Britt-Marie Was Here Read Free Page B

plenty.” She tried to yell, and to slap down her wallet on the conveyor belt, but it was more like a whisper and a little pushing movement.
    The young man shrugged and took her payment. Britt-Marie wanted to tell him that her husband was actually an entrepreneur, and that she was actually well able to pay the full price for some salmon. But the young man had already started serving the next customer. As if she didn’t make any difference.
    At exactly 5:00 Britt-Marie knocks on the door of the girl’s office. When the girl opens the door, she’s wearing her coat.
    “Where are you going?” asks Britt-Marie. The girl seems to pick up an incriminating note in her voice.
    “I . . . well, we’re closing now . . . as I told you, I have t—”
    “Are you coming back, then? What time should I expect you?”
    “What?”
    “I have to know when I’m supposed to put on the potatoes.”
    The girl rubs her eyelids with her knuckles.
    “Yes, yes, okay. I’m sorry, Britt-Marie. But as I tried to tell you, I don’t have the t—”
    “These are for you,” says Britt-Marie, offering her the pencil. When the girl takes it, in some confusion, Britt-Marie also holds out a pair of pencil sharpeners, one of them blue and the other pink. She nods at these, and then she nods in a wholly unprejudicial way at the girl’s boyish hairstyle.
    “You know, there’s no knowing what sort you people like nowadays. So I got both colors.”
    The girl doesn’t seem quite sure who Britt-Marie is referring to by “you people.”
    “Th . . . anks, I guess.”
    “Now, I’d like to be shown to the kitchen, if it’s not too much bother to you, because otherwise I’ll be late with the potatoes.”
    The girl very briefly looks as if she’s going to exclaim, “Kitchen?” but at the last moment she holds back and, like small children next to bathtubs, seems to understand that protesting will only prolong the process and make it more tortuous. She simply gives up, points to the staff kitchen, and takes the food bag from Britt-Marie, who follows her down the corridor. Britt-Marie decides to acknowledge her civility with some sort of compliment of her own.
    “That’s a fine coat you have there,” she says at long last.
    The girl’s hand slides in surprise over the fabric of her coat.
    “Thanks!” She smiles sincerely, opening the door to the kitchen.
    “It’s courageous of you to wear red at this time of year. Where are the cooking implements?”
    With diminishing patience, the girl opens a drawer. One half is a jumble of cooking implements. The other holds a plastic compartment for cutlery.
    A single compartment.
    Forks, knives, spoons.
    Together.
    The girl’s irritation turns to genuine concern.
    “Are . . . you . . . are you all right?” she asks Britt-Marie.
    Britt-Marie has gone over to a chair to sit down, and looks on the verge of passing out.
    “Barbarians,” she whispers, sucking in her cheeks.
    The girl drops onto a chair opposite. Seems at a loss. Her gaze settles on Britt-Marie’s left hand. Britt-Marie’s fingertips are uncomfortably rubbing the white mark on her skin, like the scar of an amputated limb. When she notices the girl looking, she hides her hand under her handbag, looking as though she’s caught someone spying on her in the shower.
    Gently, the girl raises her eyebrows.
    “Can I just ask . . . sorry, but . . . I mean, what are you really doing here, Britt-Marie?”
    “I want a job,” Britt-Marie replies, digging in her bag for a handkerchief so she can wipe the table down.
    The girl moves about in a confused attempt to find a relaxed position.
    “With all due respect, Britt-Marie, you haven’t had a job in forty years. Why is it so important now?”
    “I have had a job for forty years. I’ve taken care of a home. That’s why it’s important now,” says Britt-Marie, and brushes some imaginary crumbs off the table.
    When the girl doesn’t answer right away, she adds:
    “I