Mate Ch. 01

Boredom can be good, though. It left me plenty of time to think. This thing with Roger for instance. I felt that I understood now how he got to me. I read somewhere that we never really understand why we do what we do, that we are more complicated than any explanation. But it also said that this does not mean that our explanations are unnecessary. They give us working models that guide us in the future, and they need not be entirely true to be helpful.

Back to the Roger thing. I could see that I had made him my project. I knew that he was fucked up and I wanted to fix that. Fixing people was my fix. And I hated to fail. Breaking up with Roger was admitting failure and he knew it. I don't know if he knew that he knew it, but he did. This was my weak spot and he used it.

So. What to do now? I didn't really want to stop making people feel better. Like, when I had a problem kid in my class, I'd bust my ass to make it work. And it did! Friends? No problems there. They often called me if they had a problem and I could call them right back. Except I didn't when I really had a problem. Shit. Well, at least I let Bettan and Erik help me now.

Boyfriends, though. Men. Lousy track record there. I realized that I had only fallen for boys/men who were more or less fucked up. And egocentric assholes, too. I didn't mind fucked up, really. Fucked up was nice and safe. But egocentric I could do without. I used to watch my savior and fantasize about how he would be fucked up just right. The fact that no one came to visit him must mean he was lonely. The fact that he interceded for me, in spite of being so obviously outgunned, meant that him being an asshole was very unlikely. I wanted to take care of him so much it hurt. Part was paying back, I was not used to owe someone and I didn't like it. Part was this crush I couldn't deny, and my imagination went where my intellect would not.

I took a nap. That was one of the few things I could do there. I slept, read books, thought and ate chocolate. I drifted off and had a dream, it was in black and white and seemed to be set in America in the fifties. I was standing outside a nice house with three cute kids. Two of them hugged a big, happy dog. The third was triumphantly holding up a big shiny toaster for some reason. We were all looking at my mystery savior, dressed in suit, tie and hat. He was carrying a briefcase and walked towards us with confident strides, from his big black American car. He was mobbed by kids and dog and waded through them towards me, his beloved.

"It's all because of you, honey!" he said. "I could never have done it without you!"

I remember feeling a little embarrassed even while dreaming. This was not a dream worthy of a modern woman like me. But dreams are dreams and I intended to enjoy it.

"Coffee, dear?" I suddenly had a coffeepot and a mug.

"Thanks honey, no one makes coffee like you!"

At this stage of my dream I heard a noise. A new noise, from close by. I woke up, and he was looking at me.

"You're awake!"

He closed his eyes again, as though blinded by the light in spite of the room being almost dark. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was the same noise as before, some kind of grunt.

"They have told me to summon them if you wake up." I said, pushing the button. "I'm Magdalena. My friends call me Magda. I hope you will be my friend."

Peter

The woman said she wanted to be my friend. This was very confusing. My thoughts always became more complicated when I was upset or confused. They took on stronger colors, louder sound, more pervasive smells. It took a lot of work to achieve harmony from the discordant chords. Most of the time I could avoid confusion because I didn't care if I understood or not. But now I wanted to understand. Goodorange cutesnore wanted to be my friend and I could tell she meant it. But why? I had never had a friend before. Could I be a friend to her? Probably not, I was sure that being a good friend took a lot of practice, especially for someone like me.

A hospital-pale smelling nurse came in. She asked goodorange Magda some questions I didn't have the presence to understand, then she spoke to me. I didn't understand this, either, but I opened half an eye and tried to speak. I just made that little penguin fart sound which seemed to be all I could say today.

"Don't try to speak yet." She said. I was doubly relieved; I understood and I didn't have to worry about answering. In my relief I missed the next thing she said and then she left. Magda moved her bluewhistling armchair up close. She smelled even better when close, which is unusual. She took my hand. This kicked off a brass-section, muted. Good muted.

"If you cannot speak, maybe we could make a yes or no kind of communication. You know, one squeeze for yes, two for no? Ok?"

I squeezed once. Anything else would have been impolite, and with her I actually wanted to communicate, especially if communication meant her holding my hand.

