The Family Clause Read online

  They walk along Hantverkargatan, ending up in a café they haven’t been to before. It’s an anonymous chain, the kind of place neither of them would have considered going into before they had children. They find a good table with space for the buggy and the father goes up to the counter. He orders a tofu salad for his girlfriend, a sandwich and a latte for himself, smoothies and biscuits for the kids. The girlfriend hears his order and turns to him, and he swaps the biscuits for protein balls. Can I take your name? says the man behind the counter. Pardon? says the father. Your name? says the man. He has the marker pen ready in his hand. The son thinks. He says one of his names. The man writes it on a cup and asks if he needs a receipt.

  * * *

  A grandfather and a tourist are sitting on a bench by the Tunnel of Sighs, talking about the differences between cities. She tells him that she lives in Vancouver, Canada (she says it just like that: the city first, then the country), she spent a few years working in finance and then retrained as a nurse and took a job in an old people’s home. She says the name of the home with the same self-evident tone you would use to mention the name of a country. But the grandfather has never heard of the home and immediately forgets its name. The tourist is now retired and works part-time in a studio where she sews hats for ‘customers who are even older than me’. But you aren’t old? says the grandfather. If only you knew, the tourist says with a laugh. What about you? she asks. What do you do? I’ve worked as a salesman all my life, the grandfather says. I’ve sold sesame seeds and perfumes, Danish bidets and watches I’ve imported, VHS machines and leather clothing. But now I’m also retired, the grandfather says. I live abroad. I’m just here to see my children. And here’s me thinking you were a tourist, says the tourist. Me? A tourist? The father laughs. What made you think that? Maybe it was the bag from tourist information? she says. Ah, that’s just to make people nicer, he says. Which people? she asks. All of them, says the father. Shop assistants in particular. And bus drivers. And the police. The tourist thinks for a moment. Everyone I’ve met so far has been very nice, she says. They’re nice to begin with, says the grandfather. Then they change.

  The tourist lights another cigarette without offering one to the grandfather. He takes it as a compliment. He is too handsome and looks too youthful to be a smoker. He studies her. Twenty years ago, she would have been invisible to him. Ten years ago, he might have noticed her, but he quickly would have decided that she wasn’t his type. Today, he decides that she’s pretty enough. It’s not her fault she was born with those eyes. I was on my way to City Hall, the tourist says, getting up. Me, too, says the father.

  They walk along the water’s edge. The father says that in parallel to his work as a salesman, he has also had countless ideas for projects of his own. He was, for example, the first to come up with the idea of being able to buy and name your own star in outer space. He had extremely advanced plans to produce the first brush with washing-up liquid in the handle. But someone else got in there first every time. Someone with more money and better contacts.

  They walk over the bridge towards City Hall. The tourist reads aloud from her guidebook. She says that City Hall took twelve years to build and that it required eight million bricks. Waste of time and bricks if you ask me, says the grandfather. They walk into the inner courtyard. The wind drops. They pass tourists with selfie sticks, a newlywed couple being ordered around by a photographer in a cap and beige waistcoat, a Dutch school group trying to get into a pyramid in front of their teacher. It’s so beautiful with all the water, says the tourist. People swim here in the summer, don’t they? Yes, says the grandfather. But it’s very cold. And remarkably clean, says the tourist. But not drinkable, says the grandfather. Despite what certain idiotic politicians might think. The tourist nods. She doesn’t ask any follow-up questions, but the grandfather tells her anyway, about the local politician who invited the Olympic Committee and a group of journalists to taste the water from Lake Mälaren in the hope that Stockholm would be awarded the Olympic Games. But on that particular day, the water was undrinkable and the entire Olympic Committee got diarrhoea and awarded the games to Athens instead. What bad luck, says the tourist. It serves them right, says the grandfather. They’re idiots. Who? asks the tourist. All of them, says the grandfather. But the politicians in particular. And the Olympic Committee.

