The Ice Cream Man (17 page)

“Shall we go and help him?”

“But be nice.”

“What, aren’t we being nice already?”

We are allowed to touch Jan up to a certain point. When the university’s underground movement gets together for some dancing at our place, we all dance with Jan on Kerstin’s orders, because she wants to sit and watch how he moves. She wants to know everything, including what she cannot see.

“What’d he say to you?”

“He never says anything.”

“He tried, at least. I saw it.”

“He couldn’t get anything out. Maybe
sorry.
”

“Why?”

“I dunno. If he stepped on my toes, I didn’t feel it.”

Kerstin frowns and demands that they play some slow numbers next. So we slow dance, then go over to ask what Jan looked like.

“A bit like he did there at the beach,” Kerstin says gruffly.

Sometimes, at night, we feel a compulsion to get up and check whether Jan is breathing. We’ve pulled the bookshelf away from the living-room wall and made a little nest for him behind it. He has his own reading lamp, though he never reads anything. When we look at him in the middle of the night, sometimes his skin seems so pale in the gleam of the street lamps that we have to get really close to his mouth or feel whether his chest is moving up and down, and though we know what boys look like, we still check every once in a while that Jan looks the same.

There is one thing we do without Kerstin’s knowing, when she’s not home. And just in case Kerstin should happen to come in unexpectedly, we pretend to be playing cards. We sit in a circle on the mattresses, deal five cards to each person, and place the pack in the middle of the circle. Jan sits with his back against the wall. We let him sit between us, then more of us position ourselves in front of him so he cannot get away. The first time, he got really worried before he figured out what we were doing: we just wanted to hear his voice, nothing more, because he’s always so quiet. We’d taken out a book in Czech from the Slavic library for him to read aloud so we could hear what he sounds like when he doesn’t need to stumble through English or Swedish. We asked the librarian for some Czech humor so we could hear him laugh, but he didn’t even smile. It might have been easier if we’d been after something else. When Jan speaks Czech, his voice gets softer, deeper, and darker, and his tongue moves with a foreign virtuosity. And when he does that, he is flying high in a circus tent and plunging down on a trapeze and reaching out and whisking each of us through the warm, foreign-scented air. After a spin like that, even Jan’s Swedish sounds different: his accent takes on a yearning and rage, the sense that he would soar if he hadn’t ended up being a performing seal in this household. If Kerstin happens to appear in the middle of all this, just as Jan is sending us soaring, she scowls as if we’re playing strip poker with him. And that’s exactly what it feels like.

We are sitting at the kitchen table eating meatballs and macaroni. There are animal noises coming from Kerstin’s room; she’s been to the pet shop again. Kerstin has deliberately kept her door ajar so nothing is left to the imagination. The macaroni won’t stay on our forks because the ketchup makes it slippery, and Kerstin is so wild and slippery that the creep she’s with keeps sliding out, and Kerstin has to put him back inside her. Which creep is it this time? Could be anybody at all, as long as his name is Jan. She’s gone out and picked up somebody with the same name so she can squeal within everyone’s earshot, especially Jan’s,
“Jan, Jan, Jan!”

It’s impossible to escape that racket. Jan certainly tries, as he always does. He is already in the hall, pulling on his coat, but the hangers on the coat rack rattle too much. Just then, Kerstin flings open her bedroom door with a murderous look in her eyes. “Where d’you think you’re going? It’s your turn to do the shopping! Don’t even try to slip out this time!”

The shelves at the market are stocked with food and other items. Jan isn’t used to it and follows Kerstin and the shopping cart without touching anything. Kerstin piles the cart high with tinned goods, milk, oats, and enough macaroni to last a month.

At the bread counter, Kerstin barks at Jan, “Get us some bread.”

Jan looks off to the side.

“
Bröd,”
Kerstin brandishes a loaf. “This is bread.”

“Brod,”
Jan repeats.

“No!
Bröd.
”

“
Bröd.
”

“If you have that damned much trouble saying the word for bread, you’re gonna starve to death.”

“Zmrzlina.”

“Huh?”

“Zmrzlina.”

Jan points to the freezers opposite the bread counter. Kerstin’s expression freezes over.

“Shut up. That’s ice cream.
Ice cream
.”

Jan takes a cardboard pack of ice cream out of the freezer case and ventures,
“Ice ream,”
but Kerstin gives the cart a shove and maneuvers it between the shelves without a backward glance. Jan puts the ice cream back in the freezer but does not follow her. Ten minutes later, when she is in line to pay, Jan is nowhere to be seen. Kerstin is chucking groceries onto the conveyor belt when he appears from nowhere and shows her a tin.

“What’s that you’ve found?”

Kerstin takes the tin from Jan. “You want this? OK, we’ll get it. You can try some as soon as we get back to the apartment.”

