Britt-Marie Was Here Page 6

  “No, she most certainly did not,” Britt-Marie affirms. “She came in here wearing dirty shoes and I’d just mopped the floor. Taking snuff as well, she was. Said she was putting out poison, that’s how she put it, and you can’t just do that. Do you really think one can just do that? Put out poison just like that?”

  “No . . . ?” guesses the girl.

  “No, you actually can’t. Someone could die! And that’s what I said. And then she stood there rolling her eyes with her dirty shoes and her snuff, and she said she’d put out a trap instead, and bait it with Snickers! Chocolate! On my newly mopped floor!” Britt-Marie says all this in the voice of someone screaming inside.

  “Okay,” says the girl, and immediately wishes she hadn’t, because she realizes it is not okay at all.

  “So I said it will have to be poison, then, and do you know what she told me? Listen to this! She said if the rat eats the poison you can’t know for certain where it will go to die. It could die in a cavity in the wall and lie there stinking! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Do you know that you called in a woman who takes snuff and thinks it’s absolutely in order to let dead animals die in the walls and stink the place out?”

  “I was only trying to help,” says the girl.

  “Ha. A fine lot of help that was. Some of us actually have other things to do than hanging about dealing with pest control women all day long,” says Britt-Marie well-meaningly.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” says the girl.

  There’s a queue in the corner shop. Or the pizzeria. Or the post office. Or the car workshop. Or whatever it is. Either way, there’s a queue. In the middle of the afternoon. As if people here don’t have anything better to do at this time.

  The men with beards and caps are drinking coffee and reading the newspapers at one of the tables. Karl is standing at the front of the queue. He’s picking up a parcel. How very nice for him, thinks Britt-Marie, having all this leisure time on his hands. A cuboid woman in her thirties stands in front of Britt-Marie, wearing her sunglasses. Indoors. Very modern, muses Britt-Marie.

  She has a white dog with her. Britt-Marie can’t think it’s very hygienic. The woman buys a pack of butter and six beers with foreign lettering on the cans, which Somebody produces from behind the counter. Also four packs of bacon and more chocolate cookies than Britt-Marie believes any civilized person could possibly need. Somebody asks if she’d like to have it on credit. The woman nods grumpily and throws it all in a bag. Britt-Marie would obviously never consider the woman to be “fat,” because Britt-Marie is absolutely not the kind of person who pigeonholes people like that, but it does strike her how wonderful it must be for the woman to go through life so untroubled by her cholesterol levels.

  “Are you blind, or what?” the woman roars as she turns around and charges directly into Britt-Marie.

  Britt-Marie opens her eyes wide in surprise. Adjusts her hair.

  “I most certainly am not. I have quite perfect vision. I’ve spoken to my optometrist about it. ‘You have quite perfect vision,’ he said!”

  “In that case could you possibly get out of the way?” grunts the woman and waves a stick at her.

  Britt-Marie looks at the stick. Looks at the dog and the sunglasses.

  She mumbles, “Ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” and nods apologetically before she realizes that nodding won’t make any difference. The blind woman and the dog walk through her more than they walk past her. The door tinkles cheerfully behind them. It doesn’t have the sense to do anything else.

  Somebody rolls past Britt-Marie and waves encouragingly at her.

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s like Karl. Lemon up her arse, you know.”

  She makes a gesture with her arm, which Britt-Marie feels is supposed to indicate how far up the latter the former is stuck, and then piles up a stack of empty pizza boxes on the counter.

  Britt-Marie adjusts her hair and adjusts her skirt and instinctively adjusts the topmost pizza box, which isn’t quite straight, and then tries to adjust her dignity as well and say in a tone that is absolutely considerate:

  “I should like to know how the repair of my car is progressing.”

  Somebody scratches her hair.

  “Sure, sure, sure, that car, yeah. You know, I have something to ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie?”

  “Door? Why . . . what in the world do you mean?”

  “You know, only asking. Color: important for Britt-Marie, I understand. Yellow door: not okay. So I ask you, Britt-Marie: is a door important to Britt-Marie? If not important then Britt-Marie’s car is, what’s-it-called? Finish repaired! If a door is important . . . you know. Maybe, what’s-it-called? Longer delivery time!”