  I think I’ll be on my way now, says the tourist. But it was nice to meet you. Where are you going? asks the grandfather. The old town, says the tourist. I’ll come with you, says the grandfather. I don’t have anything better to do. They walk back over the bridge. She reads her guidebook. He speeds up to avoid being left behind. There’s the old town, he says. I know, she says. That’s where I’m going. Me too, says the grandfather. His phone starts ringing. Excuse me, I need to take this, he says, answering. The tourist walks on ahead. It’s his son. The father explains that he is busy. He hangs up. The grandfather and the tourist reach Västerlånggatan. Hold on to your bag, says the grandfather. This area’s full of pickpockets. They watch the changing of the guard by the castle. You know it’s only the weakest soldiers who end up here, says the grandfather. They walk back towards Kungsträdgården. That statue is of a king all the Swedish Nazis love, says the grandfather.

  The tourist yawns and says that she’s tired. She wants to head back to her cabin on the ferry that will take her to Helsinki and then on to St Petersburg. The grandfather who is a gentleman naturally offers to accompany her. The tourist says she can find her own way. The grandfather still offers to come along. The tourist says thanks, but she would rather go alone. The grandfather says that these streets can be a bit dangerous as a result of all the drug-pushing Africans. You never know who might be hiding down one of these alleys. Enough, the tourist says, turning to leave.

  On the way home, the grandfather decides that it’s lucky he is a lone wolf. He is proud not to need anyone. People are idiots. His youngest daughter is an idiot for cancelling their lunch, his son is an idiot for wanting to throw his father out on the street, his ex-wife is an idiot for letting their marriage collapse, his first daughter is an idiot for dying, his siblings are idiots for only getting in touch when they need money, the Stockholm transport authority are idiots for having so few trains on the red line and that idiot with the brace is an idiot for talking so loudly on his phone as he eats segments of orange with his mouth open and the old woman with the handbag is an idiot for not seeming to realise how easy it would be to steal her purse when she leaves her handbag open like that and the train driver is an idiot for braking too hard. But the biggest idiots are still old, female tourists, the grandfather thinks as he walks through the cluster of trees on his way back to the flat. Ugly, chain-smoking, Chinese-Canadian tourist hags with homemade clothes, practical fanny packs and orthopaedic shoes, who come over and talk about boring things and then hint that you’re going to sleep together in their luxurious ferry cabin, lie down next to one another on a hard, neatly made bed with a thick blanket on top, hold one another, breathe onto one another’s backs, let the other’s breathing calm you, it’s a big boat, no one will notice that a cabin reserved for one has two inside. You can sleep on the sofa, says the tourist, though when they finally get to the cabin it’s obvious that she wants him to sleep in the bed. Is it okay if we put the TV on? he asks. I need background noise to be able to sleep. You’ll be able to sleep, the tourist says, leading him over to the bed. She’s right, he falls asleep without the TV and the next day they eat a luxurious buffet and the boat sets sail. No one misses him when he disappears. But that wasn’t what happened and it’s a shame, the grandfather thinks as he slumps onto the sofa. A shame for her. She had her chance, but she made a fool of herself. That night, he dreams that someone is inside his body, wandering through his veins, wrapping their hand around his heart and squeezing it like you would a small bird, slowly, slowly, harder and harder, until the bird’s neck breaks and the father wakes with a jolt, in a white t-shirt with an advertising slogan p
rinted on it, so damp it is now transparent.

  V. SUNDAY

  A son who is a father manages to have a lie-in until quarter to five. That’s when his Sunday begins. He waits until nine o’clock before he calls the father who is a grandfather. No answer. He tries again at a quarter past. Twenty past. Twenty-five past. Eventually, the father answers. How’re things? the son asks. I’m tired, says the father. Really tired. My feet hurt. My eyes are blurry. What are you doing? the son asks. Watching football. The English league. Want to meet? the son asks. They agree on the café across from the pizzeria. Shall I pick you up or meet you there? I’ll meet you there, says the father. Bring my bank papers.

  The son leaves home and heads towards the office. He is listening to a playlist that makes the walk take twenty minutes instead of twenty-five. The music makes him press the buttons on traffic lights that little bit harder, his steps kick up dust, his mouth becomes a thin line, his back is straight, his eyebrows knitted together. Seventeen years. This has been going on for seventeen years. That’s longer than he took care of us. Though what does that really mean? In what way did he take care of us? He came and went. He was there one moment and then disappeared without a trace. One weekend, they went to the cinema together. Three months later, he showed up unannounced in the park. Six months later he appeared with two parcels that turned out to contain underwear for their mother. After that, a year and a half could pass without a single sign of life. Then he would make contact and ask why the son hadn’t called. Then he would disappear for another six months. For four years, they didn’t speak at all. Then he needed a tenant for his flat in the city, and they came up with the father clause. The father moved abroad and only got in touch when he needed help with financial transactions.