"Is it ok that I hold your hand?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember me?" I had met her?

"No."

"Do you remember what happened? Why you are here?"

"No."

"I was attacked. You saved me. You are a hero. My hero." Wow. I had never been a hero before, except in my games. There I do heroic things all the time, but it's not real and no one ever understands the drama and the hero part. I loved the idea of having done something heroic in real life.

"You made them let go of me. They attacked you instead. You tried to run but they caught you. I didn't dare to do anything else than call for help. I'm sorry." They caught me? Shit that was depressing. I thought that I was a good runner.

Now the nurse returned, in the wake of a big doctor and a small subservient doctor. Big doctor gave me a big smile. Walrus, walrus, walrus I kept thinking and got caught up in wondering why walrus, walrus he did not have a big mustache or giant canines walrus walrus walrus and there was nothing Beatles about him but possibly a smell of salt and sea and cold. Fat enough for walrus walrus and now he stopped talking and I realized that he had told me about what was wrong with me and I had missed it. Shit. Walrus.

Magda told them about our very clever method of communication and doctor Walrus smiled again.

"Excellent! I'm sure you still have a lot of questions. We have some questions too. I will leave doctor Eriksson with you." Exit big doctor and all thoughts of the sea. Subdoctor was paler than hospital pale and spoke in a low voice. Good. He smelled like spaghetti with no salt. He asked me if I had understood everything big doctor had told me.

"No."

"Any particular questions?"

"No."

"Shall I just tell you again, step by step, until it is all clear?"

"Yes." This was just what I needed in life in general - someone who explained everything step by step until I understood. Magda squeezed my hand in a comforting way, which almost made me cry. No one had done that before and my tide of gratitude for the squeeze and my injuries made me miss the first part of subdoctor's explanation.

"...but these traumas to the head seems not to have done any permanent damage. With me so far?"

"Yes." Small fib there.

"There is no intercranial bleeding . Concussion, yes, but there should be no serious after-effects. Possibly a higher tendency for headaches. Ok?"

"Yes."

"The blows or kicks to your neck were more serious. Your windpipe was damaged, but we were able to fix it. This is why you cannot speak yet. It should work itself out when the swelling goes down. Ok?"

"Yes." This conversation reminded me of my interview with Syrupvoice. It would have worked out just as well with this method but I would not have liked the stickiness of holding his hand. Thinking of him made my lungs clog up and I had to cough. Shit that hurt more than I was prepared for.

"I hope you are not in too much pain. We administer a painkiller with that fluid. If it gets too bad there is room to increase the dosage a little. You want that?"

"No."

"You have a broken wishbone and three fractured ribs. Painful, but not dangerous. Ok?"

"Yes."

"There is a problem of an unusual kind." he then said. "We do not know your name." He then spoke to Magda. "If you can find out we would be grateful. Screws up the administration, you know."

He left, as did the nurse.

Magda felt much less sad than before. I took a deep breath and wrapped myself in Magda goodorange and in the wonderful thought of being her hero. No more syrup or big doctor brine.

Magda

I loved his eyes. They were very expressive. I could read joy, sadness, wistfulness and wry humor come and go while the doctor spoke. I wished he'd look at me, but he didn't. He didn't even look at me when the others had left. He just took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Are you too tired to talk now? If talk is the right..."

"No."

"Shall we start with the name...you do remember your name?"

Small smile. "Yes."

"I'll just run through the alphabet. Give me a squeeze when we come to the first letter of your first name." The answer was P, and Peter was my third guess. Last name, H. Hansson was my first guess, it's a common name in Sweden.

"So Peter Hansson. I guess they want your numbers too." In Sweden everyone has a personal number you get when you 're born. It follows you through life and you can't communicate with any kind of authorities without stating your number. He squeezed me 8-7-1 times, then opened his hand.

"You want to stop?"

"No."

"Ah - that was a zero?"

