with a glass of water.
‘Can’t we open a window in here? It’s so hot!’ Humlin asked.
‘We’ve had too many burglaries. I was forced to nail the windows shut.’
‘I’m suffocating!’
‘You’re just dressed too warmly. But this is going very well, I think. Keep it up.’
‘It’s going to hell. I’m going mad. And if I don’t get any air I’m going to faint. I can’t faint. What I should do is kill you.’
‘I don’t think you can since I’m much stronger than you are. But don’t worry. Things are going well.’
Törnblom returned to his place by the door. The girls were busy writing on their pads of paper. What do I do next? Humlin thought and felt a growing sense of desperation. He decided not to do anything at all. He would just gather their answers, read them and then ask them to write something for next time – though there would be no next time – about how they had experienced this evening. After that he would be able to leave this suffocating room and maybe even make the last train or flight back to Stockholm. He was never going to return. He looked around at all the peoplein the room. A woman who was breastfeeding her child nodded encouragingly to him. Humlin nodded back politely. Then he gathered up the pages that the girls had written. He did not plan on reading their answers out loud. In order not to have to deal with wild protests from the crowd he turned to Leyla and whispered, ‘I want you to tell these people that these answers have been written in confidence. I am not going to read them out loud.’
She looked horrified.
‘I can’t do that. And I don’t even know all the languages these people speak.’
‘Surely they understand a little Swedish?’
‘You can’t be too sure about that.’
‘Why can’t you tell them the notes are written in confidence?’
‘My brothers might think I was writing a secret message to you.’
‘And why on earth would you do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I can’t run a writing seminar if everyone always has to know everything that’s going on. To write is to tell stories from deep within yourself. It’s a process of revealing your innermost self.’
Leyla thought about it.
‘You don’t have to read our answers out loud,’ she decided. ‘But you will have to give them back to us so that I can show them to my family when I come home. It doesn’t matter in the case of Tanya or Tea-Bag, of course.’
‘And why not?’
‘They have no family. We are their family.’
Humlin saw they were not going to get any further. He stood up.
‘I will not read these answers out loud,’ he announced.
A grumble broke out among the crowd.
‘But naturally the girls will keep what they have written.’
The protests slowly dwindled in volume. Humlin sat down again and threw Leyla a grateful glance. Then he looked through the notes. First there was Tanya’s. Her page was blank except for a drawing of a little heart that appeared to be bleeding. Nothing else. Humlin looked at the image of the bleeding or weeping heart for a long time. Then he looked at Tanya. She was still staring at a point on the wall opposite her and seemed to be somewhere far away from this stuffy room. He folded her note, realising it had moved him, and handed it back to her.
Next he looked at Leyla’s note. She wrote that she wanted to be an author so she could tell people what it was like to be a refugee in a country like Sweden. But she had also added an honest addendum:
I want to write so I can be thin
. Humlin wondered if this was perhaps the most honest answer he had ever received to the question of why someone wanted to be a writer. She had also written that she dreamed of one day becoming a talk-show host or actress.
The last page was from Tea-Bag.
I want to write about what happened on the beach.
In answer to the question of her future she had also written that she wanted to be a talk-show host.
The answers were interesting but also confusing. Humlin
‘Can’t we open a window in here? It’s so hot!’ Humlin asked.
‘We’ve had too many burglaries. I was forced to nail the windows shut.’
‘I’m suffocating!’
‘You’re just dressed too warmly. But this is going very well, I think. Keep it up.’
‘It’s going to hell. I’m going mad. And if I don’t get any air I’m going to faint. I can’t faint. What I should do is kill you.’
‘I don’t think you can since I’m much stronger than you are. But don’t worry. Things are going well.’
Törnblom returned to his place by the door. The girls were busy writing on their pads of paper. What do I do next? Humlin thought and felt a growing sense of desperation. He decided not to do anything at all. He would just gather their answers, read them and then ask them to write something for next time – though there would be no next time – about how they had experienced this evening. After that he would be able to leave this suffocating room and maybe even make the last train or flight back to Stockholm. He was never going to return. He looked around at all the peoplein the room. A woman who was breastfeeding her child nodded encouragingly to him. Humlin nodded back politely. Then he gathered up the pages that the girls had written. He did not plan on reading their answers out loud. In order not to have to deal with wild protests from the crowd he turned to Leyla and whispered, ‘I want you to tell these people that these answers have been written in confidence. I am not going to read them out loud.’
She looked horrified.
‘I can’t do that. And I don’t even know all the languages these people speak.’
‘Surely they understand a little Swedish?’
‘You can’t be too sure about that.’
‘Why can’t you tell them the notes are written in confidence?’
‘My brothers might think I was writing a secret message to you.’
‘And why on earth would you do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I can’t run a writing seminar if everyone always has to know everything that’s going on. To write is to tell stories from deep within yourself. It’s a process of revealing your innermost self.’
Leyla thought about it.
‘You don’t have to read our answers out loud,’ she decided. ‘But you will have to give them back to us so that I can show them to my family when I come home. It doesn’t matter in the case of Tanya or Tea-Bag, of course.’
‘And why not?’
‘They have no family. We are their family.’
Humlin saw they were not going to get any further. He stood up.
‘I will not read these answers out loud,’ he announced.
A grumble broke out among the crowd.
‘But naturally the girls will keep what they have written.’
The protests slowly dwindled in volume. Humlin sat down again and threw Leyla a grateful glance. Then he looked through the notes. First there was Tanya’s. Her page was blank except for a drawing of a little heart that appeared to be bleeding. Nothing else. Humlin looked at the image of the bleeding or weeping heart for a long time. Then he looked at Tanya. She was still staring at a point on the wall opposite her and seemed to be somewhere far away from this stuffy room. He folded her note, realising it had moved him, and handed it back to her.
Next he looked at Leyla’s note. She wrote that she wanted to be an author so she could tell people what it was like to be a refugee in a country like Sweden. But she had also added an honest addendum:
I want to write so I can be thin
. Humlin wondered if this was perhaps the most honest answer he had ever received to the question of why someone wanted to be a writer. She had also written that she dreamed of one day becoming a talk-show host or actress.
The last page was from Tea-Bag.
I want to write about what happened on the beach.
In answer to the question of her future she had also written that she wanted to be a talk-show host.
The answers were interesting but also confusing. Humlin
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