Throughout the shopping trip, Kerstin was trying to come up with a way to be even more awful to Jan, so awful that she could be really lovely afterward. And the fact that Jan would be unable to resist Kerstin’s loveliness after all the outrageous awfulness would itself be the pinnacle of awfulness.

We arrive too late. They are sitting at the table. Jan takes a forkful of something from his plate, but Kerstin is eating nothing, just following the brown gloop going into Jan’s mouth with a glint in her eye.

“Well, is it good?” Kerstin asks Jan in a purring, irresistible voice as if she were serving him ambrosia by candlelight. We immediately sense that something is wrong. Not because Kerstin couldn’t be in love with Jan, but because it would be too much for her to admit.

Jan sees only Kerstin’s expression, smells and tastes only Kerstin, nods and tries to swallow, but the brown delicacy sticks in his throat like grease poured down the kitchen sink.

“Would you like some more?” she asks, and we are reminded of the old hag who gives Snow White the poisoned apple. “No!” we cry out, snatching the plate and tin from in front of him and slinging them in the trash.

“My God, Kerstin, how could you feed him that?”

Kerstin’s nostrils quiver, and at moments like these we all hate her, but our hatred is like acrid air that puts up no resistance.

“Shut up, so Jan doesn’t catch on.”

“Well, he’s catching on now.”

“What? That you’ve been feeding him cat food?”

Kerstin says, “Hmph. He picked it out himself. He’s not that stupid. There’s even a picture of a cat on the tin. What if he thought people eat cat meat in Sweden? The poor guy’s trying so hard to fit in.”

“And you gave it to him, thinking that!”

“Kerstin, you don’t deserve Jan!”

“And you all do? Go to hell! If you were here on your own, he’d be nothing but a pile of bones!”

Jan sits motionless so as not to violate anyone’s airspace, but he, too, has his limits. Finally he gets up and goes into the hall, and though we hear the rattle of coat hangers, none of us makes a move to stop him. The engine of the blue eggshell car starts spluttering in the street below, and we all hold our breath until its chugging has faded away. Kerstin is still holding her breath, not because Jan has left but because she could survive in any conditions—without oxygen, even underwater.

“Where’s he going?”

“Just think, what if he drives straight into the sea?”

“He nearly went into the sea once already.”

“You won’t be able to make up for this one, Kerstin.”

“What’s he ever done to you? He won’t forgive you for this.”

“Oh, he will,” she replies calmly, though there is so much adrenaline coursing through her blood that her voice quivers.

“How on earth could you do something like that? He’s never going to come back.”

Kerstin relents and explodes right on the spot. “We’ll go out and get a damned cat!”

That cat is Kerstin and Jan’s first child. At night, Kerstin and Jan make such a commotion in bed that the cat takes their activity for a game designed especially for it. It leaps and frolics among the bare limbs, bare behinds, and hair, sinks its claws into the flesh bobbing in the dark. It races through the soot-black lanes of Prague with Kerstin, and Jan has trouble keeping up with all the bustle. Jan tries as hard as he can to withstand Kerstin’s loveliness. Finally, they throw the cat out into the hall, where it is left to meow and scratch the wallpaper to shreds. Fifteen months later, Gunilla is born.

VI

NE
CROPHILIA

“But the dead man was someone else, because I am here.”

—Jaroslav Seifert

“Hello, Kerstin Skoglund-Vorszda here.”

It is the first time I have heard her voice in a long time, and I cannot bring myself to say anything. There is a murmur of conversation in the background, and she has to press the receiver closer to her ear. “Hel-lo! This is Kerstin Skoglund-Vorszda.”

“Haven’t you dropped that Vorszda yet?”

“Jan?”

“Have you heard anything from Gunilla?”

“Jan, is that really you?”

“Have you heard anything? She left a couple of weeks ago.”

“Why are you calling? Wait a minute. I’m going to the other phone. Don’t hang up.”

When I hear her voice again after a while, I imagine her to be kind of out of breath, having hurried along the corridor at her office. “Jan, I thought of you yesterday.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. There was a program on television about the first free election in forty years in Czechoslovakia. Did you see it? Did you watch it? I’m sure you didn’t see . . .”

“Kerstin, don’t be ridiculous. Do you know where Gunilla is?”

“She’s off InterRailing.”

“I know, but where?”

“Somewhere in Europe! They go crisscrossing all over Europe on the trains.”

“She called me yesterday.”

“Well, didn’t she tell you where she was phoning from?”

“Italy. Rimini.”

“Well, then, what are you worried about? Or has something happened?”

“She sounded a bit . . . confused.”

“How so? Drugs?”

“No, more that she wasn’t in Italy at all.”

“Why would Gunilla lie about something like that? So where is she?”

“Czechoslovakia.”

There is a short pause, but it’s long enough.

“Look, Jan, I’m in the middle of a meeting.”

“So why did you answer the phone?”

