The End, page 26
“Most people don’t go into the city anymore, unless they have to. There isn’t much to do around here.”
The tracks whistle and sing below us. Light approaches at the end of the tunnel.
“Shit, that’s lucky,” Johannes says, and leads us to the edge of the platform.
More newspapers and trash whirl up onto the tracks. The oncoming train is an older model. I glimpse the driver, a woman who looks like Judette, and wonder how she can stand spending her final days like a mole in these dark tunnels. Or is work the only thing that gets her out of bed?
What would I have done if Tilda hadn’t died? Kept partying like before, doing anything to not to have to think?
The doors open in front us. I recognize a politician among the people leaving the car. He’s shiny with sweat in his suit, possibly on his way to the Parliament House.
We sit by an open window in the middle of the car. As we leave Central Station, Johannes asks us if we know how Amanda’s doing, and Lucinda tells him she’s met up with her a few times.
“Maybe you could say hi from me?” Johannes says. “She doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”
“I don’t think I can,” Lucinda says. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”
“No. Of course not.”
We come out of the tunnel, passing Gamla Stan station and farther along the bridge. Fresh air blows through an open window.
“The subway doesn’t stop here anymore,” Johannes says. “The hall downstairs is flooded. The pumps have broken so many times, they finally decided to just shut it down.”
I gaze out at the beautiful old houses lining the water. They seem to glow in the sunset. People are sitting in sparse groups along the quay.
“Lucky you were there when Simon got that message,” Johannes says to Lucinda.
I sit quietly, watching them without really listening, enjoying seeing two people I care about so much getting to know each other.
The train stops at Slussen. A long-haired man in a leather coat is playing the guitar on the platform outside our window. I know the song. Emma used to listen to The Doors. This is the one about the end of the world.
People step on and off the train before it continues on. No one looks at me, wondering if I am a killer.
“I hope no one we know did it,” Johannes says.
“So do I,” Lucinda replies. “Because in that case, they knew Simon and still just let people think he did it.”
I glance at her. That’s an angle I hadn’t even thought of. But I push the idea away. I’ve come here to let all of that go.
By Hornstull, Johannes tells me that lots of people in his commune have converted to Buddhism. He thinks that a lot of what they say makes sense. Lucinda wonders how it’s all going to work after Foxworth, when there won’t be any more bodies to be reborn into. Johannes looks at me, and I can tell he likes her. He says that the people he’s talked to are open to the idea of other dimensions and timelines, even other civilizations in other solar systems.
The driver calls through the speakers that we’ve arrived at Liljeholmen, the final destination. We get to our feet, grabbing the same rail so we won’t lose our balance.
My hand touches Lucinda’s again. I don’t move it.
When we step out of the car, we’re outdoors for the first time since we came to Stockholm. The air’s hot and dry, smelling sweet and musty thanks to long-since-abandoned garbage cans. We take the escalator up and reach a desolate plaza with a large mall. All that remains of the building’s vast windows is broken glass. A few local drunks have gathered around a couple of benches.
We walk in the opposite direction, past a streetcar station, continuing along a road with tracks embedded in the pavement, passing buildings made of straight lines of glass and metal. On poles supporting overhead lines hang ads for a ballet at the Royal Opera. One shop window is filled with sun-bleached posters offering great deals on graduation caps. The road bends in a gentle curve. We turn left at the intersection and reach an old industrial area.
“Here it is,” Johannes says, and points to a worn brick building in front of us.
For years, the house—on its way to being demolished—has offered low rents to artists, writers, designers, activists, small presses, comic book artists, spoken word poets, and a couple of eccentric IT millionaires who skipped out way before we found out about the comet. Now, more and more of them have decided to move in permanently, and have invited others to join them.
A large rainbow flag hangs over the façade, and desks and office chairs line the street. An old computer lies with its screen flat against the pavement. It looks like it’s been thrown out a window.
The front door is decorated with two ornate old-fashioned lamps that don’t seem to fit with the rest of the building. WILH BECKER CORP is carved into the stone above a door covered in stickers and glued-on notes.
“Welcome to my place,” Johannes says, and punches in the door’s code.
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0042
We’re here now. I’m writing this in Johannes’s cramped room. He shares it with two other guys, but tonight, they’re letting Simon and me borrow their beds. There’s a factory chimney outside the window, and the lake is visible beyond the industrial park. A lone, red light bulb glows from the ceiling.
I think two hundred people or so are staying on this floor alone. Everyone seems to have lived on at least one other continent at some point. And I don’t dare to comment on anything I see, because I’m not sure if it’s an art exhibit or just garbage. In one room, sponges hang from the ceiling. But there’s also a beautiful mural that some comic book artists have made, depicting blue giants and robots and a girl in a spacesuit. I wish I could send you pictures.
I love the vibe in this place, despite the fact that it makes me feel like the least remarkable person in the history of the world. Then again, that also has its upside: no one’s staring at me. Lots of people here are wearing wigs, even without cancer.