  She looks pleased. Britt-Marie does not look pleased.

  “For goodness sake, I must have a door on the car!” she fumes.

  Somebody waves the palms of her hands defensively.

  “Sure, sure, sure, no get angry. Just ask. Door: a little longer!” She measures out a few inches in the air between her thumb and index finger to illustrate how short a period of time “a little longer” really is.

  Britt-Marie realizes that the woman has the upper hand in these negotiations.

  Kent should have been here; he loves negotiating. He always says you have to compliment the person you’re negotiating with. So Britt-Marie collects herself and says:

  “Here in Borg people seem to have all the time in the world to go shopping in the afternoon. It must be nice for you to have so much leisure.”

  Somebody raises her eyebrows.

  “And you? You’re very busy?”

  With a deep patience, Britt-Marie puts one hand in the other.

  “I am extremely busy. Very, very busy indeed. But as it happens I am out of baking soda. Do you sell baking soda in this . . . shop?”

  She says the word “shop” with divine indulgence.

  “Vega!” Somebody roars at once so that Britt-Marie jumps into the air and almost knocks over the pile of pizza boxes.

  The child from yesterday turns up behind the counter, still holding the soccer ball. Beside her stands a boy who looks almost exactly the same as her, but with longer hair.

  “Baking soda for the lady!” says Somebody with an exaggerated theatrical bow at Britt-Marie, which is not at all appreciated.

  “It’s her,” whispers Vega to the boy.

  The boy immediately looks as if Britt-Marie is a lost key. He runs into the stockroom and stumbles back out with two bottles in his arms. Faxin. All the air goes out of Britt-Marie.

  She assumes that she has what is sometimes in crossword clues known as an “out-of-body experience.” For a few moments she forgets all about the grocery shop and the pizzeria and the men with beards and cups of coffee and newspapers. Her heart beats as if it’s just been released from prison.

  The boy places the bottles on the counter like a cat that’s caught a squirrel. Britt-Marie’s fingers brush over them before her sense of dignity orders them to leave off. It’s like coming home.

  “I . . . I was under the impression that they’d been discontinued,” she whispers.

  The boy points eagerly at himself: “Chill! Omar fixes everything!”

  He points even more eagerly at the bottles of Faxin.

  “All the foreign trucks stop at the petrol station in town! I know them all there! I fix whatever you like!”

  Somebody nods wisely.

  “They shut down petrol station in Borg. Not, you know, profitable.”

  “But I fix petrol in can, if you like, free home delivery! And I can get you more Faxin if you want!” the boy hollers.

  Vega rolls her eyes.

  “I’m the one who told you she needed Faxin,” she hisses at the boy and puts the jar of baking soda on the counter.

  “I’m the one who fixed it!” the boy maintains, without taking his eyes off Britt-Marie.

  “This is my younger brother, Omar,” sighs Vega to Britt-Marie.

  �
�We’re born the same year!” protests Omar.

  “In January and December, yeah,” snorts Vega. If anything, Britt-Marie notices, the brother looks slightly older than her. Still a child, but approaching that age when they can become quite pungent.

  “I’m the best fixer in Borg. The king of the castle, you know. Whatever you need, come to me!” says Omar to Britt-Marie, winking confidently without paying any attention to his sister, who’s kicking him on the shin.

  “Twit,” says Vega with a sigh.

  “Cow!” answers Omar.

  Britt-Marie doesn’t know if she should be concerned or proud that she actually knows that this means something bad, but she doesn’t have much time to reflect on this before Omar is lying on the floor, holding his lip. Vega goes out of the door with the soccer ball in one hand and the other still formed into a fist.

  Somebody titters at Omar.

  “You have, what’s-it-called? Marshmallows for brains! Never learn, do you?”

  Omar wipes his lip and then looks as if he’s letting go of the whole business. Like a small child forgetting to cry over a dropped ice cream when he catches sight of a glittering power ball.