“I thought it was something important.”

“Yes, well, this is only about your daughter.”

“No, it’s about you. Look, Gunilla will be fine, despite all the things you’ve failed to do.”

“I’m not the one who forced her to play with rifles and electric trains.”

“Of course you didn’t, that wouldn’t be appropriate for little princesses.”

“Well, she has lace curtains and a rococo mirror for her own place.”

“Are you saying you’ve actually visited your daughter’s apartment?”

“White lace curtains, ruffles and everything.”

“Then maybe it’s time she did some field research in the land of male chauvinist pigs.”

“How do you know she doesn’t like the same things as her mother?”

“You still have no clue how much I despise you.”

“You’re wasting your breath.”

“If I just hated you, I could still sleep with you once in a while.”

“Maybe you’d find a spark if we fought properly. Contempt is easy over the phone—it’s not a contact sport.”

“Stefan’s away.”

“Aren’t you in the middle of a meeting?”

“Fuck you.”

“Isn’t that what Stefan should be doing?”

I am sure she moves the phone a little farther away from her mouth so I can’t hear her breathing.

“Stefan will agree to anything.”

“But what kind of man is that? You’ve never been interested in that type, have you?”

She hangs up.

I wait for her in a café. Time passes. I drink two cups of coffee, my kidneys get going, and I have to visit the bathroom. When I return to the table, I am certain she probably came in and quickly turned around because she didn’t see me anywhere. I chose a place where I would be able to see her face before she sees me. Anyway, when she does arrive, she sees me immediately, before I can judge anything by her expression. She is fresh-faced, smelling of hypoallergenic soap, and has not put on any makeup. She is wearing a baggy olive-green linen sweater bought from some third-world charity shop, and her breasts move freely underneath. Her trousers are a couple of sizes too large and sag around her hips. She does not need to emphasize her figure to me; I’m familiar enough with it already.

Her hair is twisted into a bun that waggles this way and that like a bird’s nest. She is a big-boned bird with an impressive wingspan.

“I haven’t eaten anything all day,” she says, letting her bag drop to the floor as she sits down opposite me. The table between us is small and round. She rests her elbows on it, leans her face closer.

“You can get something to eat here.”

“I don’t intend to stay long. But you can buy me a coffee.”

As I stand in front of the counter filled with baked goods, I see her massaging her neck. She does not even glance in my direction, but she knows I am watching. I haven’t seen her in an entire year. I take a cup of coffee and a coconut-covered chocolate ball over to the table.

“Look, Jan, just tell me now what you couldn’t tell me over the phone.”

She puts the chocolate ball in her mouth, giving me a look that says it’s no use for me to suggest any man might need any reason to meet Kerstin other than Kerstin herself. Though Gunilla’s phone call has been tormenting me and it should be tormenting her as well, I try to come up with an even better reason.

“I need to show you something.”

“Well, what is it? Your stubble? You’ve stopped shaving?”

“I shave every damned morning.”

She brings her hand up lazily, touches my face. “Liar . . .”

I pull away. “Why should she lie so blatantly?”

“Who?”

“Gunilla!”

“How do you know she’s lying?”

I tell her about the photos I received in the post. She looks at me like a yawning, satiated lioness completely inured to surprises.

“
So what
?” she says in English.

“Gunilla sent them.”

“Where from?”

“Czechoslovakia.”

“Just the photos in an envelope?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know they’re from Gunilla?”

“Do you want to see them?”

“Is there something strange about them?”

I don’t reply right away, and Kerstin loses her patience. “Is there?”

“There’s no need to worry about Gunilla. She’s a big girl now.”

“Show me!”

I dig around in my briefcase for the photos. Of course I cannot find them. She immediately senses I made the photos up. She gives a weary sigh, then a look of cunning flashes in her eye. Let’s play a little—you’re asking for it.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I was sure I took them along with me this morning.”

“I’m sure! Look, Jan, I haven’t got all day. If Gunilla sent you some photos from her train journey and there’s something sick in them, then let’s hear it!”

“There’s nothing in them. They’re fairly dull.”

“So what are you making such a fuss about?”

“She’s walked down some streets and photographed every street corner, butcher’s sign, and dilapidated park bench.”

“Is Gunilla in any of them?”

“No.”

“Are there people in them?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe she’s made some new friends.”

“No, they are all strangers.”

She glances briefly at me, and I don’t know why I said that either.

“How do you know they’re strangers? What makes you think Gunilla doesn’t know some people you’ve never seen before?”

“I’ve taken the same sort of photos myself.”

“Oh, what sort?”

“People just happened to be there right when I took the photo.”

She sighs, and her gaze begins to roam around the café. She is discouraging me, and I no longer know how to continue, but then something comes to me.

“There were a couple of photos of a room.”

“What did it look like?”

“Walls, floor, ceiling. Furniture.”

