Montecore by Jonas Hassen Khemiri

grew an unpleasant emotion in me as well. But on the metro’s way home I reminded her that Sweden happens to be a country that bears a peculiar organizational ambition. And to guarantee itself that marriages are honestly meant is probably not automatically incorrect. Or? Am I wrong? Pernilla did not respond me.
    Another thing has been perceived me since my alliance with Pernilla and my first rendezvous with her reluctant parents: An economy is vital in order to receive the respect of the Swedes and leave the pigeonhole of the immigrant. The winner takes it all, as ABBA sings. The winner really does take it all, and the winner will be me, Kadir. This is my secure certainty, and my desire for success is fed by my beautiful-mother’s
manière
of speaking to me like an imbecile and refusing to understand my English. Certainly it is a bit twisted, but NOT worse than hers.
    My beautiful-mother’s name is Ruth. Her makeup is in deep quantity; she often repeats me that she comes from a noblish history in Denmark with strong Christian values and that she certainly doesn’t oppose immigrants in Sweden just as long as they conduct themselves properly and learn Swedish and do not cement their traditions. Then her cigarette-wrinkly mouth gaps smile and inform me that the evening’s dinner unfortunately contains pork and will that be a problem for “our guests from far away”?
    Of course I answer “No,” and Pernilla looks strongly ashamed. My relationship with my beautiful-father, Gösta, is simpler. He is an aged road worker with a beard and a crooked body who has passed a great deal of his life constructing roads and bridges. After a handicapturing accident, he has pensioned his body ahead of time and now runs a store south of Stockholm where he offers a broad quantity of antique signs for sale.
    At times I have assisted him with the renovation of his storeroom and our cooperation always takes place in exceptional silence; from his welcoming “Good day” to his farewelling “Good-bye” wemost often share nothing more than gestures and pointings. But it is a silence that is of goodwill and understanding rather than the pressing silence that characterizes Swedish elevators.
    In order to secure my future family’s finances, I am also working as a dishwasher at a restaurant on Rådmansgatan. That position is exceedingly short-term, however, because my Swedish premier collection will soon be prepared. It is now called
The Topographic Proof of Stockholm
(as a reference to Atget’s
Les épreuves topographiques de Paris
). I affix to you some photographic samples. Hasn’t my talent flourished since my departure? Which motif is your favorite? Mine is probably the crying girl with the petal in her hair.
    During the coming fall I will present my collection to galleries and let them battle for my artistic representation. I only hope that those who are denied my talent do not become too disappointed.
    I hope your life portions my life’s fortunate development!
    Abbas 9
    8. Here your father atrocities a certain wordly repetition, but I am letting his mistakes be translated for you word-faithfully.
    9. Here follows a six-month letterish pause between me and your father. By the way: That your father’s English was “twisted” is an excess that we can call exaggeration. It is, of course, yet another example of your father’s notorious modesty. His English was and is excellent, just like his French and Spanish. “Few men share this man’s tonguely talent for languages!” auctioned Qaddafi in a speech of praise to your father when he was delegated Libya’s official photo prize recently.

Stockholm, January 20, 1979
    Greetings, Kadir!
    Visualize the photos of my newborn son!!! I have become a father!!! His name is Jonas in the Swedish version and Younes in the Arabic. His nationality will be doubly Swedish and Tunisian. His mentality will be diagonally opposite of the man who died the same day he was born. Is it not symbolic that