The Invoice Read online

  I thought for a moment.

  “And if I did, what then?”

  “Well,” she said, “we’d put out an alert for you. Your bank accounts, driver’s license, passport, credit cards would all be frozen or revoked. You’d be a marked man. You’d never be able to get a loan, for instance. It would be—how can I put it?—difficult. Why, are you thinking about it?”

  “No,” I said, and sighed. “I don’t think I am.”

  “Good,” Maud said, “because I’m under orders to report any suspicions about potential absconders. It would be nice not to have to do that.”

  I thought I could detect a hint of a west-coast accent, and tried to work out where she was from. She was doing her best to speak a sort of standard Swedish, but every now and then a trace of a chirpy, rounded intonation crept into the end of her sentences. It sounded rather cute, somehow.

  “So how are you getting on with the money?” she said.

  I rubbed my face and tried to sound like I was on the case. Like I’d done nothing but play with numbers and call people for help since we last spoke.

  “Not great,” I said.

  “You don’t have any investments or shares?”

  “No.”

  “Jewelry? Gold?”

  “I’ve got a few rings, that’s all…a couple of candlesticks. But that doesn’t…”

  I sat down on the sofa and was about to lie back again when it occurred to me that she’d probably be able to tell from my voice that I was lying down. That wouldn’t make a very good impression.

  “Can’t I just work off the debt, bit by bit?” I said.

  Maud took a deep breath. Once again I had the feeling that this wasn’t the first time she’d had to explain this. She sounded rather mechanical when she replied.

  “Assuming that you have a normal capacity to work, naturally we’ll conduct an evaluation of your abilities, relative to the amount owing. But there are a lot of people to be investigated and of course that involves a great deal of administration—it’s not at all certain that will even be necessary. And, as I said before, we do have a debt ceiling, and once that’s been exceeded there’s no way we can grant continued access.”

  “What’s the debt ceiling?”

  “It’s calculated according to a formula that takes account of age, place of residence, particular experiences, success, proximity to the sea. That sort of thing. Quality of home and relationships, et cetera. Taken as a whole, that constitutes your personal quantity of Experienced Happiness. Your levels will be constantly updated, provided that all information can be verified. It’s all officially administered, of course, but I’m afraid I can’t make an estimate as things stand…Have you had any notable setbacks?”

  I stared at a small mark on the wall opposite the sofa. It had been there for as long as I could remember, and I rather liked it. It felt reassuring. Homely. I wondered if it had been made by me or the previous tenant.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Okay, let me start with this,” she went on. “Are you disabled?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you suffer from any illnesses?”

  “No. Well, nothing…no. I get a bit of asthma sometimes.”

  “Asthma?”

  “Yes, a bit. Occasionally, in the spring.”

  “Oh?”

  “And I might be a bit lactose intolerant.”

  “Hmm, that isn’t applicable. Not anymore. Not now there are so many new products and alternatives available…Did you grow up with both your parents?”

  “Yes.”

  “There you go. Yes, that marks it up…”

  Images from my childhood drifted through my head. Mum smoking a Blend cigarette under the extractor fan in the kitchen, Dad bent over the car with the bonnet up, my little tricycle, the broken doorbell. Long grass at the back of the house and the rusty lawn mower that was supposed to cut it.

  “But we weren’t especially rich or anything…” I said.

  “That doesn’t make any difference to the experience, does it?”

  “I don’t know, I think maybe it does…”

  “How do you mean, exactly?”

  “Well, if I’d been brought up…I mean, it was pretty tough sometimes when Dad was the only one working…”

  “But you were happy?”

  “What?”

  “Was your childhood satisfactory?”

  I hesitated for a few seconds.

  “Well, yes, I’d have to say it was…”

  “There, you see?”

  I wondered how old she was. She sounded a bit older than me, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she really was. The slight hoarseness in her voice lent her a certain veiled charm, but she could have been five, ten years younger than me. That sort of thing is always hard to work out. Maybe it was just her official tone, that way of reciting things quickly, or the fact that she knew things that I didn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time. I often felt about seventeen years old mentally. And she was definitely older than that, no matter what.

  “Like you replied to our questionnaires…” she went on. I closed my eyes and tried to focus my thoughts in the heat.

  “Hang on a moment,” I said. “Questionnaires?”

  “Yes, you indicated…let’s see…”

  I sat up a bit straighter on the sofa. I had little beads of sweat on my forehead and temples. I could feel the phone getting damp and slippery against my cheek.

  “What questionnaires?” I said.

  “Our inquiries show that…”

  She paused, and I heard her click to open something on her computer. Now I remembered some questionnaires and forms I’d filled in several months ago. Big things, with all sorts of different questions and boxes you had to tick. I think I did them while I was on the toilet. Then you just had to stick them in the prepaid envelope and put them in the post.

  “I’m getting several results here…Let’s see…”

  I stood up and started to walk round the room.

