“Comes Home and Is Nice” — Lars Ahlin (translated by Tobias Freeman)

“Kommer hem och är snäll,” in Inga ögon väntar mig, Stockholm, Tryckeribolag Tiden, 1944. 

Translator’s introduction: If Lars Ahlin (1915-1997) were known at all outside Sweden, he’d be known as the Swedish ‘writer’s writer’, with the vague mix of praise and apprehension that term confers. Ahlin’s first novels and short stories from the early 1940s largely stayed within the bounds of the sociopolitical realism that dominated Swedish literature at the time. The postwar years saw him take a radically different direction, writing increasingly experimental novels in which he attempted to create autonomous literary worlds, often by using language to produce an existential fusion between novelist and reader. Realism, Ahlin felt, needed to be expressed not through the descriptive conventions of narrative, but in language itself. The text translated below comes from early in Ahlin’s career, and is among his most well-known. Like all his stories, it tends to realism without embracing it.

When Sören Hellgren came home a little drunk, he only took off his galoshes in the vestibule. He pushed his hat to the back of his neck, buttoned up his coat and stepped inside and tried to appear happy and at ease.

— Here I come. Am I expected? he said a little sardonically.

He held out a bag to his wife. 

She was busy dusting. She had just taken down a bunch of things from the cupboard and put them on the table. She had just a minute ago started with the dustrag, but now she pretended she’d been at it a long time. But she had just left the window. For several hours she’d stood there watching for him.

— You were just supposed to go there and back, she said now.

— I also went there and back, he sniggered.

— You were supposed to be back latest one, she said.

— And now it reads six, he said.

— Why don’t you keep your word?

— Aren’t you going to look in the bag?

— You can put it over there, she said. You can see I’m dusting, can’t you?

— I don’t like your tone, he said.

— Why don’t you take off your coat? she said.

— Why don’t you look in the bag?

— Take off your coat, she said, but she looked in the bag.

There were a few apples, a couple of oranges, and a small cluster of red grapes in it.

— Say what you want, but you’ve got a nice guy, he said and put his hand under her chin.

She started back.

— Just about nice enough, I think. Take off your coat, Sören!

He pretended not to hear her and instead walked around the table and began to whistle.

— Any letters?

— No, she said.

He placed himself in front of the desk and began rummaging through some papers. He continued whistling. He continued walking around the table. He walked daintily on his heels and then clapped the tips of his shoes together. She continued to dust without looking at him. When he moved behind her he began to tap dance. He executed a little twirl. It was an invitation.

— Don’t you hear? he said, and then repeated the twirl three times.

But she continued to dust with her back turned to him. Then he grabbed hold of her hips and tried to kiss her on the neck. But she gave him a shove and cried out:

— Cut that out!

— Okay, that’s how it is, he said. One is not welcome home. No no, in that case one can just leave again then. He made a very haughty grimace and leaned his body backwards.

— One might as well go then…

— Stay! she yelled and spun around. You have to stay.

She looked upon him with dark, despondent eyes.

She was blonde and heavily built. She was very pretty in her blue dress and white apron. She had full, strong arms, and a broad chin and a stubborn mouth. Her girlfriends often told her to deal with Sören “wisely.” She understood what they meant, but she could never manage putting this wise method into practice. She couldn’t banter with him. She couldn’t pretend to be content. She couldn’t forget that he was drunk and had done wrong.

— Give me a kiss, he said.

— Please Sören, you know I want what’s best for you. Take off your coat!

— Give me a kiss, he said.

She controlled herself violently and went over to him, took off his hat and stroked his hair. He lifted up her chin and kissed her. She couldn’t prevent a couple of tears running down her cheeks.

— Why are you crying? he said. I’m coming home and being nice.

— You should have come home like you said, she said and ran her hand over his chest. I’ve stood here and waited…

— Don’t you trust me? he said.

— Can I take off your coat?

— No rush.

— But there’s no reason to keep your coat on, she said. Take it off and lie down to rest. I’m going to cook a really good meal for you.

— I’m not hungry, he said.

— Of course not, she said, and became bitter again. Of course you’ve been sitting at the Runestone, eating and boozing. 

— But now I’m coming home and being nice, he said.

— How much money have you lost?

He took a step back from her and was very offended. He slammed his fist into the table and shouted:

— When I come home and am nice I want to see happy looks, otherwise I’ll go out again. Do you understand?

— Take off your coat, she pleaded and moved close to him and tried to take it off but he hit her hands away.