"Yes." So - 8710 He went on. 1-1-6-6-1-8

"Great. So now I guess you officially exist. Twenty eight years old. I'm twenty six. Eeh, I'm a little concerned that no one has missed you,,,"

"No."

"You are not concerned?"

"No."

"So, no one has missed you...wait, I can't frame the question like that, your answer would be unclear."

"Yes." An approving little smile.

"Do you think anyone has missed you?"

"Yes."

"But you are not concerned?"

"No." This gave me some pause. He did not care if he was missed and people were worried? I started to ask about family and friends. He said he had neither. I got a yes that the people missing him had something to do with his work. I then tried to find out what he did for a living. There are parlor games like that, you shall find something out and they can only answer yes or no. I'm good at that sort of thing, but this one was hopeless. He was not employed, but did not have his own company. Yes to free-lance, but free-lance what? Not consultant, not architect, not artist. Not athlete or journalist or computer guy. Not criminal, coach, shrink, archeologist or spy. I gave up and he just smiled. His childish pleasure at my failing to guess was heart-warming.

I asked if he wanted me to tell him about whom I was and he squeezed that he did. So I told him. I told him about things that had made me happy, like getting my dog when I was twelve and the joy of acting. And I told him about things that made me sad, like when that dog died, as dogs will. And about my brother...

I told him about my job and that I tried to paint now that I didn't have the time for theater any more. I told him about Roger and my walk in the rain and those bastards who attacked me and how brave he had been and about Bettan and Erik and how I suppose I could sleep at their place for a while once he kicked me out from his armchair. At that stage he held up his hand meaning stop. I shut up. No wonder he was tired. He just lay there with eyes closed. He didn't let go of my hand, which I liked, although it was real uncomfortable after a while. I started to drift off again.

Peter

She began to talk about herself. I loved it. I was wrapped in her smell, wrapped in her voice. And I was holding her hand. It was like hugging the dog when I was little, but even better. Magda also had a dog, didn't she say that? I was pretty sure she did. There was so much information. Like the faint yellow swell of her sweat and the little (also yellow) sounds from her stomach. I liked both, they made the chords that was her richer and closer. I still couldn't look her in the face which, for once, bothered me. I heard her say she had nowhere to live, and had to silence her. I needed to think about this. Very carefully.

Was it worth the risk? I risked losing everything that made my life bearable - my house and my solitude. On the other hand there was a chance that my life would be more than bearable. Which, a lot of the time, it wasn't. I was sure I was in love with her, I couldn't hold anybody's hand the way I held hers if love wasn't involved somehow. Another problem was, how would I survive when she left me? To make someone really miserable, give them something they desperately want and then take it away. Much worse than never having had it.

People came in and started talking. I pretended to sleep. Then I didn't pretend.

Magda

I had given his name and number to the nurses, of course, and here they came, all excited. Apparently he was famous. I vaguely remembered a series of articles about people from our city who were world famous but unknown to most. A taxidermist, a poker-player, an authority on mushrooms. And Peter. They also said that he had finally been missed. He should have been in Rome this morning, for a tournament. Peter was asleep, so they left pretty soon.

It was nice and peaceful when they left. I googled Peter on my cell. Wow! That's what I call fucked up! And brave and sweet and needing my protection. I was in love. Or something. He held my hand in his sleep like a trusting child and I wanted to save him now. Save him, marry him, breed with him and buy a god damn toaster with him.

I found the article about him. They had met in his garden, which was lovely. They talked about the garden and synesthesia, but very little about chess. Apparently he never studied or practiced chess. He just played, and made whatever moves felt right. He looked nice on the photos, a little shy but not scared. There was no mention of family or girlfriends. Night slowly descended. Peter slept. I dozed in the armchair.

The head honcho doctor made his entrance early next day. He pronounced Peter fit to be freed from all tubes and allowed to get up and walk. It was good if he could eat, and excreting was mandatory before going home. Now that Peter could sit up properly, and even do a walkabout to the nurses office and back, we could arrange for more efficient ways of communication. I had my smallest laptop with me. He still didn't look at me, other than quick peeks. I figured he was shy. So was I, suddenly.

