is startled and makes a grab for the boy’s jersey, and the boy in turn is so surprised that he tosses the ball into her arms. She gets mud on her jacket. Half a second later the men in the pizzeria burst into fits of braying until the neon sign above the door rattles.
“What’s going on?” Britt-Marie wants to know, with panic in her eyes, as she throws the ball on the ground.
“We scored a goal!” howls the Pirate boy ecstatically.
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” asks Britt-Marie.
“Our team!”
“I thought you didn’t have a team!”
“But I mean: our team, the one we’re supporting! On the TV!” the boy tries to explain.
“But how is it your team if you don’t play in it?”
The boy thinks this over for a moment. Then he seems to take a firm grip on the ball.
“We’ve supported this team for longer than most of the players in it. So it’s more our team than theirs.”
“Preposterous,” snorts Britt-Marie.
In the next second the sound of a front door being slammed cuts through the January night. Britt-Marie spins around in pure dismay and starts running towards it. The boy runs after. The door is locked from the inside.
“Like, they’ve locked it so we can’t come in! Because we were out here when we scored!” puffs Pirate, jubilant and out of breath.
“What on earth are you trying to say?” Britt-Marie demands and tugs frantically at the door handle.
“I mean it’s important that we stay out here, because while we were out here we scored! We’re bringing good luck out here!” hollers the boy as if that’s reasonable. Britt-Marie stares at him as if itcertainly isn’t. But then they stand in the parking area, despite the rain that’s falling again, and Britt-Marie doesn’t say anything else.
Because it’s the first time in an absolute age that anyone has told Britt-Marie it’s important for her to be somewhere.
Soccer is a curious game in that way. Because it doesn’t ask to be loved.
11
T he children open the door at half-time to let Britt-Marie and Pirate back in. Britt-Marie spends the second half in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Firstly because she doesn’t want to come out and risk having to talk to any of the children, and secondly because their team scores again so they forbid her from coming out until the match is over. So Britt-Marie stays in there and dries her hair and brings them luck and has a life crisis. It’s possible to do all of these things at the same time. Her mirror image belongs to someone else, someone whose face has been touched by many winters. The winters have always been the worst, both for the balcony plants and for Britt-Marie. It’s the silence that Britt-Marie struggles most of all to live with, because while immersed in silence you don’t know if anyone knows you are there, and winter is also the quiet season because the cold insulates people. Makes the world soundless.
It was the silence that paralyzed Britt-Marie when Ingrid died.
Her father started coming home later and later from his work, and at a certain point he started to come home so late that Britt-Marie would already be asleep by the time he walked in. Then she woke up one morning and he was only just coming home. And in the end she woke up one morning and he hadn’t come home at all. Her mother said less and less about it. Stayed in bed for longerand longer in the mornings. Britt-Marie meandered around the flat as children do when they have to live in silent worlds. Once she knocked over a vase just so her mother would yell at her from the bedroom. Her mother didn’t yell. Britt-Marie swept up the glass herself. And never knocked over a vase again. The next day her mother stayed in bed until Britt-Marie had made dinner. The day after that she got up even later. And in the end she didn’t get up at all. Of course several of her mother’s girlfriends sent beautiful flowers and condolences, but they were too busy with their lives to pay their respects to
“What’s going on?” Britt-Marie wants to know, with panic in her eyes, as she throws the ball on the ground.
“We scored a goal!” howls the Pirate boy ecstatically.
“What do you mean, ‘we’?” asks Britt-Marie.
“Our team!”
“I thought you didn’t have a team!”
“But I mean: our team, the one we’re supporting! On the TV!” the boy tries to explain.
“But how is it your team if you don’t play in it?”
The boy thinks this over for a moment. Then he seems to take a firm grip on the ball.
“We’ve supported this team for longer than most of the players in it. So it’s more our team than theirs.”
“Preposterous,” snorts Britt-Marie.
In the next second the sound of a front door being slammed cuts through the January night. Britt-Marie spins around in pure dismay and starts running towards it. The boy runs after. The door is locked from the inside.
“Like, they’ve locked it so we can’t come in! Because we were out here when we scored!” puffs Pirate, jubilant and out of breath.
“What on earth are you trying to say?” Britt-Marie demands and tugs frantically at the door handle.
“I mean it’s important that we stay out here, because while we were out here we scored! We’re bringing good luck out here!” hollers the boy as if that’s reasonable. Britt-Marie stares at him as if itcertainly isn’t. But then they stand in the parking area, despite the rain that’s falling again, and Britt-Marie doesn’t say anything else.
Because it’s the first time in an absolute age that anyone has told Britt-Marie it’s important for her to be somewhere.
Soccer is a curious game in that way. Because it doesn’t ask to be loved.
11
T he children open the door at half-time to let Britt-Marie and Pirate back in. Britt-Marie spends the second half in front of the mirror in the bathroom. Firstly because she doesn’t want to come out and risk having to talk to any of the children, and secondly because their team scores again so they forbid her from coming out until the match is over. So Britt-Marie stays in there and dries her hair and brings them luck and has a life crisis. It’s possible to do all of these things at the same time. Her mirror image belongs to someone else, someone whose face has been touched by many winters. The winters have always been the worst, both for the balcony plants and for Britt-Marie. It’s the silence that Britt-Marie struggles most of all to live with, because while immersed in silence you don’t know if anyone knows you are there, and winter is also the quiet season because the cold insulates people. Makes the world soundless.
It was the silence that paralyzed Britt-Marie when Ingrid died.
Her father started coming home later and later from his work, and at a certain point he started to come home so late that Britt-Marie would already be asleep by the time he walked in. Then she woke up one morning and he was only just coming home. And in the end she woke up one morning and he hadn’t come home at all. Her mother said less and less about it. Stayed in bed for longerand longer in the mornings. Britt-Marie meandered around the flat as children do when they have to live in silent worlds. Once she knocked over a vase just so her mother would yell at her from the bedroom. Her mother didn’t yell. Britt-Marie swept up the glass herself. And never knocked over a vase again. The next day her mother stayed in bed until Britt-Marie had made dinner. The day after that she got up even later. And in the end she didn’t get up at all. Of course several of her mother’s girlfriends sent beautiful flowers and condolences, but they were too busy with their lives to pay their respects to
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