— One comes home and is nice, but one is greeted by sour looks! he yelled. No wonder that one takes one’s leave when one has gone off and married someone like you. Were I worse than I am, you’d never see me home at all. But I, I come home and am nice and have bought your fruit, but you don’t even look in the bag.

— I’ve looked in it, she said.

— But you’ve goddamn me not said thank you, he shouted.

— Thank you very much, she said and reached out her hand to him, but he slapped it away.

— I don’t see a trace of gratitude in you, goddamn hypocrite! he shouted.

— As you wish, she said and felt she couldn’t take it any longer.

Oh, she thought, if I was just made differently anyway! I should be like Anna. She laughs and is happy whichever way her man comes home. She flirts with him and gets his clothes off him and gets him into bed. Sometimes he hits her, but she smiles at him anyway. One could think she didn’t feel anything, but she does. She suffers. I know her. Oh, I should be like her!

She went into the kitchen. He put his hat on again. He put it jauntily on his neck. The yellow hair fell down over his forehead. She liked him so very much. She would have liked to press him to her. She would have liked to tell him that she hated herself for not being easy-going and the way he wanted her to be.

— One comes home and is nice, he said.

He placed himself over the saddle between the living room and the kitchen.

— One comes home and is nice, he said again.

He became very happy at these words. Although he’d already said them several times it was as if he’d never known them up until now, he felt. There are no truer words! They’re right on the money! he thought, and he nailed them to the ceiling and they became a trapeze and he could hang his entire life on the trapeze and it would continue to carry his weight.

— One comes home and is nice, he said. Do you realize I could have hung about much longer in town? I could have been having a damned good time now. Instead one comes home and is nice toward a sourpuss. Goddamnit how nice and dumb I am!

She walked to and fro in the kitchen and didn’t know what to do with herself.

— “You stay here with us,” Richard said to me. “You’ll get home eventually.” No, I said, my little lady is waiting for me. I want to go home to my little lady. “Are you under her heel?” cried Richard. Like hell, I cried. But I like being at home. I like my little lady because she’s damned practical. “Come to the Gambrinus Hall at least,” he said. No way, I said. I’m going home to my little lady. “You’ve gone soft,” he said. “We’re just about to have a rowdy damn time. I’ve got a plan to get a full bottle. I’m pretty damn sure of getting my paws on a full bottle before dark,” he said. “You can come home with me, Sören. We’re going to sure as hell have a good time at my place,” he said. No, I said. I’m going home now. I’m going to pop into Berg’s and buy a little fruit for my lady, I said. She’s so eager for vitamins, I said, and I only said good things about you, you goddamn sourpuss.

She stood by the stove with her back to him.

— One comes home and is nice, he said again and was very glad he’d found these words. They hung like a trapeze above his head, and he jumped up and grabbed hold of the trapeze and he could do many wonderful somersaults. He also took a whole series of events and threw them up and the trapeze held damned well whatever he threw up there. Sometimes he hung on it from only one side, but it held up even so.

— One comes home! he just said.

He was very surprised by the fact that he was home. It was incredibly noteworthy that he stood where he stood.

For God’s sake! he screamed. I could have gone with Richard. He’s the truly happy sort. Yup, what a good time one could’ve been having now! One could have slept with some cursed lusty girl by this stage. But here one goes home instead.

— Sören, she said and went up to him and put her hands on his shoulders. You know I want the best for you. Get undressed. You’re only going to regret it tomorrow if you go back to town again. If you won’t think about me, think about the money.

He pushed her away and held her away at arm's length.

— When I look at you, he said, I become more and more surprised that I came home. Damnit to hell, how nice I must be! When I look at you it really goes straight to my head that I must be the nicest guy on earth.

She left him and didn’t know what she was going to do.

— Damnit to hell, how nice I am! he yelled.

She wished she could smile. She wished she could flirt with him. Anna could flirt with her man when he came home drunk. Even though it burned in her heart, Anna could laugh and smile. He wasn’t given the slightest sense of how hard she had it. Anna was a wonderful woman. She could never reach such heights. She couldn’t be easygoing. She couldn’t shoot down what was right and true and ignore it. She was a bound and unfree person, that she knew, but she couldn’t do anything about it.

She went into the pantry and filled a large bowl with potatoes. Then she took the bowl to the sink and began washing them. It was wholly unnecessary, since she herself did not want food and he didn’t want food either. But it made it easier to have something to do.

— One comes home and is nice, he said again, but now he didn’t feel as happy as before. 

