Multiples by Adam Thirlwell & al

Author:Adam Thirlwell & al. [Thirlwell, Adam & al.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

2

My mother’s first husband, Ulf, wrote to me that he had two houses, one in Stockholm and one in the countryside. Yesterday, I took the train to the stop he indicated was close to his country house and then followed his directions. I had expected him to be a man of means—two houses!—and imagined we’d sit on a deck by a lake while drinking from Orefors glasses. But when I finally arrived at his summer cottage, I saw it was exactly that: a cottage. I called out as I approached and a shirtless man with a tanned and rather large belly and very long white hair came out to greet me. “Hej!” he called out, and then said, “Hello,” as though he needed to translate.

The cottage had no electricity, no bathroom, and he explained to me that he took the train out here each May and stayed until October. Sitting across from him at the outdoor table, I could smell he didn’t have a shower either. Four months without a shower. I could be thankful I was visiting in July, not later in his stay.

He was a kind and wistful man, a retired director of transportation with good English, and we had a cordial conversation while we drank coffee from dirty cups. As he spoke about his own mother, I wondered what I’d hoped to discover coming all this way, or if really I had just wanted another person to bleed my sadness onto.

We talked for an hour about his children from his third and final wife (final, he explained, because he wore fake teeth, and what woman would have him now?). Two of the girls were living in Turkey and one in London. He showed me photos—all three girls had dark hair and light eyes, and all were pretty. But as with any set of three pretty sisters, there was one who was the most beautiful, and I wondered how her life had been different. Then I wondered how my life would have been different and if I would have been that pretty if Ulf had been my father.

Ulf must have seen on my face that my mind was somewhere else, but he mistakenly assumed I was bored instead of the opposite: I was so engaged that I was trying to exist in the world of him and his beautiful girls. He asked me if I wanted to go inside the cabin so he could give me a tour.

I said of course. The inside of the cottage was crammed with memorabilia—with diaries, old theater magazines, an ancient loom, a thousand plates that relatives had once eaten on, ten harmonicas, a small bed that seemed inefficient for a man of his weight. On his dresser, I also spotted my mother.

Three photos of her on their wedding day. Who kept photos of their first wife on their dresser? I could tell by their position that they had always been there—he hadn’t just put them up for me. He had done little to prepare for my visit—not even put on a shirt.

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