  The first time had been while the son was visiting a friend in Berlin. The father phoned. He needed to send money to someone in Bulgaria. It’s an emergency, he said. Send it by Western Union, today at the latest. The son wrote down the name and address of the recipient and started looking up Berlin branches of Western Union that were open on Sundays. He told his friend what was going on, because this was proof that he did in fact have a link to his father, that they had a relationship after all, that he hadn’t been entirely forgotten. He borrowed his friend’s computer, transferred the money to the right card, withdrew it at an ATM, crossed Berlin, took a tram to the underground station, took an underground train to the railway station. By the time he got there, the office was only open for another twenty minutes. He got in line. The overly made-up woman behind the counter explained that unfortunately he couldn’t send money without ID, and his Swedish driving licence wasn’t valid. She needed to see a passport. He tried talking her round. He told her it was an emergency. He said that he could come back with his passport tomorrow but that the money had to be sent today. Eventually, she closed her counter and he had to call his father and tell him he’d failed. He steeled himself for a telling-off. The father would shout that he was a worthless son who couldn’t do anything right. Instead, the father said it was okay if the money arrived the next day. Wasn’t it an emergency? the son asked. Tomorrow is fine, too, said the father. The next day, the son found a branch of Western Union open near his friend’s house; he transferred the money and received a long code that he sent to his father. The son never got a reply to his message. He sent another, he wrote the code and asked the father to confirm he had received it. Still no reply. Around lunchtime, the son rang the father, who answered with the angry voice he always used when someone calls him, as though he is convinced that the person on the other end of the line is a salesperson trying to dupe him out of his money. It’s me, said the son. Yes? said the father. Did you get the code? Yeah, said the father. The money arrived. Okay, said the son. Good, said the father. They hung up.

  The son makes his way up the hill. He remembers other transactions. A cousin in the UK needs money asap. Send €500 to a Seat factory in Portugal to pay for an important spare part. Send €700 to an electronics manufacturer in Slovakia. Send €400 to a clothing factory in Vietnam. The father always contacted him. Never his sister. Because he was the eldest son. He was the one living in the father’s apartment. For a time, he went to the branch of Forex by central station so often that the staff started to recognise him, they were friendly and asked him how his weekends had been. The son once thought about how strange it was that the people at Forex asked him things his father never did.

  Only one of his friends reacted, the one who lived in Berlin and had a similar relationship with his father. I mean, all love to you and your dad, he said. But I have to ask: what exactly does your dad do? Import export, said the son. Import export of what, though? Different things, said the son. But is the money yours? No, said the son. Of course not. It’s Dad’s money. He’s got an account here, so I send the money and then transfer money from his account to mine. Shouldn’t you check who you’re sending money to? the friend asked. In these paranoid times, I’d be incredibly careful about sending money if I wasn’t 100 per cent sure who it was going to. But I’m sure you’ve thought about that?

  The son had never left a coat in an unmanned cloakroom. He used two locks on his bike. He always sat with his back to the wall whenever he wanted to reply to his emails in cafés. He constantly felt like the world was out to get him, and it wasn’t until much later that the woman who would become the mother of his children told him one cause of paranoia is having been abandoned by your parents, and feeling like you are being watched in the absence of their care. Rather persecuted than ignored. And yet he had never considered that there might be anything risky about sending money halfway across the world. In fact, he was proud that his father had been in touch. The son would be at dinners or in bars, and the minute someone mentioned anything about money or relatives, weekend plans or the weather, he would somehow manage to link it back to having recently sent money to a business contact of his father’s in Istanbul. It made him feel like a good son, as if they had a relatively normal relationship. And the transactions were always urgent. Even if the son had three tax returns to finish before the weekend, it was always vital that he went down to Forex, filled in the black-and-yellow Western Union form and sent off the code as quickly as he could. It’s not like I can say no to my dad, the son said to his friend. Why not? the friend asked. What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll break off all contact with me, said the son. He’s done it before.