He looked around and his face was almost blank. The words were no longer a trapeze above his head. There was a fence between him and her. If she’d appreciated that he came home even so! he thought. If she’d appreciated his bag of fruit. If she’d understood that he hadn’t only given into temptation but also overcome a lot, yes, he’d overcome the hardest part, then he wouldn’t be standing here in his coat and hat, then he’d have her in his arms now.

— One comes home and is nice, he said.

But now he got nothing out of the words. He fell into despair. My God, he thought, how stupid and unsuccessful our marriage is. How stupid and unsuccessful I am. I should be different. Tyra should have got another husband. Everyone says she’s the most decent woman around here. She can take care of the house, she can! Why in the hell can’t I be as decent as she is? Why can’t I be given a crumb of her good sense?

He looked at her. She tied a dirty, striped apron over the white one and now sat on a chair with the large bowl in her lap. Beside her on the floor she’d put a white enamel bucket filled with a little water. In her hand she held a yellow potato peeler. She’d already peeled several. At regular intervals white, beautiful potatoes splashed down into the bucket. She peeled carefully, making thin peels, and she removed all the black spots with the tip. Soon the peels covered all the potatoes in the bowl. She had to drive her hands ever deeper to get a hold of them.

He stood a long time and looked on. Wretchedness deepened in him. He couldn’t bear it without becoming desperate. 

— One comes home and is nice, he screamed again. But despite one’s coming home and being nice, one is confronted by a goddamn sourpuss who regards one as worthless. I only needed to see the whites of your eyes when I came in through the door to understand that: God, I’m so stupid to come home to this one and be nice.

She kept silent and peeled. She understood now he was going back to town again. He’d continue drinking and losing money and destroying his body and his conscience. He was going to go home with that Richard. They were going to drink themselves senseless and then they would have other women.

Ah! It exploded inside her. Why hadn’t she turned out differently? Why couldn’t she bargain away what she wanted in order to please him?

One comes home and is nice! he shouted. But here at home one cannot be. Goodbye!

He leaned himself in through the doorway over his fence of words. He felt he’d reached the record bottom of vileness, but he couldn’t help his scornful grimace towards her and his disparaging gestures.

— Goodbye, sourpuss! he yelled.

He swung around and began whistling. He took a few turns around the table. Then he began to tap dance. It was as a farewell:

Taptaptap tap tap! Taptaptap tap tap!

She had stopped peeling. She stared down into the bowl at the small, dirt gray serpentine peels. She suddenly got the idea that they were a brain, a human brain, or maybe God’s brain, or maybe the brain of existence, which lay sprawling in the bowl in her lap. 

Her despair was complete and became in some way definitive. It acquired an out-of-body reach. It encompassed all of reality. Nothing could save itself over on the sunny side of the world. The most fundamental things were corroded. Everything merited despair.

The pain that took hold of her was nearly stupefying. It swept her into a black sky. She would have been annihilated had it continued, she thought later. She couldn’t have continued existing in this hellish realm. Far, far away she heard Sören’s taunting farewell dance. It died away more and more and nearly reached the threshold of soundlessness.

Then she suddenly rushed up and ran into the room and threw herself against him.

Sören! I am so terribly afraid! she shrieked. You have to help me!

She forced herself into him and fastened her mouth to his mouth.

— O, how I love you, how I love you so much! she whispered into his cheek. Forgive me. It’s my fault. Believe me even so. I love you so incredibly. I would like to be exactly the way you want me to be.

He became nearly sober. An ice cold stake went right through him. He became so ashamed he could neither swallow nor breathe. He felt he would soon break into tears if she didn’t stop whispering the words she was whispering now. Ah! He could have offered his life to see her radiant. He felt he was unworthy of everything else. To caress her, to kiss her: all these things were impossible and inexcusable. He could have died for her, nothing else would level his guilt.

— To hell with the devil, he said in a thick voice. Let him go to perdition.

But she drew him to the chaise longue. She took off his coat, his jacket and collar. They lay down and pressed against each other and they lay completely mute hour after hour. The ache in their souls loosened. He knew he hadn’t changed. She knew she hadn’t changed. Both knew that what had happened tonight would repeat itself, maybe next Saturday, maybe some other day. But that knowledge was no longer an obstacle between them. It came to them with its ordinary meaning reversed, allowing them to taste each other more deeply and more wholly.

***

Lars Ahlin was an award winning Swedish author and aesthetician. Critics have compared Ahlin to Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Thomas Mann. Among the awards he received are the Prize of the Nine in 1960, the Great Novel Prize in 1962, and the Small Nobel Prize in 1966. In 1995, he won the Swedish Academy Nordic Prize, known as the “little Nobel.”

Tobias Freeman teaches philosophy in the south of France.