Cinderella Girl (2 page)

‘Maybe she is. But I’m glad I have someone. I’m leaving now.’

‘Oh no, mister, oh no, you’re not. You’re staying here and taking care of your mother.’

A malicious smile split his father’s face into two grotesque halves and Joakim started to feel sick.

‘But she’ll be fine; she’s going to sleep soon.’

‘You’re staying home,’ his father said dryly without looking at him, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.

He didn’t bother blowing out the smoke; it stayed inside him. Joakim felt the tears forming a lump in his throat. He wanted to see Jennifer so much; he
needed
to see her. What if she could see how pitiful he was, always doing what his dad told him to do. To her he acted tough and worldly wise, so far as he could, and he was tall and had a beard and smoked and used snuff. True, he wasn’t supposed to, but his father didn’t notice because he was a smoker himself. Deep down Joakim had a feeling that he was deceiving her. He was twenty-four years old and she was sixteen. He hid behind a beard and sunglasses, and she thought he was a big, strong man, even though any man at all could see he was a wuss.

‘But please, Dad, I have to go out,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve spent the whole day with Mum. It’s Friday night, and –’

‘You do as I say. Go in to your mother now, so I don’t have to look at you.’

Joakim felt his worry turning to desperation, but he wouldn’t give up so easily – not this time.

‘I’m not going to,’ he croaked in a voice that broke from the held-back tears. ‘I won’t do it, I’m going out! You can’t rule my life; I can do what I want! I’m an adult!’

‘I see, so now you’re suddenly so grown up,’ his father hissed between clenched teeth, and only now did a few streams of smoke make their way out of his nostrils. ‘I haven’t seen any signs of that.’

His father was right; he was a failure. After a few meaningless years he had left high school with miserable grades.
They had determined that he had difficulties reading and writing, but he wasn’t mechanically oriented either. The few jobs available were not meant for someone like him, and further studies were out of the question.

But his father had found a way. When his mother got too ill to work, he hired Joakim as her personal assistant. For that he got food, lodging and a minimal amount of pocket money. He also delivered newspapers in the mornings and with the money he had scraped together he intended to get an apartment at some point. A life of his own.

‘I’m leaving now anyway; I don’t care what you say,’ Joakim snuffled, starting to back up in the direction of the door. ‘And tomorrow night I’m going to Åbo with Jennifer,’ he added, regretting it the moment he said it.

‘The hell you are!’ his father roared, leaping up from the armchair and coming towards him with huge strides, the cigarette still in his mouth.

Joakim ran through the hall and heaved himself against the outside door, but the security chain was on. While he was desperately trying to coax it out of its holder he felt his dad’s arm taking hold of his neck from behind. His Adam’s apple was pushed in with such force that he felt like he was choking. He tried to drive an elbow into his father’s stomach, but the grip only got harder. With no chance of fighting back, Joakim was forced to turn towards his father and he felt his neck crack with an unpleasant sound. While he gasped for air his father took the opportunity to ram a fist into his stomach and he fell down doubled-up on the hall rug. After another kick in the stomach, and one across the mouth and nose, things calmed down and he was left lying, half in a stupor, on the
floor in the darkened hallway. He sensed how his father lumbered back to the armchair in the living room and impassively started rustling the newspaper.

In his mind’s eye he saw Jennifer – her round form in tight jeans, her soft, glistening lips and happy, grey-blue eyes that at any moment, unexpectedly, might take on an introverted, almost shy expression. Tomorrow he would dance with her on the Finland ferry and he would treat her to colourful drinks in the bar. They would sleep together; he would get to touch the soft, downy-white skin that peeked out between her waistband and her top, and he would taste her warm, shimmering lips.

He must have fallen asleep because when he opened his eyes the lights were off in the living room. After carefully moving his arms and legs to make sure nothing was broken, he pulled himself up on to all fours and, supporting himself against the door, slowly got up. His belly ached, and he avoided touching his throbbing nose as he stumbled to the bathroom as quietly as he could. He closed the door behind him before he turned on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. One half of his face was covered with dried blood and his upper lip was split and swollen. As he gingerly felt his nose, it made an unpleasant crunching sound around the bridge. He wet some toilet paper under the cold tap and dabbed his nose and split lip. Then he carefully washed the uninjured parts of his face and brushed his teeth.