  “If you want new hubcaps for your car I can fix it. Or anything. Shampoo or handbags or anything. I’ll fix it!”

  “Maybe some Band-Aids?” hollers Somebody mischievously and points at his lip.

  Britt-Marie keeps a firm grip on her handbag and adjusts her hair, as if the boy has offended the both of them.

  “I certainly don’t need either shampoo or a handbag.”

  Omar points at the bottles of Faxin.

  “Those are thirty kronor each but you can have them on credit.”

  “On credit?”

  “Everyone shops on credit in Borg.”

  “I certainly don’t shop on credit! I can see maybe you don’t understand such a thing in Borg, but there are some of us that can pay our way!” hisses Britt-Marie.

  That last bit just slips out of her. It wasn’t quite how she meant to put it.

  Somebody is not grinning anymore. Both the boy and Britt-Marie have red faces, caused by different kinds of shame. Britt-Marie briskly lays down the money on the counter and the boy picks it up and runs out of the door. Soon the thumping can be heard again. Britt-Marie stays where she is and tries to avoid Somebody’s eyes.

  “I didn’t get a receipt,” Britt-Marie states in a low voice, which is not at all incriminating.

  Somebody shakes her head and smacks her tongue.

  “What does he look like, IKEA or something? He doesn’t have, what’s-it-called? Limited company, you know. Just a kid with a bicycle.”

  “Ha,” says Britt-Marie.

  “What else do you want?” asks Somebody, her tone noticeably less hospitable as she puts the jar of baking soda and the bottles of Faxin in a bag.

  Britt-Marie smiles as helpfully as she can.

  “You have to understand that one has to get a receipt. Otherwise one actually can’t prove that one isn’t a criminal,” she explains.

  Somebody rolls her eyes, which Britt-Marie feels is unnecessary.

  Somebody presses a few keys on her register. The money tray opens, revealing not very much money at all inside, and then the register spits out a pale yellow receipt.

  “That’ll be six hundred and seventy-three kronor and fifty öre,” says Somebody.

  Britt-Marie stares back as if she’s got something stuck in her throat.

  “For baking soda?”

  Somebody points out of the door.

  “For dent in car. I have done one of those, what’s-it-called? Bodywork inspection! I don’t want to, what’s-it-called? Insult you, Britt-Marie! So you can’t have credit. Six hundred and seventy-three kronor and fifty öre.”

  Britt-Marie almost drops her handbag. That’s how grave the situation is.

  “I have . . . who . . . for goodness’ sake. No civilized person walks around with that much cash in her handbag.”

  She says that in an extra-loud voice. So that everyone in there can hear, in case one of them is a criminal. On the other hand, only the bearded coffee-drinking men are there, and neither of them even look up, but still. Criminal types do sometimes have beards. Britt-Marie actually has no prejudices about that.

  “Do you take cards?” she says, registering a certain amount of rising heat along her cheekbones.

  Somebody shakes her head hard.

  “Poker players do cards, huh, Britt-Marie. Here we do cash.”

  “Ha. In that case I’ll have to ask for directions to the nearest cash machine,” says Britt-Marie.

  “In town,” says Somebody coldly, crossing her arms.

  “Ha,” says Britt-Marie.

  “They closed down the cash machine in Borg. Not profitable,” says Somebody with raised eyebrows, nodding at the receipt.

  Britt-Marie’s gaze flickers desperately across the walls, in an attempt to deflect attention from her bloodred cheeks. There’s a yellow jersey hanging on the wall, identical to the one in the recreation center, with the word “Bank” written above the number “10” on its back.

  Somebody notices her looking at it, so she closes the register, knots the bag of baking soda and Faxin, and pushes it across the counter.

  “You know, no shame here with credit, huh, Britt-Marie. Maybe shame where you come from, but no shame in Borg.”

  Britt-Marie takes the bag without knowing what to do with her eyes.

  Somebody takes a slug of vodka and nods at the yellow jersey on the wall.

  “Best player in Borg. Called ‘Bank,’ you know, because when Bank play for Borg it was like, what’s-it-called? Like money in the bank! Long time ago. Before financial crisis. Then, you know: Bank got ill, huh. Like another sort of crisis. Bank moved away. Gone now, huh.”