  “Yes, but…” I said. “I thought filling those in was just a bit of fun…I didn’t really take it seriously.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No, because then I’d have thought about it a bit more…”

  “You didn’t really think about it?”

  “Well, not really…”

  “Here we are…five written surveys and one telephone poll.”

  I suddenly remembered a phone call, something like six months ago. A young woman. I enjoyed talking to her. She had a sexy voice, and for once she wasn’t trying to sell anything. It was kind of fun, choosing between the possible answers: agree strongly, agree, disagree, or don’t know.

  Maud went on: “I’m getting quite a high reading from this.”

  I wandered into the kitchen, then back into the living room.

  “Really?” I said. “Oh…I must have been happy that day.”

  “But you did answer truthfully?”

  “That depends how you look at it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I walked up and down between the sofa and the wall, glad Maud couldn’t see me.

  “It changes,” I said. “From day to day. I mean, sometimes you’re in a good mood, so things don’t feel so important…”

  “Really?”

  I sat down on the sofa, but stood up again immediately.

  “I think it’s rather unprofessional to base everything on surveys like that. I mean, how was I to know that my answers would form the basis of—”

  She interrupted me again.

  “Obviously that’s not the whole picture. Your responses are only advisory. The calculations are ninety percent based on absolute facts. But all the evidence suggests that self-evaluation gives a fairly good prognosis.”

  I tried to remember those questions, and what I had answered. Maybe I’d been trying to make out like I was more successful than I really was? After all, I did like the woman’s voice. Maybe I was trying to impress her? I could even have just been
messing about and making things up.

  “Have you got my answers there?” I said. “What did I say?”

  “I’ve got a general overview. Basically just the scores. I can see the analysis of your results, which are the raw data presented in a more accessible format. If you want more information I’d have to put in a request for your file to be brought up. It could take a while.”

  I told her I did want more information. She said she’d get back to me and we hung up.

  It was late afternoon before she called back. I could tell that I should have eaten something, even if I wasn’t exactly hungry. It was completely still outside, extremely hot, and somewhere in the distance a car alarm was going off.

  “There’s rather a lot of material,” she said. “It’s not available digitally yet, and I’ve only just received it, so obviously I haven’t had time to get to grips with the details properly…”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I could hear her leafing through some papers. She almost groaned as she picked up something heavy. We exchanged some polite jokes about “the paperless society.”

  “You wanted the questionnaire results…” she eventually said.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “If you could just confirm your address, I can send them to—”

  “Have you got them there?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Can’t you just tell me what I said?” I went on.

  She hesitated for a moment.

  “It will take a while to dig them out.”

  “I can wait,” I said.

  “Er…well, we don’t usually…over the phone. But if you tell me your address I can send you a copy…”

  “But,” I said, “can’t you just read them out? I mean, I’ve given you my ID number and everything.”

  She said nothing for a few moments.

  “Well, I suppose so,” she said slowly.

  “Just a few of them,” I said.

  I heard her shuffling the documents again.

  “Okay, you’ll have to wait a moment while I go through the file.”

  “I’m happy to wait,” I said.

  We sat there like that for two or three minutes without saying much at all. Just the sound of her breathing as she searched through the documents. I found myself thinking that she should put the phone down, then realized that she was probably wearing a headset. She cleared her throat and went on.

  “So, what do you want to know, then?” she said.

  “Just the first few questions…”

  “Okay,” she said after a brief pause. “Question number one, then…let’s see…age, gender, education…But I suppose what you really want to…okay, here it is: Do you think your life has a purpose, a meaning? And you answered…”

  I imagined I could hear her running her finger across the page to the column of answers.

  “Yes,” she continued. “The first option, in fact. ‘Agree strongly.’ ”

  Yes, that was true. I had a clear memory now of having given that answer. I wondered if I might have replied with the first option to almost all the questions. I mean, it felt a bit cool to stick to the same response. Sort of like shrugging my shoulders at the questions. Not taking it too seriously.

  Maud moved on to the second question.

  “Do you feel that your opinions and ideas are listened to at your place of work?”

  What opinions and ideas?! I could hardly have any ideas, apart from renting films to people who came into the shop. Maybe sell the odd bag of crisps or two-liter bottle of soda. Jörgen didn’t give a damn about any opinions I might have. We never talked about that sort of thing. I got paid, and I kept the shelves tidy. That was all. What was I supposed to answer? Most of the time I just stood there thinking about other things, trying to keep an eye on the time and when I could go home. Sometimes Roger would pop in, and if I had time I’d stand there chatting to him. Maybe check out a few videos on YouTube. I thought it worked pretty well, and I certainly didn’t have any better suggestions about how to run things.

  Maud was about to read out the third question, but all of a sudden I felt I didn’t want to hear any more, and said I had to go. I don’t even know if I said goodbye properly.