He put the toothbrush and toothpaste into a washbag and took it with him into the small corridor outside the bathroom, where he dug a gym bag out of a cupboard. He emptied the workout clothes into one of the wire baskets in
the cupboard and replaced them with a few pairs of clean underwear, a shirt, a pair of jeans and the washbag. Then he snuck back out to the hall and tied his trainers in the dark.

Then he did something he had never dared to do before: he put his hand in the inside pocket of his father’s coat, hauled up his wallet and counted three thousand kronor. He took fifteen hundred, returned the wallet, tucked his own jacket under his arm and the bag over his shoulder, and slipped out to the stairwell. He took a look at his watch and saw that it was only half past ten.

* * *

Conny Sjöberg tidied up and Åsa packed. The family – five children aged between two and nine, Åsa, and himself – had spent Friday evening with his mother, who lived in an apartment in Bollmora, a half-hour drive south of the city. It was late by the time they had got home, and once all the children were in bed Åsa started gathering up clean clothes and toys for the next day. She and the kids were taking the train to Linköping to visit her parents for a few days. Simon and Sara had Monday off from school and Åsa was not teaching that day, so they would not return until Monday evening.

Sjöberg opened the dishwasher, pulled out the baskets and turned over the cups to tip out any water that had collected. Then he went over all the five rooms of the apartment with a meticulous gaze, making sure all the bits and pieces had been put in their proper places. Not until everything was in order could he relax and enjoy his home.

It was the same at work; he couldn’t concentrate on
a task if there were papers and binders spread out across the desk. Binders neatly set up on the bookshelf behind the desk, loose papers in tidy piles, and office supplies, such as the pen holder and hole punch, symmetrically lined up at a good distance from the work surface itself; this created a calm, harmonious work environment with no unnecessary disruption.

When he had finished he put the kettle on and made a few sandwiches with the meatloaf from yesterday’s dinner. He lit the candles on the kitchen table, poured hot water over the tea leaves and set the teapot on the table.

‘Complaining and criticizing as always,’ said Åsa as she sat down.

‘She’s just that way, I guess,’ sighed Sjöberg.

‘And yet she’s so considerate and nice to the kids. And to us too. Why does she have to be so hard on herself?’

‘I guess it’s insecurity. She’s shy, that’s all. Low self-esteem. Doesn’t really know how to behave, but has a sense that she does everything wrong. Class and education complex.’

‘There’s always something wrong with the food, the sweater she’s knitted has turned out ugly, and the coffee is too strong. She’s always criticizing herself – never us though, and that’s good – but the food
does
taste unappetizing after she’s pointed out everything that’s wrong with it while we’re eating. It’s really a shame she’s that way, that she can’t be happy about anything.’

Sjöberg served the tea and poured a heaped tablespoon of sugar into his own cup.

‘She’s happy when Sweden wins,’ he said with a wry smile.

‘Sure, but that’s not real joy – that’s just sport. Where does this interest in sport come from anyway? Older women aren’t usually interested in sport, and she’s very concerned about not being different.’

‘Well, Dad was interested in sport, I guess maybe that’s where it came from. And she doesn’t read. I suppose it’s good that she’s interested in something.’

‘Well, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Åsa, taking a bite of her sandwich. ‘It’s great that she’s interested in hockey and football and athletics and skiing and all that, it’s just a little odd, you have to agree. It doesn’t fit the image somehow … What was she like when your dad was alive?’

‘I don’t remember.’

Sjöberg washed down his sandwich with a few gulps of hot tea.

‘I only remember that she was very subdued while he was in the hospital. Not much was said about it, and I never got to visit him. I was so little, I must have been about three.’

‘That’s another thing that’s strange about your family: you
think
he had cancer. How come you don’t
know
that?’

‘But Åsa, you know how she is! She doesn’t remember anything, or at least she just doesn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Exactly! It would be interesting to know what you were like as a child, for example. Were you naughty, did you sleep well at night, did you have a dummy or did you suck your thumb, how old were you when you started to walk, and so on. You can’t find out any of those things. And you don’t remember all that much either,’ she added.