“Any other items?”

“Something leaning against the bed. Possibly a backpack.”

“Was it Gunilla’s?”

“I don’t know. Do you know what kind of backpack she has?”

“To hell with the backpack! So what if Gunilla is in Czechoslovakia?”

“Gunilla is in Olomouc.”

For the first time in this conversation, she does not question me. She knows I do not utter the name of my hometown without a good reason.

“I still don’t understand, Jan. I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about this.”

“You should see those photos.”

“Didn’t you just say they’re dull?”

Suddenly I have no difficulty at all imagining what sort of photos Gunilla might have taken in Olomouc. They would look as dull and poor as if she had just pointed her camera around at random, shooting into the air. Perhaps I remember only too well how the Russians used to shoot into the air. They would aim carefully over our heads as a warning. Gunilla would shoot her photos just as carefully, so no photo contained any landmarks unique to Olomouc. There would be a river, trees in the park, side streets, a butcher’s sign that just reads “Meat.” Only someone who had grown up and lived in that city would be able to see it was Olomouc.

Suddenly, Kerstin starts laughing. “How do you know they’re not from your mother? Maybe she’s still alive. She wouldn’t be more than sixty or so . . . don’t give me that look, Jan! Why did you drag me here? What was going through your head when you phoned me? Were you at work? What were you thinking?”

“About our daughter!”

“Since when have you started thinking about Gunilla? And why would she call you? You should have been concerned a little sooner, before she moved into her own place and started paying her own bills.”

“Do you think she can afford a place like that on a
supermarket
cashier’s wages?”

“What are you insinuating?”

“I pay half her rent so she doesn’t need to live under your roof any longer.”

“You go right ahead and pay! She did live under my roof, anyway. And do you know why?”

“Well, she had to live somewhere.”

“Why didn’t she live with you?”

“You wouldn’t let her.”

“Maybe you didn’t beg enough. Fortunately, you don’t have any other children. They’d all be dragging their backpacks along the streets of Olomouc!”

“You’re bored again, Kerstin. Where’s that marketing director of yours?”

“Stefan’s away.”

“Again? At least you won’t get too bored with his face if he’s always away.”

“It would do you good to go away somewhere, too. Have you ever been anywhere besides Gothenburg and Majorca since the girls brought you in from that ferry?”

“Why should I travel anywhere? Have I been troubling you somehow? Or hasn’t Stefan been troubling you enough?”

“Why do you always have to take a stab at Stefan? And why does he always have to take a stab at you?”

That last sentence slips out. She avoids my gaze and snaps, “Why don’t you two just get a room if there’s no other way to stop it!”

Kerstin phones me a couple of days later as if nothing happened.

“Stefan’s ex-wife invited all of us to a party.”

“Who’s ‘us’?”

“All the current and former ones.”

“What on earth . . . ?”

“Her therapist recommended it.”

“Which one of them is the nutjob?”

“Pfft. I think it’s a good idea. We’re not twentysomethings anymore; we’re mature adults.”

“Well, then you go.”

“Only if you go, too.”

“Not a chance.”

“Don’t be silly, there’s no ulterior motive. And besides, everyone wants to meet you.”

“I don’t want to meet anybody. Especially not Stefan. And if Stefan were honest with you, he’d say he doesn’t want to meet me either.”

“Oh, don’t. I’m doing this for Stefan’s sake.”

“So what do you need me there for?”

“Stefan claims you’ve been obstructing things between us.”

“What about Per and Håkan? Are they invited as well?”

“Don’t be silly. You’re the father of my child, and you’re a special case. But why do they always get it into their heads that there’s something special about you? If Stefan caught sight of you just once, he’d understand he has nothing to worry about.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What about you? Is that what you think, too?”

This strikes her as amusing. “Don’t ask me, I’m not a man . . .”

The event is held in a cramped, overpriced top-floor apartment in a posh old building. There are colored lanterns twinkling on the balcony, though the nights won’t start to get dark for another month. Stefan’s ex-wife puts a stiff welcome drink in my hand before I’m even in the door, giving me a hug like a long-lost friend.

“Hello, I’m Eva. How lovely you were able to come, Jan!”

I look at her elfin curls and her apple cheeks, which I’m sure develop brown bruises from the slightest knock, and I wonder how long it will take before she starts crying this evening.

There are prawns all over the place in the tiny, impractical kitchen, ones with their shells in plastic bags by the sink and ones without in two huge glass bowls. Tonight’s menu seems to consist of prawn salad and some kind of punch that smells of insect repellent, with purple and orange edible flowers floating in it. Kerstin presses against me, spreading her arms wide so the stench of the seafood doesn’t get into my white shirt, and hugs me without using her hands. It appears as if the women are constantly hugging one another and the men as well, but the men are hugging only women. Ten minutes later, I am feeling pleasantly mellow.