I’m drinking dandelion wine straight out of a plastic bottle as I’m writing this. It’s so sweet, it makes my throat burn. I didn’t realize how potent it was until a girl convinced me to let her do my makeup—when I closed my eyes so she could add eye shadow, everything started spinning. She and her girlfriend have a queer feminist theater company that is livestreaming a show to a warehouse in Berlin tomorrow. I didn’t really get what it was about, but they told me about it very solemnly.
Maybe drinking alcohol isn’t the best idea in the world, but it feels so good that it can’t be entirely unhealthy. Somehow, it feels like everything’s going to be okay.
I have to take the opportunity to confess something now, or I never will (and I said I was going to be honest with you). I think I have feelings for Simon. I’ve had them for a while, but haven’t admitted it to myself even. It’s so embarrassing. I think I felt it the first time we met on the dock. Or maybe it was when Tilda and I spotted him in the halls during the first weeks in high school.
Falling in love while waiting for the world to end is insane. So many feelings, and they’re all so big and incompatible, and there’s not enough room inside my body for all of them. I feel like I’m going to explode. Sometimes, I dare to think that he has feelings for me, too, but I’m pretty sure that I’m imagining it. Simon’s still in love with Tilda. I’ve become one of those dominoes, remember?
Is it weird that I don’t feel bad about him having been Tilda’s boyfriend? She wanted him to be with someone who could give him what he needed. Am I that person?
It doesn’t matter. Nothing is going to happen between us.
I have to go before they start wondering what I’m doing. Plus, keeping one eye closed to see what I’m writing is starting to be a pain.
I like Johannes. And he seems to like me, too. That’s the worst part.
The best thing would be if I could find out what he was doing that night without asking him point-blank. Simon would hate me if he knew what I was doing.
P.S.: Apparently, Buddhists believe in aliens. I may be reborn as your son or your pet. Keep an eye out.
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0043
Lucinda: Hello, my dear friend! Now you’re finally going to meet Simon.
Simon: Hello!
Lucinda: And Johannes.
Johannes: Hi.
Lucinda: Tell them where we are.
Johannes: We’re in Vinterviken.
Lucinda: And I’m drunk for the first time in my life.
Johannes: Is this the first time?
Lucinda: Yes!
Simon: Cheers!
Lucinda: Cheers!
Johannes: Cheers!
(pause)
Johannes: What do we say now?
Lucinda: Just say something.
Johannes: Do you think someone’s listening?
Lucinda: I don’t know.
Simon: We’re listening, aren’t we?
Johannes: Okay. Seriously, then. I love that you’re here.
Simon: Me too. I needed this.
Lucinda: Me too. This place is so fucking nice, Johannes.
(pause)
Lucinda: Do you think you would’ve moved to Stockholm if it hadn’t been for Foxworth?
Johannes: I would have waited until after high school. That was the plan.
(pause)
Johannes: And it wouldn’t have been like this. I probably would have rented a tiny apartment with five roommates or sublet a place so far outside the city that the commute was three hours each way. And I would have been different, because everyone around me would have been different. It does something to people, doesn’t it? That we all know?
Simon: Mm.
Johannes: We’re not spending half our time worrying about the future.
Simon: There are still things I’m worried about, though.
Lucinda: Me too.
Johannes: Not me. You know what? If I’d known before that everything was ending, I would have stopped caring about what people thought a lot sooner.
Lucinda: But we’ve always known that. That everything is going to end at some point.
(pause)
Lucinda: Everyone says you only live once, but we only die once, too.
Johannes. True. (laughs) So, in a way, the comet doesn’t make much of a difference.
(pause)
Johannes: But I would have liked to live a little longer.
Lucinda: Are you going to be here on the sixteenth?
Johannes: Yes. I think so. These people have become my family.
Lucinda: Are you dating one of them?
Johannes: I don’t know what to call it. We are . . . We’re all . . .
Lucinda: You’re like one big happy incestuous family? (laughs)
Johannes: Something like that. (laughs)
Simon: I once told Tilda we should have an open relationship. But I don’t think I could have done it.
Johannes: I don’t know if I could do it, either, not in a relationship. This is something else. I don’t know. Things are different now. This is just how we live.
(pause)
Johannes: I can’t believe it’s only been a couple of weeks since I moved. I never thought I’d get over some things. But it’s like time is behaving differently somehow, isn’t it? Feelings, too. Everything is more condensed because it’s almost over.
Simon: I think I get what you mean.
Johannes: Good. (laughs) You’re usually pretty slow on the uptake.
Lucinda: I’m going for a swim.
SIMON
It’s amazing!” Lucinda shouts. “You have to get in!”
Just like Tilda, Lucinda is a different creature in the water. She laughs out loud a couple times. Dives and resurfaces.
I laugh, too.
