smeden, Sweden; codes and conversation
Jörn laughs at me when he discovers I have been trying to learn svenska (Swedish) in secret
So he tests me; he says,
“show me what you know so far....”
He stands there challengingly with a kind of smug look on his face
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” I ask
He holds up one hand like a crosswalk cop and then does the underhanded wave, ‘come’ and says, fast as whiplash
“prata på svenska....” And raises his brows with a shrug and a nod
“....hmmm?” I ask trying to rewind those sounds in my head
He says it again,
“prata på svenska....” but still, it comes out fast like a bebe gun shooting rounds
“Ok? Uh.... how do you say slow down?” I ask
He smiles holding back a laugh,
“kan du tala långsammare....” (which he says just as fast)
He looks at me and does that wave again and walks over to me
“Ok.... kan du tala l-luuu....”
He stands close to me, and looking down at me repeats it over me staring into my eyes. So I try again ....but he is not satisfied—he does this several times making me repeat like a drill sergeant and each time he says it again he waits with an imploring nod
It is about five or six more tries before he begins laughing and says,
“you had it right about six tries back,” he pulls me to him in an apologetic embrace and says,”but you’re fun when you are confused,” but then he laughs and says, “säg något....”
?
.....?
Covertly I reach for my phone as I still have it on me and dig into my purse mumbling “.....mmm hmm.....” and nod wondering how that’s spelled.... (somehow I figure it out).
But he sees what I’m doing. He seems to think it’s a comedy act and is openly laughing at me by now,
But once I realize what it means I know how to answer and so I say,
“Jag vill att mitt namn ska vara jordgubbe.”
Jörn takes me by the shoulders and sets me back a few inches to take my phone away. He looks at my phone and shakes his head as he says,
“Du vet att du bara kallade dig en jordgubbe?”
So I try the phrase again,
“Kan du tala l-la—“ and get stuck on the long word
“Långsammare,” he says laughing at me
But I have lost my patience for now and so just say,
“yes I want to change my name to Jordgubbe,” I tell him (because, it is—so far, my favorite Swedish word) and so I repeat it, “jordgubbe.... jordgubbe....”
I notice he puts my phone far away from me as he walks across the room to his piano. Without warning he sits down and dramatically pounds the first several bars of Bach Taccata and Fugue in D minor in rapid succession on the piano keys, then just as suddenly stops so that the last notes are still echoing in the room as he says, turning towards me from the piano bench and says to me,
“and why, min lilla duva, are you studying my language? Are you concerned my contract with the philharmonic is nearing the end?”
Only I don’t know how to answer him. I walk around the vast room and search the surfaces of the tables set at various places between the piano and the rest of the open room. He tends to prefer minimal design so there are not many objects to distract myself with. I find his phone and wallet but only to touch it and then set down
“I know so very little about your world,” I tell him, “is it strange to you that I want to know?”
“No, of course not,” he says, then taps the piano bench at a spot next to him and says, “come sit beside me.”
When I go over to him he begins to play something. He then stops and reaches around me to play with me inside his arm. I find this surprisingly intimate. He takes my right hand and places my fingers on the keys. In a soft voice he says, “you used to play, I remember you said.... play these keys....” and he shows me, running his fingertips along my fingers. We play it together, his long fingers over mine. He takes his left hand and plays something else. Then we do the same keys again. He shows me another combination in the same range and plays more at the same time with his left hand.
He is warm next to me, I feel the heat of him through the crisp linen of his shirt and the subtle scent of his body that always smells so good. And always seems to drug my thoughts. His music moves me. His passion.... I find easily caught up in
we do this awhile and I follow his patterns.... so easily—as though I read his mind.... a very intimate kind of secret conversation and.... it feels intensely erotic and strangely—almost— only.... while yes, it is erotic it seems, too, to come from some deeper place.... some higher place; yet lower too. It is powerful and somewhat.... almost dark
So it is through this music and his closeness that an image comes to me. A memory. It is another memory. A dream maybe I dreamed last night? I don’t know. But it is the forge, the fire and a memory of his hands but ....I don’t know why ....I suddenly say,
“svärd.”
He stops playing suddenly
He looks at me. After awhile he asks,
“what made you say that?”
I shake my head because I know it wasn’t something from the Swedish phone app. It wasn’t from anywhere.
He says,
“were you reading my mind? I was just thinking about something I thought about today I was .... passing ..... the Met and —you said the word just as I thought it just now.... what made you do that?”
It is so strange to me too. I am just as baffled and shake my head. I say,
“I think I dreamed it” I look up into the vampire eyes that dazzle like a pirate’s gems and hear this phrase again from my dream, “—mid..... midnattssol ....svär—dtillverkning....svärdtillverkning.... “ I say it aloud with hesitation not knowing why but somehow knowing what it means—“it was last night....you woke up again in the night and I had this dream.”
Jörn’s look within his eyes is almost spooked and he says,
“the midnight sun. I had the same dream last night.... smeden.”
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