They say that madness and creativity go hand in hand. That the most creative among us are those who stand closest to gloominess, sadness, and obsessional neuroses. At the time, no one thought like that. Back then, feeling unhappy was considered ugly. It wasn’t something people talked about. Everyone had to be happy all of the time. Madame with her impeccable makeup, her smooth hair and glittering jewels. No one heard her anguished weeping at night, once the apartment had fallen silent and she was left alone with her thoughts. She probably threw her parties to keep those thoughts at bay.
Gösta attended for the same reason. Loneliness drove him from his apartment, where his many unsold canvases were stacked against the walls, a constant reminder of his poverty. He was often marked by the sober melancholy I had noticed when we first met. When in that state, he would remain seated until I forced him out. He always wanted to return to his Paris. To the good life he had loved so dearly. To the friends, the art, the inspiration. But he never had the money. Madame provided him with the dose of Frenchness he needed to survive. One short moment at a time.
“I can’t paint anymore,” he sighed one evening.
“Why do you say that?” I never knew how to respond to his gloominess.
“It amounts to nothing. I don’t see pictures anymore. I don’t see life in clear colours. Not like before.”
“I don’t understand any of that.” I forced a smile. Rubbed his shoulder with one hand.
What did I know? A girl of thirteen. Nothing. I knew nothing about the world. Nothing about art. To me, a beautiful painting was one that depicted reality as I understood it. Not by means of distorted, colourful squares forming equally distorted figures. I thought it was probably a stroke of luck that Gösta could no longer produce those terrible paintings that Madame stacked in her wardrobe in order to put food on his table. But later, I would find myself pausing, feather duster in hand, in front of his work. The confusion of colours and brushstrokes occasionally managed to catch my imagination, letting it run wild. I saw something new. With time, I learned to love that feeling.
The Red Address Book
S. SERAFIN, DOMINIQUE
She was restless. I’d heard that from the other girls. The parties kept her removed from everyday life; the moves kept her removed from boredom. Her upheavals were always sudden, unpredictable, yet there was always a reason for them. She had found a new apartment that was bigger, better, in an area with a higher status.
Almost one year to the day after our first meeting, she came into the kitchen. Stood with her hip and shoulder against the brickwork beside the wood stove. With one hand, she played with the brim of her hat, the strap beneath her chin, her necklace, her rings. Nervously, as though she was the maid and we were the masters. As though she was a child about to ask an adult for permission to take a cookie. Madame, who otherwise stood so straight, with her head held high. We curtsied and probably all thought the exact same thing: we were about to lose our jobs. Poverty scared us. With Madame, we had an abundance of food, and despite the tough working days, our lives were good. We stood in silence, our hands clasped in front of our aprons, stealing furtive glances at her.
She hesitated. Her eyes wandered among us, as though she faced a decision she didn’t want to make.
“Paris!” she eventually exclaimed, flinging her arms wide. A small vase on the mantelpiece fell victim to her sudden euphoria. The small fragments of china scattered between our feet. I immediately bent down.
Silence descended over the room. I felt her eyes on me and looked up.
“Doris. Pack your bag, we’re leaving tomorrow morning. The rest of you can go home, I don’t need you anymore.”
She waited for a reaction. Saw the tears welling up in the others’ eyes. Caught the anxiety in mine. No one said a word, so she turned, paused for a moment, and then quickly left the room. From the corridor, she shouted:
“We’re taking the train at seven. You’re free until then!”
And so, the next morning, I found myself in a shaky third-class carriage en route to the southern tip of Sweden. All around me, strangers twisted and turned on the hard wooden benches; those worn seats gave my backside splinters. The carriage smelled musty, like sweat and thick, damp wool, and it was full of people clearing their throats and blowing their noses. At every station, someone would leave and someone new would board. Every now and then, a person transporting a cage of hens or ducks between parishes would appear. The birds’ droppings smelled pungent, and their piercing squawks filled the carriage.
Few times in my life have I felt as lonely as I did on that train. I was on my way towards my father’s dream, which he had shown me in books, back when my childhood was still secure. But during that ride, the dream felt more like a nightmare. Just a few hours earlier, I had run along Södermalm’s streets as fast as my legs would carry me, desperate to get to my mother’s apartment in time to hug her and say goodbye. She smiled, the way mothers do, swallowed her sadness, and held me tight. I felt her heart pounding hard and fast. Her hands and forehead were damp with sweat. She must have been crying earlier, because her nose was blocked and I didn’t recognise her voice.
“I wish you enough,” she whispered in my ear. “Enough sun to light up your days, enough rain that you appreciate the sun. Enough joy to strengthen your soul, enough pain that you can appreciate life’s small moments of happiness. And enough friends that you can manage a farewell now and then.”
She fought her way through these words, which she so wanted to say, but then she could no longer hold back the tears. Eventually she let go of me and went back inside. I heard her mumbling, but I didn’t know whether the words were directed at me or at her.
“Be strong, be strong, be strong,” she repeated.
“I wish you enough too, Mamma!” I shouted after her.
Agnes lingered in the yard. She clung to me when I tried to leave. I asked her to let go, but she refused. Eventually, I had to pry her chubby little fingers off my arms and run as fast as I could, so she couldn’t catch up with me. I remember the dirt beneath her fingernails and her grey wool hat, dotted with small red embroidered flowers. She cried loudly as I left, but soon fell silent. Probably because my mother had gone outside to fetch her. Even now, I regret not turning around. Regret not taking the opportunity to wave goodbye to them.
My mother’s words became a guiding light in my life, and just thinking of them has always given me strength. Enough strength to make it through the hardships to come.
The Red Address Book
S. SERAFIN, DOMINIQUE
I remember the moon, a thin sliver against a pale-blue backdrop, and the rooftops beneath it, the laundry hanging on the balconies. The smell of coal smoke from the hundreds of chimneys. The train’s rhythmic pounding had become a part of my body over the long journey. Day had just started to dawn as we finally approached Gare du Nord after many long hours and several changes. I got up and leaned out of the third-class window. Breathed in the scent of spring and waved to the street children running barefoot along the tracks, their hands outstretched. Someone tossed them a coin, which halted them abruptly. They flocked around the small piece of treasure and started to fight over who would get to keep it.
I kept a tight hold on my money. I held it in a small, flat leather purse, knotted to the waistband of my skirt with a white ribbon. At regular intervals I reached down to check that it was still there. Ran my hand over the soft corners I could feel beneath the fabric. My mother had slipped the purse into my hand just before I left, and it contained all the money she had been saving, money she used only in special circumstances. Perhaps she