Johannes and I are on the blanket we’ve spread over the grass at the edge of the bluff. He’s smoking a cigarette. Every time he takes a drag, his face emerges out of the surrounding darkness. Vinterviken was a short walk from the commune, but on the way I paid attention to so many aspects of the world that’s about to disappear: tall buildings stretching toward the sky, from the forested peak on the other side of a lake; beautiful, old wooden houses hidden under highways supported by pillars; an old dynamite factory converted into an idyllic café that now stands empty and undisturbed; tennis courts next to community gardens.
The final full moon ever is shining overhead, glittering in the water. We left the others by the first beach and continued on alone. I can still hear the music from a distance.
I’m so happy to be here, right here and right now, with Johannes and Lucinda.
“Have you thought about the fact that there will still be footsteps on the moon when we’re gone?” I say.
Johannes turns his face toward the sky. “No, but now I’m going to think about that every time I see it.”
“Lucinda was the one who told me.”
Johannes nods, flicking ash onto the grass.
“You know,” he says. “I like her. But having her here is kind of weird.”
“Why?”
He takes another drag on his cigarette. Glances at me. “Forget it.”
“No,” I say. “What do you mean?”
“I know I said I was fine with her coming, but I didn’t know you were in love with her.”
I stare at him in shock. “What?”
“It’s okay,” Johannes adds quickly. “I just mean . . . you know how I felt about you. And I meant what I said. I’m over it. It just feels sort of weird to see you together like this.”
“We’re not together,” I say. “I mean, I’m not in love.”
Johannes laughs. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other.”
I shake my head. Control the urge to ask him, How? Does she look at me, too?
“We’re just friends,” I say.
“So were we.” Johannes grins. “You really had no idea how I felt about you, did you?”
“No. I thought you were avoiding me because you were sick of me.”
“And here I thought I was being obvious.”
Johannes flashes me a wide grin. He takes a final drag on his cigarette before putting it out. I watch as Lucinda swims through the mirror-blank water.
Why has she actually come with me?
What does she feel?
What do I feel?
Something. I know that. But am I just trying to fill a space left behind by Tilda? Is it just my usual fear of being alone?
“Lucinda’s done so much for me,” I say. “She was the only one who believed in me, other than you. I don’t want to ruin anything.”
“We only have one week left.” Johannes lights another cigarette. “Maybe you’ll ruin things more by not doing anything.”
People on the other beach start singing along with the music. It’s an old Britney Spears song. The one about dancing till the world ends.
I take a gulp of dandelion wine and hand the bottle to Johannes.
“I spoke to Tilda in the square that night,” he says. “In the middle of the game. It was after you and I lost each other.”
I swallow the last of the wine in my mouth. It’s like drinking liquid sugar.
“Amanda had told her how I felt about you,” he continues. “But Tilda already knew. She got it way before I did.”
When he lifts the cigarette to his mouth, I see that he has tears in his eyes.
“I thought she’d be mad at me for Amanda’s sake. But she said that she, if anyone, knew why a person would fall in love with you. And then she said”—he clears his throat— “she said she knew what it was like to feel like you couldn’t be yourself. She said she’d always tried to be perfect and please everyone and . . . If you’re too good at it, you end up not even knowing who you are.”
In the darkness, I can picture it clearly. I can hear her voice.
Johannes looks at me. Releases smoke on a long sigh. It spills over the edges of his lips, rising into the sky, and vanishes.
“That’s why I gave up on the game and went home. That was the night I decided to come here. I’d already started messaging a few people.”
He laughs, lifting his phone from the blanket.
“Look at this.”
He swipes across the screen, again and again. Message after message after message appears. They wrote to each other all night.
“I packed while I was doing it,” he says. “I would have stayed if you had asked me to, but I’m glad I’m here. And Tilda is a big part of that. I wish I could have told her I’m grateful.”
“Are you coming, or what?” Lucinda shouts from the water.
Johannes smiles, throws an arm around me, and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll join the others. Stay for as long as you want.”
I take his hand. Squeeze it hard, once, before we let go. Then I stay where I am, listening to his footsteps fade away in the night, trying to digest what he’s said. About me and him, about Tilda and Lucinda.
I can’t do it.
So instead, I get up, take off my shoes and socks. The grass is so cold against the soles of my feet that I nearly change my mind, but then I remove all my clothes except my underwear.
“Are you coming?” Lucinda shouts.
“I’m going to try!”
I reach the slippery rocks, carefully dipping a foot into the water. It’s freezing. But I put my other foot in, too. Gather my courage. I lunge forward.
The cold leaves me breathless, washing the buzz out of my system. I try a few strokes. Snort.
Lucinda’s treading water, waiting for me. She looks happy. This is a glimpse of a Lucinda in a different timeline, without cancer or comets.
Our knees knock together when I reach her. The water is as black as oil, moving as smoothly as silk between us.
“Thanks,” I say.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
She wipes water out of her eyes.
“We still don’t know who did it,” she says.
“At least we tried.”
“Yes. We tried. With no results.”
“With some results.”
If she asks me what I mean, I intend to answer her honestly.