  With some reluctance, I had to admit that I was actually pretty happy with my life. I didn’t really have anything to complain about. No impoverished childhood, no addictions or abuse or emotionally cold upper-class teenage years at a prisonlike boarding school. The years I spent in our little terraced house on Fågelvägen seemed to have passed without any real conscious thought. My parents were dead now, but, to be fair, they were both well over seventy when they died, so not even that could be counted as particularly traumatic. And I still had my sister, even though we didn’t see much of each other these days. The best thing about her was her kids. In limited doses. I was undeservedly happy with my tranquil existence here in my apartment, and I’d never really dreamed of anything more. I hadn’t had a proper relationship since Sunita, and naturally I sometimes wished I had a girlfriend, but I had to admit that most of the time I was happy on my own, and the Internet came in very useful.

  I didn’t miss company. On the contrary, I was happy if I could avoid it. Especially compared to my sister’s chaotic life, trying to juggle work and preschool and vomiting bugs and family therapy sessions. I couldn’t really think of any injustice that had left any deep scars. Roger was always falling out with people. He often told me about the quarrels he had with his brother, or the National Insurance people, the Tax Office, people he owed money to, or who owed him money. Obviously I got upset and miserable sometimes, but most of the time I soon forgot about it and moved on. That sort of thing never really made much of an impression on me. I loved my parents, and of course I missed them, but I didn’t actually have a problem accepting the fact that they were gone. That was just the way it was.

  I tried to remember the last time I was properly angry. The previous week I swore out loud to myself when the handle of a paper bag broke and all my shopping fell out onto the pavement. I had to carry it all in my arms, and was seriously cross by the time I eventually made it back to the apartment. But it passed, and I was soon in a good mood again when I realized I had three copies of the Metro in the apartment with their crosswords still unsolved.

  Maybe I didn’t take problems seriously enough, and just took everything that was thrown at me without protest. Was I too gullible, too accepting? Should I set higher demands? Would I actually be better off if I was more suspicious, a better negotiator?

  I heated up a slice of pizza in the microwave. It was good, but there wasn’t enough of it. Then I sat at the kitchen table for a while, just thinking. The soft, warm summer air had become sticky and suffocating. It was difficult to think clearly, all my thoughts just bounced around. Any sense of true harmony was impossible to achieve. I noticed I was having trouble sitting still. So I phoned again. Even though it was past eight o’clock in the evening.

  “I’ve actually been very anxious,” I said.

  “You have?” Maud said. “When?”

  I pushed my knife and fork together on the plate and suddenly realized I was thirsty. I should have had a drink before I called. I could feel my mouth sticking together with nerves.

  “What?” I said. “How do you mean…?”

  “What days?”

  I gulped a few times.

  “You mean I’m supposed to remember exactly what days—”

  She interrupted me without apologizing. She was fed up of me now. I could tell. “If you want a deduction for anxiety, I need to know the precise times.”

  “I can get a deduction for anxiety?”

  “Provided it can be verified, or you can give us specific dates that can be compared with other activities that aren’t incompatible with poor mental health, then obviously you can set reduced mental well-being against your total E.H. score. What year are we talking about?”

  I nudged the cutlery round the edge of the pla
te, a bit like the hands of a clock, and did a quick calculation in my head.

  “Er…this year,” I said.

  “Month?”

  I wasn’t used to lying or making things up. My mouth felt even drier, and I got the impression it was audible in my voice. But on some level I felt I had to make the most of any opportunity, and took a chance.

  “January,” I said.

  “Okay, I can’t see any note to that effect,” she said.

  “No, but it’s true.”

  “Mmm…And on a scale of one to five, where one is normal and five incapable of any activity at all?”

  “Well, er…five,” I said.

  I thought it was probably best to exaggerate.

  “Goodness,” she said. “What date?”

  “The first.”

  “The first of January?”

  “Mmm. And the second and third.”

  “Okay. Any other dates?”

  I hesitated for a moment.

  “No, that was about it…” I said.

  “So everything was okay again on the fourth?”

  “Yes, I suppose so…”

  “Suddenly nothing?”

  “Er…yes.”

  I heard her take a sip of coffee or tea. A drink would have been nice.

  “Is this really true?” she said after a brief pause.

  I was a hopeless liar. I knew it. It would have been embarrassing to go on.

  “Well…no,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “I guessed as much. How about you and I agree to stop messing about now? Then we can try to come up with a proper solution to this instead.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling pathetic. “Sorry.”

  She murmured something. And I got the impression that she didn’t think it was that big an issue. That she was prepared to overlook it, and that she’d probably experienced similar things before.

  “But I do suffer from anxiety,” I said. “Honestly. I can’t remember any specific dates or exactly how bad it was, but…well…I feel really bad sometimes.”

  “Okay…”

  There was a different tone to her voice now. Sympathetic, somehow. A bit like a psychologist, maybe. Perhaps they were trained to sound that way, to keep people calm.