  She nods out of the door. A ball thumps against the fence.

  “Bank’s old man trained all the brats, huh. Kept them going. Kept all of Borg going, huh? Everyone’s friend! But God, you know, God got a shit head for numbers, huh. The sod gives both profitable and unprofitable person heart attack. Bank’s dad died a month ago.”

  The wooden walls creak and groan around them, as old houses do, and old people. One of the men with papers and cups of coffee fetches more coffee from the counter. Britt-Marie notes that you get a free top-up here.

  “They found him on the, what’s-it-called? Kitchen floor!”

  “Pardon me?”

  Somebody points at the yellow jersey. Shrugs.

  “Bank’s old man. On the kitchen floor. One morning. Just dead.”

  She snaps her fingers. Britt-Marie jumps. She thinks of Kent’s heart attack. He had always been very profitable. She takes an even firmer grip on her bag of Faxin and baking soda. Stands in silence for so long that Somebody starts to look concerned.

  “Hey, you need something else? I have that, what’s-it-called? Baileys! Chocolate spirit! You know, it’s a copy, but you can put O’boy and vodka in it, and then, it’s okay to drink, if you drink it, you know . . . fast!”

  Britt-Marie shakes her head briskly. She walks towards the door, but something about that kitchen floor may possibly cause her some hesitation. So she cautiously turns around, before she changes her mind, and then turns around again.

  Britt-Marie is not a very spontaneous person, one certainly needs to be clear about that. “Spontaneous” is a synonym for “irrational”—that’s Britt-Marie’s firm view, and if there’s one thing Britt-Marie isn’t, it’s irrational. This is not so very easy for her, in other words. But at last she turns around, then changes her mind and turns around another time, so that by the end she’s facing the door when she lowers her voice and asks, with all the spontaneity that she can muster:

  “Do you possibly stock Snickers chocolate bars?”

  Darkness falls early in Borg in January. Britt-Marie goes back to the recreation center and sits by herself on one of the kitchen stools, with the front door open. The chill doesn’t concern her. Not the waiting ei
ther. She is used to it. You do get used to it. She has plenty of time to think about whether what she is going through now is a sort of life crisis. She has read about them. People have life crises all the time.

  The rat comes in through the open door at twenty past six. It settles on the threshold and focuses a very watchful gaze on the Snickers bar, which is on a plate on top of a little towel. Britt-Marie gives the rat a stern look and cups one hand firmly in the other.

  “From now on we have dinner at six o’clock. Like civilized people.”

  After thinking this over for a certain amount of time, she adds:

  “Or rats.”

  The rat looks at the Snickers. Britt-Marie has removed the wrapper and placed the chocolate in the middle of the plate, with a neatly folded napkin next to it. She looks at the rat. Clears her throat.

  “Ha. I’m not especially good at starting these types of conversations. I’m socially incompetent, you see, that’s what my husband says. He’s very socially gifted, everyone says that. An entrepreneur, you see.”

  When the rat doesn’t answer, she adds:

  “Very successful. Very, very successful.”

  She briefly considers telling the rat about her life crisis. She imagines she’d like to explain that it’s difficult to know who you are once you are alone, when you have always been there for the sake of someone else. But she doesn’t want to trouble the rat with it. So she adjusts a crease in her skirt and says, very formally:

  “I would like to propose a working arrangement. For your part, it would mean that a dinner would be arranged for you every evening at six o’clock.”

  She makes an explanatory gesture at the chocolate.

  “The arrangement, if we find it mutually beneficial, would mean that, if you die, I won’t let you lie and smell bad in the wall. And you will do the same for me. In case people don’t know we are here.”

  The rat takes a tentative step towards the chocolate. Stretches its neck and sniffs it. Britt-Marie brushes invisible crumbs from her knee.

  “It’s the sodium bicarbonate that disappears when one dies, you have to understand. That’s why people smell. I read that after Ingrid had died.”

  The rat’s whiskers vibrate with skepticism. Britt-Marie clears her throat apologetically.