zola said: You cannot say that you have seen anything until you
have photographed it … and in that moment, when you’re laughing there on the escalator, everything feels a little like before again and you remember that you think that Dads’ temper is like a mogul course.

You hop off the escalator on the second floor and Dads lead the way into the clothing department. From a distance you can already see salesmen who scan you with eagle eyes. They notice your arrival. They watch your movements. They look from the bottom up at Dads’ rolled-up green corduroy pants and brown leather jacket and dirty Djurgården scarf. They swallow their perfumed throats, walk to the register, and lift the telephone. Soon you see the guard who’s rushing his steps to get there. Then he stops, meets the eyes of the salescunt, which reflect him on to you. And what do you do?

Dads do not let themselves be bothered. Dads slide his fingers along suit hangers, check the expensive interfacing and the hidden inseams. While the salesmen circle like sharks and the guard nervously fingers his walkie-talkie, Dads point with gleaming eyes at the monograms on the Eton shirts and the underseam on the Clark shoes.

Sometimes a salesman comes up and folds shirts right beside you and sometimes they block the way and say, Oops! as though they hadn’t seen you. Sometimes they take out a spray bottle and start polishing mirrors but of course the mirror is directed at just the right angle for them to be able to watch your every move.

But Dads don’t notice anything. Dads are entirely too busy. Dads just say: No thanks, when the next salesman glides up and loud-voices out his: May I possibly … 
help you with something? Dads cruise on, feeling the quality of Armani jeans, holding the Prada tie up to check the color, and demonstrating the Boss coat with wrist buttons that can really be unbuttoned, just like tailor-made ones from London. And Dads don’t let himself be provoked even when the guard is tired of waiting and stands right in front of you and sort of stares daggers. Dads just keep checking price tags with hmm sounds and running fabric qualities between their fingers.

Come on, let’s go, you whisper between your teeth and drag Dads toward escalators.

And it’s then, when you turn around and see the guard whore smile at the salescunt, that you feel the hate. That rage you’ve never felt before, the hate that links store racism to red beach Volvos to Dads’ mood swings, the hate that turns everything red and that beats exactly in time with NWA’s “Fuck tha Police.” One second later the rage has rushed you up the down escalators, back to the salescunt where he’s standing and play-flirting with the guard, and then you give a hellish roar and throw fists at store bosses and crash salesmen faces with the tie display and rub luxury shirts in guards’ faces, you shout: Fuck tha police coming straight from the underground a young
blatte
got it bad cause I’m brown, you feed them combinations and box them into unconsciousness, you are a hurricane, you are their worst nightmare, you are the maximal reach of skinny arms, you are quick feet that smash coatracks to shards, you are the overturner of dressing rooms who knocks down walls like dominoes and half-naked rich Swedes in brand-name underwear howl and the storeroom explodes and the fire alarm goes off and the sprinkler
water destroys silk ties forever. You don’t stop before Dads come hurrying, grab hold of your arm, and rush you down the escalator. It’s the end of the eighties; something is happening but you’re not really sure what.
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