英语小说网

The unemployment office opens at 9:00. Britt-Marie waits until 9:02 before going in, because she doesn't want to seem pigheaded.

"You were supposed to contact me today," she announces, not at all pigheadedly, when the girl opens her office door.

"Oh, right. I suppose it's important?" says Britt-Marie, adjusting a crease in her skirt that only she can see.

"You know, I told you yesterday I'd be in touch if something turned up. I never said it would be told --"

"What?" the girl exclaims, her face entirely liberated from any kind of positive emotion. She is surrounded by similarly dressed people clutching plastic mugs. "Erm, look, we're just about to begin a meeting…"

"Well, yes…"

"And I'm not important, of course."

"But I've put it on the list," says Britt-Marie, producing her notebook and pointing at it determinedly. "I wouldn't have put it on the list if you hadn't said it, you must understand that. And you made me write it in ink!"

The girl contorts herself as if her clothes have suddenly changed size.

"Maybe you'd have more time to find people jobs if you didn't spend your days in meetings?" observes Britt-Marie as the girl shuts the door.

During the big soccer championships, the crossword supplements are replaced by special soccer sections, and after that it's hardly possible to get a sensible word out of Kent. If Britt-Marie asks what he wants for dinner, he just mumbles that it doesn't matter, without even taking his eyes off the page.

The girl takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm very sorry if there's been a misunderstanding, but I have to go back to my meeting."

Britt-Marie is left on her own in the corridor. She notes there are two stickers on the girl's door, just under the handle. At a height where a child would put them. Both have soccer balls on them. This reminds her of Kent, because Kent loves soccer. He loves soccer in a way that nothing else in his life can live up to. He loves soccer even more than he loves telling everyone how much something costs after he's bought it.

Britt-Marie has never forgiven soccer for that. For taking Kent away from her, and for depriving her of her crossword supplement.

She rubs the white mark on her ring finger. She remembers the last time the morning newspaper replaced the crossword supplement with a soccer section, because she read the newspaper four times in the hope of finding a small, hidden crossword somewhere. She never found one, but she did find an article about a woman, the same age as Britt-Marie, who had died. Britt-Marie can't get it out of her head. The article described how the woman had lain dead for several weeks before she was found, after the neighbors made a complaint about a bad smell from her flat. Britt-Marie can't stop thinking about that article, can't stop thinking about how vexatious it would be if the neighbors started complaining about bad smells. It said in the article that the cause of death had been "natural." A neighbor said that "the woman's dinner was still on the table when the landlord walked into the flat."

Britt-Marie had asked Kent what he thought the woman had eaten. She thought it must be awful to die in the middle of your dinner, as if the food was terrible. Kent mumbled that it hardly made any difference, and turned up the volume on the TV.

After half an hour the door to the girl's office opens. People emerge; the girl says good-bye and smiles enthusiastically, until she notices Britt-Marie.

"Oh, you're still here. So, as I said, Britt-Marie, I'm really sorry but I don't have time for…"

Britt-Marie stands up and brushes some invisible crumbs from her skirt.

The girl brightens. "Yes. You too?"

"You like soccer, I see," Britt-Marie offers, nodding at the stickers on the door. "That must be nice for you."

Britt-Marie fetched his shirt from the bedroom floor and put it in the washing machine, as usual. Then she washed it and reorganized his electric shaver in the bathroom. Kent often maintained that she has "hidden" his shaver, when he stood there in the mornings yelling "Briiitt-Mariiie" because he couldn't find it, but she's not hiding it at all. She was reorganizing. There's a difference. Sometimes she reorganized because it was necessary, and sometimes she did it because she loved hearing him call out her name in the mornings.

"Certainly not."

"What, the hairstyle?"

"Different from yesterday. It's modern, I suppose."

Then she adds at once: "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. In fact it looks very practical."

"What?"

"Your hairstyle is different today."

"Right…" The girl peers at her watch and then at another clock on the wall. She's quite clearly bent on trying to get Britt-Marie out of there, so Britt-Marie smiles patiently and decides to say something sociable.

"Never having to make up your mind."

In actual fact it mainly looks short and spiky, like when someone has spilled orange juice on a shagpile rug. Kent always used to spill his drink when he was having vodka and orange juice during his soccer matches, until one day Britt-Marie had enough and moved the rug to the guest room. That was thirteen years ago, but she still often thinks about it. Britt-Marie's rugs and Britt-Marie's memories have a lot in common in that sense: they are both very difficult to wash.

The girl clears her throat. "Look, I'd love to talk further, but as I keep trying to tell you I just don't have time at the moment."

"I don't want to cause a scene here. Not at all. But my dear girl, civilized people have their dinner at six, so any later than five is surely a bit on the late side for a meeting, wouldn't you agree? Or are you saying we should have our meeting while we're eating?"

"What?" says the girl.

"What? No, we close at five --"

"Ha. Well, in that case you have to make sure you're not late. So the potatoes don't get cold."

The girl calls out something behind Britt-Marie but Britt-Marie has already gone, because she actually doesn't have time to stand here going on about this all day.

"I'm fully booked today --"

"Let's say five o'clock then."

"We certainly can't have a meeting later than five," Britt-Marie protests.

Britt-Marie smiles with enormous, enormous patience.

"We close at five today," says the girl.

"When do you have time?" Britt-Marie asks, getting out her notebook and methodically going through a list. "Three o'clock?"

"I could also manage four or even five o'clock," Britt-Marie offers, conferring with herself.

Then she writes "6:00. Dinner" on her list.

"No… I mean… What?"