Many People Die Like You by Lina Wolff

Author:Lina Wolff
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary fiction;literary fiction;short stories;translation;translated fiction;comedy;humour;drama;love story;realism;women’s literary fiction;rite of passage;metoo;sexual misconduct;women’s rights;gender roles;Många människor dör som du;book prize;Roxane Gay;Maggie Nelson;Miranda July;Samantha Harvey;Alexandra Kleeman;Spain;Sweden;August Prize;Svenska Dagbladet Prize
Publisher: And Other Stories
Published: 2020-07-11T14:02:19+00:00

He goes down to the harbor. The fishing boats are coming in, and boxes of moray eels are being dumped on the rocks. The boat with the glass bottom is the furthest off. Waves roll in, and the boat rises up and tugs at its mooring. Then it’s yanked down. The fishermen unravel the nets and the sea snakes wriggle on the rocky slabs.

“Are these edible?” he asks one of the fishermen.

“Sure. Fried or boiled. My wife makes them. Five minutes in the pressure cooker, just long enough for them to die and get nice and hot.”

He strokes his beard. Chuckles, as do the fishermen beside him.

“I had a cat once. It ended up in the pressure cooker, too.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. Just long enough for her to die and get nice and hot. Then I opened it up.”

“Is that right. Well, you hear all sorts. People putting cats in washing machines and watching them through the glass. Seems strange is the new normal these days.”

The fisherman’s hands are brown. They’re spotted. They’re unraveling the nets.

The fisherman looks at him. Right in the eye, and his gaze is as cold and blue as ice.

“Me, I think it’s cruel. I don’t think you should’ve put your cat in the pressure cooker.”

The fisherman blows his nose into his hand and flings the snot away.

“She was like a daughter to me.”

“Who? The cat?”

“Yes.”

He stops his unraveling.

“Uh. We’ve got things to do here.”

He stays put. The fisherman builds a wall of silence between them. The sea snakes on the rocks are still moving—slow-slithering death spasms. The glass-bottomed boat continues to tug at its moorings, and each time the rope strains, the wood from the dock groans.

“She was like a daughter to me,” he repeats. “Marilyn.”

The fishermen exchange glances, wipe their fingers on their blue outfits, and pack themselves and their things into the boat. They leave the sea snakes on the rocky slabs. They start the engine and sail away without looking back. Now would be the time to undress. To wash the waitress’s fluids off, go home, and lie down with Jessica. But not before floating around on his back for a while, taking in the veil of clouds above the island, the dawn.

But in all honesty, he doesn’t believe in dawns. He believes in ugliness and masculinity and femininity, because he has looked deep into their eyes and what you’ve seen in their depths, you have to trust in for the rest of your days, whether or not you want to. He trusts in the bullshit, too. He trusts in the bullshit more than in the grain of wheat. He knows the bullshit, has only ever longed for the grain of wheat. Diffuse, unfixed longing. Like a cat who has spent his whole life in a green room, dreaming of blue. He laughs out loud.

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