‘I grew up in a working-class home, you grew up in an
academic home,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Everything I know I’ve had to learn on my own. I bought my first book with my pocket money. You just opened your mouth and they poured knowledge and education into you.’

‘Oh, my little disadvantaged child,’ said Åsa with half-genuine, half-pretended tenderness, stroking him on the cheek. ‘In any case I love you most in the whole world.’

Sjöberg took his wife’s hand and kissed the back of it. A slight noise came from the little boys’ room and they both froze for a moment. Just when the danger seemed to be over, the scream came and Åsa ran off on tiptoe, so as not to disturb the other children.

Then the phone rang.

‘Who was on the phone?’ asked Åsa when she came back into the kitchen. ‘Do you have to work?’

‘No, it was my mother,’ sighed Sjöberg. ‘She fell down from a stool and seems to have broken a rib. I have to drive back over there and see how she’s doing. I may have to take her to casualty.’

‘If it’s not one thing it’s another. She’s not in any great danger though?’

‘No, she’s feeling okay otherwise. She got herself into bed, but apparently it hurts. I’m sorry I have to take off.’

‘A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. I’ll go to bed anyway,’ said Åsa. ‘Give me a kiss when you come back.’

‘It’s already ten-thirty; it’s going to be really late.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s hope we at least get a little time together first thing tomorrow.’

‘I’ll get up, whatever happens,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I can always take a nap during the day if I need to.’

He kissed her on the forehead, took his jacket and car keys, and disappeared into the dark stairwell.

* * *

The Pelican on a Friday was always crowded and noisy, but this evening the venerable beer hall on Blekingegatan was even more packed than usual, if that were possible. Hard to say whether it was the end of the month or the persistent rainfall outside the gigantic multi-coloured window that drove people into the warm room. Customers were crowded around the oak tables and at the bar, and by half past ten their combined voices had increased even more in intensity. The high ceiling and tiled floor made the sound bounce so that sometimes it was easier to hear what was being said in another corner than at your own table.

Petra Westman and Jamal Hamad sat shouting to each other over their empty beer glasses. They had been fortunate to secure a table a few hours earlier when an elderly couple had got tired of waiting to be served and left. Petra and Jamal were in no hurry; they patiently overlooked the stressed staff running past several times without noticing them at their table, partly obscured by a large pillar in the middle of the room.

But now a waiter showed up, a tall, good-looking guy in his mid-thirties with dark hair gathered in a ponytail. According to the badge on his chest his name was Firas, and he delivered the two large beers they had ordered a few minutes earlier from one of the waitresses.

‘
Shukran
,’ said Jamal.

‘
Ahlan
,’ answered the waiter, meeting his gaze with curious blue-green eyes. ‘
Men wen hadrtak?
’

‘
Lebnen. O anta?
’

‘
Suria
.’

‘
Anjar?
’ asked Jamal with a crooked smile.

The waiter hesitated for a moment, but then leaned over and hissed in his ear, ‘
Ana rabian honek
…’

Then he gave Jamal a thump on the back that Petra interpreted as friendly and hurried away towards the bar. Jamal laughed out loud as he watched the waiter, who turned around and winked before disappearing into the throng. Petra looked at her colleague with equal surprise and admiration.

‘Now my whole body is tingling,’ she laughed, raising her glass.

‘On account of me or Firas?’ Jamal smiled, responding to her toast.

‘Both. Or to be more exact, the language.’

‘A little
Fish Called Wanda
alert there?’

‘Exactly. You do remind me a little of John Cleese. What were you talking about?’

‘Our origins, you might say.’

‘And that’s what you were laughing about?’

‘Apparently. Now let’s change the subject,’ Jamal said, making another toast.

‘Feminine?’ said Petra a little later, shaking her head. ‘In what way? Do I trip around on high heels or what?’

‘Sure, don’t you?’ Jamal winked at her and continued. ‘What’s wrong with being feminine? Would you have been happier if he’d said you had a masculine posture? You know,
a bow-legged footballer’s walk? No, I think he was referring to your challenging way of swinging your chassis, Petra. Booooty,’ he added, exaggerating his lips to prolong the ‘oo’ sound, as if to emphasize how silly he thought the word was.