Read Online The Invoice by Jonas Karlsson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jonas Karlsson
Ads: Link
watching the birds. But even though it was nice, it was still a fairly small boat. Six or seven meters at most. How much would he be able to borrow against that?
I put my legs back down and sat up.
“How much was yours, then?” I asked.
“What?” he panted as he fiddled with something. His voice sounded muffled and distant. I could tell he’d wedged his phone between his ear and his shoulder.
“How much have you got to pay?” I said.
“A fuck of a lot,” he said in a loud voice, to make himself heard over the sound of an engine in the background.
I stood up.
“How much?”
“220,000 kronor.”
The sun was going down over the city, casting dazzling reflections off the rooftops. It was still so warm that I had the windows wide open. I could hear the rowdy voices of children playing football or hockey down in the street. Their warning cries to each other whenever a car appeared. How could I possibly have ended up being charged so much more than Roger? There had to have been some sort of mistake. They must have missed something. Maybe they’d gotten me confused with some rich kid from the Wallenberg set? Or some oligarch. Admittedly, Roger was a tragic loser with no income and no prospects. Obviously I would have expected to have to pay more than him, anything else would have been very odd. But this? This was unbelievable.
I did a quick run-through of the problems and setbacks I’d experienced in my life, and decided that I was far too wretched to warrant this new amount of 10,480,000 kronor.
—
I lay down on the sofa and thought about how much I missed my parents. This was precisely the sort of time I’d have called them to say I was in trouble. I’d have a bit of a moan, and they would have listened carefully with the phone between them, then they’d have comforted me and said that everything would be all right. And then it would have been. I felt an intense longing for the warm, fluffy feeling that always blossomed in me as soon as I’d dumped a problem on them. Then I could have curled up in my pajamas in front of the television with a bag of cheesy puffs. I thought about all my friends. They’d long since gotten married and had kids, and they barely had time to see me anymore. What had once been deep friendships and endless days of unconditional socializing and spontaneous outings, weeks of shared discoveries—at one time they were the only fixed point in my life—long conversations, discussions about politics and relationships and the world…All of that had soon been reduced to a snatched cup of coffee in passing or a quick beer once every six months. The only one left was Roger, who had never seemed to be able to make much sense of life. He never really offered any resistance to anything, and was no great support. As time passed he was getting increasingly stressed about growing older, and the fact that he never had time for anything, that nothing ever really happened. But at the same time he never seemed able to work out how he wanted things, and just sank deeper and deeper into self-loathing and an increasingly unhealthy attitude toward money.
He always managed to feel hard done by. It was as if he assumed he was going to end up the loser, even if things actually looked okay. With the passage of time he would turn his successes into failures, like some back-to-front version of Buddhism. Any unexpected moments of happiness always carried with them a measure of unease, which eventually took over. Once, a long time ago, his beloved boat fell off its winter stand on the quayside and ended up with a big hole in one side of the hull. “It’s a fucking nightmare,” Roger said. “It’s going to cost tens of thousands to repair.” After some investigation, it turned out that the crane driver had knocked into the stand earlier that winter, and that the marina was therefore obliged to pay for the damage. A conflict flared up between the marina, the crane driver, and the insurance company.
I put my legs back down and sat up.
“How much was yours, then?” I asked.
“What?” he panted as he fiddled with something. His voice sounded muffled and distant. I could tell he’d wedged his phone between his ear and his shoulder.
“How much have you got to pay?” I said.
“A fuck of a lot,” he said in a loud voice, to make himself heard over the sound of an engine in the background.
I stood up.
“How much?”
“220,000 kronor.”
The sun was going down over the city, casting dazzling reflections off the rooftops. It was still so warm that I had the windows wide open. I could hear the rowdy voices of children playing football or hockey down in the street. Their warning cries to each other whenever a car appeared. How could I possibly have ended up being charged so much more than Roger? There had to have been some sort of mistake. They must have missed something. Maybe they’d gotten me confused with some rich kid from the Wallenberg set? Or some oligarch. Admittedly, Roger was a tragic loser with no income and no prospects. Obviously I would have expected to have to pay more than him, anything else would have been very odd. But this? This was unbelievable.
I did a quick run-through of the problems and setbacks I’d experienced in my life, and decided that I was far too wretched to warrant this new amount of 10,480,000 kronor.
—
I lay down on the sofa and thought about how much I missed my parents. This was precisely the sort of time I’d have called them to say I was in trouble. I’d have a bit of a moan, and they would have listened carefully with the phone between them, then they’d have comforted me and said that everything would be all right. And then it would have been. I felt an intense longing for the warm, fluffy feeling that always blossomed in me as soon as I’d dumped a problem on them. Then I could have curled up in my pajamas in front of the television with a bag of cheesy puffs. I thought about all my friends. They’d long since gotten married and had kids, and they barely had time to see me anymore. What had once been deep friendships and endless days of unconditional socializing and spontaneous outings, weeks of shared discoveries—at one time they were the only fixed point in my life—long conversations, discussions about politics and relationships and the world…All of that had soon been reduced to a snatched cup of coffee in passing or a quick beer once every six months. The only one left was Roger, who had never seemed to be able to make much sense of life. He never really offered any resistance to anything, and was no great support. As time passed he was getting increasingly stressed about growing older, and the fact that he never had time for anything, that nothing ever really happened. But at the same time he never seemed able to work out how he wanted things, and just sank deeper and deeper into self-loathing and an increasingly unhealthy attitude toward money.
He always managed to feel hard done by. It was as if he assumed he was going to end up the loser, even if things actually looked okay. With the passage of time he would turn his successes into failures, like some back-to-front version of Buddhism. Any unexpected moments of happiness always carried with them a measure of unease, which eventually took over. Once, a long time ago, his beloved boat fell off its winter stand on the quayside and ended up with a big hole in one side of the hull. “It’s a fucking nightmare,” Roger said. “It’s going to cost tens of thousands to repair.” After some investigation, it turned out that the crane driver had knocked into the stand earlier that winter, and that the marina was therefore obliged to pay for the damage. A conflict flared up between the marina, the crane driver, and the insurance company.
Similar Books
