It seemed they could just barely deal with everyday burdens. His father was tired constantly. Previously he had worked as a sheet-metal worker, but he had been retired for many years, his back ruined.
His mother had been a high school teacher.
Hans Peter remembered a time when Margareta had complained to their parents that they isolated themselves too much. She was about thirteen then, had started to rebel a bit. His father had grabbed her by her shoulders and pushed her against the wall.
“We live our own lives our way, and if Little Missy doesn’t like that, she can move out. We don’t like folks sticking their noses into our business.”
That was one of the few times he showed anger.
He began to avoid them. He found an apartment in Hässelby Strand, which was close to the subway, close to nature, and he liked to walk and move around. He kept up his studies, even though it didn’t lead to anything. When he began to worry about his student loans piling up, he started a series of part time jobs such as delivering mail by bicycle and doing surveys for SIFO. They didn’t bring him a lot of money, but he also didn’t have a lot of needs.
At Åkermyntan’s library, located in Villastaden’s shopping center, he met Liv Santesson, a recently graduated librarian. Eventually, they got married. It wasn’t a question of passion on either side. They just liked each other and that was enough.
It was a simple wedding, a civil ceremony at City Hall and then lunch at Ulla Winbladh Restaurant with their nearest relatives.
Her brother ran a hotel in the city. Hans Peter took a job there as the night clerk. This was an unfortunate choice for a newlywed who was not able to take care of his wife in a suitable manner.
They didn’t have any children, and eventually they stopped having sex as well.
“We just have a different kind of relationship,” he told himself, convincing himself that she agreed.
She didn’t. One Saturday evening, four years after their marriage, she told him that she wanted a divorce.
“I’ve met someone else,” she said, nervously pulling at her earlobe, shying away a bit, as if waiting for a blow.
He was completely calm.
“Bernt and I fit together in a different way than you and I did. Just to be honest, you and I have never really had all that much in common, other than literature. And you can’t live from literature alone.”
A feeling of sorrow entered him, light and fluttering, came and went.
She embraced him, her little frozen hand on his neck. He swallowed, and swallowed again.
“You’re fine,” she whispered. “There’s nothing wrong with you, nothing like that… but we never see each other and Bernt and I, we…”
Hans Peter nodded.
“Forgive me. Say that you forgive me.”
She was crying now, the tears traced their way down her cheeks, hung on her chin, fell and were soaked up by her sweater; her nose was red and shiny.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, as if his mouth were full of oatmeal.
She sniffed.
“So you’re not angry with me?”
“More like disappointed, that it didn’t work out.”
“Maybe we needed a little more… fire.”
“Yes, perhaps we did.”
The next day she moved out of the apartment. She only took essentials with her, and moved in with Bernt. Later that week she returned with a moving truck which she had rented from a garage. That surprised him. She never did like driving.
He helped her carry out her things. He kept most of the furniture and the kitchen utensils. Bernt already had a completely furnished apartment in a building on Blomsterkungsvägen.
“Can I offer you a cup of coffee or something,” he asked when they were done.
He didn’t want to ask; he really wanted her to go as soon as possible so he could be alone. He didn’t understand why he asked, the words just fell from his mouth.
She hesitated a moment, then agreed.
They sat together on the sofa, but when she wanted to lay her arm on his shoulder, he steeled himself against her.
She swallowed.
“So you’re really pissed off at me, aren’t you?”
That was the first time he heard her use bad language. That surprised him so much that he burst out laughing.
Many years later, he ran into them at Åkermyntan. They were weighed down by grocery bags, and they had children, though he forgot their names right away.
Her new husband was tall and strong, with well-trained abs. He was wearing a jogging suit.
Stupid jock, he thought, but without any real aggression.
Liv had cut her hair. It was curly now.
“Come over for a drink sometime,” she said, and her husband nodded.
“Sure, do that. We live in Baklura, you just take bus 119.”
“OK,” he said without much enthusiasm.
Liv touched his sleeve.
“I wish that we wouldn’t lose each other totally,” she said.
“No,” he answered. “We won’t.”
Sometimes his mother reproached him, although indirectly. She wanted grandchildren, which she never said directly, but she would do things like pointing at a picture of a child in the newspaper or make some kind of sorrowful comment. Or she would turn the television on right when the children’s programming was starting.
This drove him crazy, but he never let on.
He would go out with various women. Sometimes he brought them home and introduced them to his parents, mostly to give his mother a bit of hope.
He knew his parents were disappointed in him. No real job, no family.
You really couldn’t blame them.
Everything would have been different if that accident with Margareta hadn’t happened. He would not have lost his own bearings.
On Christmas Day it began to rain, and it kept raining all week. His mother did her best to pamper him. She prepared breakfast trays, and when he lay in bed waking up, he heard her careful knock on the door.
“My big boy,” she murmured, as she placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table.
Then he’d want to hug her and cry, but that gave him a bad taste in his mouth, so he lay still under the blanket, not moving.
He stayed until the day before New Year’s Eve. Then he couldn’t take it any longer: their breathing, their chewing, the sound of the TV at the highest possible volume. They were both over seventy. One of them would be dead soon and he didn’t know which one of them would have the hardest time being alone.
They had known each other since they were in their twenties.
He longed for his own cool apartment, where he could uncork a bottle of wine, solve the crossword puzzle, and listen to his own choice of music, Kraus and Frank Sinatra.
He told his mother that he was invited to a New Year’s Eve party.
He barely made it in the door when the phone rang. One of his women friends.
Dammit, he thought. I can’t take more of this.
“How’s it going?” she said girlishly.
“Fine. I just got home.”
“Were you with Kjell and Birgit?”
She had only met them once and already acted as if they were close.
“Yeah.”
“I thought so. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hans Peter? Can I come over tomorrow evening? Can we celebrate New Year’s Eve together?”
He thought about telling her that he had to work at the hotel, but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
She came over, and she had taken an effort with her clothes and make-up. He hadn’t remembered that she was so cute. He understood that she had made an effort, just for him, and it made him feel guilty.
They had met at a mutual friend’s place, and had gone out for a while since then. Sporadically. Nothing steady. But she had been one of the women he had taken to meet his folks in Stuvsta.
“You don’t think that I am being too eager, do you?” she asked directly. “A woman is not supposed to take the initiative. Or so they say.”