Peter

She had a laptop. It crackled like small small small popcorn. She wanted me to write with it or on it or whatever. Prepositions are tricky in a second language. I would have preferred to keep on with the holding hands method, but all right. I didn't know what to say, didn't want to make a bad impression. What did normal people talk about. The weather? That would be absurd. I tried to tell myself that I wasn't a normal person. I was a hero and a hero speaks about whatever he wants.

"Did you sleep well in that chair?" I asked.

"No, I can't say I did. But I wanted to be with you."

"When you didn't know who I was. You know now and know what I am."

"Can you tell me about this synesthetic thing?"

"First, remember that to me the way I am is normal, ok. Took me a long time to figure out that I saw, heard, smelt and tasted things differently than others. Touch, not so much. Apparently most synesthetics have a less complicated version of it than me. They may get a color to a sound or something. I get chords."

"Many sounds?"

"Chords of different senses, I meet someone and every impression of the person has a sound, a smell, a color and so on. If these chords are not in harmony it gets...stressful. And there are many chords to a person."

"Sounds complicated."

"Yes, that's why I mostly keep to myself. It's too much information. I still can't look at your face. It's glorious, but too much. I hope I will get used to it."

"Me too. What are my chords like?"

"I really like them. The dominant color is goodorange, earthy but not heavy. Small sour spots like lemon candy, sound of small waves clucking a calm summers day. Sweetness which is not cloying. And more, of course. But not a single false chord yet."

One of the nurses entered, carrying a tray. It smelled like a sad waste of what could have been food, a bad kind of grey. But I was hungry. Big time hungry. I needed to eat. If I concentrate I can shut off most of the sensory information for a little while. I did and quickly ate what called itself fish. Afterwards I was tired. I lay down to sleep in spite of some worry that I had eaten too fast. I didn't want to puke on her shoes or something. Before closing my eyes I typed:

"You can live in my house. If you want."

Magda

I did want. I wanted to live in his house. I wanted to know more! I wanted to strangle him. I wanted something to eat, which was the only one of my current desires I could satisfy. And coffee!

Back in my chair, sipping my third cup of coffee, I no longer wanted to strangle him. Quite. I googled away, while waiting for him to wake up. He was listed, and I found his house on Google Earth. Big city-house, pale green. I already knew he had a beautiful garden. Hey, three mailboxes outside the house, ought to be three apartments, then. But I wanted to know more, I needed to know more. I coughed. No reaction. I coughed very loudly. He just kept on sleeping. This was silly. He needed his sleep and I was being childish. Patience patience patience, wake up you bastard!

Well, eventually he did wake up. He was apprehensive that his offer had offended me and he was relieved that I was genuinely interested. Yes, there were three apartments, but he had never had any tenants because it was hard for him to be close to people. He felt that it would work out with me. He apologized for falling asleep. Apparently that was something he often did when stressed out and offering me to live in his house was extreme social risk-taking to him. Quite the adrenaline junky.

He had a few absolute rules. No rap or hip-hop. No boiling cabbage. No moving things around in the garden or in his part of the house. These were things that would disturb the chords too much. Oh, and I was not to die, that was an absolute no-no. I could live with these rules and didn't mind living forever. We had a fierce battle about the rent, though. He didn't want any, which was unacceptable to me. I managed to negotiate up to about half of what he could have gotten for the flat, which was an acceptable compromise to both.

I felt happy. I was rid of Roger and I had somewhere to go. And with Peter in my life in some way. If nothing else we'd be close neighbors. Now, in the beginning he would need my help - you try to put on a sweater with a wishbone and three ribs broken. I hoped for more, of course, but knew I must take it slow. He still couldn't look at me, but he seemed willing to let me into his life. He was just not used to closeness.

Peter

I felt happy. I would have Magda in my life in some way. If nothing else we'd be close neighbors. I was pretty sure that she would help me at first, when I needed it. I hoped for more, of course, but I had to be careful and not ruin everything. She seemed willing to let me into her life, and she was used to closeness. I would let her take the lead.