Never Fuck Up: A Novel by Jens Lapidus Read Free Book Online Page A

the allotment gardens one more time?
    He thought, How am I doing, really? The time at DynCorp marked its men, he knew that. There were plenty of stories about guys who hadn’t been able to handle the safe existence in their home countries.
    Max 650 feet left to the building’s entrance. He slowed down. Walked the last bit. Let his blood sugar settle. His breathing slow. He loved his gadgets. Material that breathed—his shirt was hardly even wet from sweat.
    The sky was a clear blue. The leaves in the flower beds lining the street were a clear green.
    That’s when he saw it. On top of an electrical cabinet.
    Dammit.
    He didn’t know they had those running around outside in Sweden.
    Over there, the place was overrun with them. But that was different—there, he was dressed in Kevlar-reinforced camo pants tucked into high, hard military boots. Equipped with weapons—if they came too close, he showed no mercy. Let their little brain substance speckle the gravel. That almost made it okay.
    But now.
    The rat stared.
    Niklas remained still.
    No boots—low Mizuno running shoes.
    No reinforced pants tucked in—just shorts.
    No gun.
    It remained still. As big as a cat, he thought.
    The panic started creeping up on him.
    Someone moved inside the entrance to the building.
    The rat reacted. Jumped off the electrical cabinet.
    Disappeared along the side of the building.
    Niklas opened the door and stepped into the entranceway. Inside, a girl was throwing out trash. Maybe twenty-five years old, long, dark hair, coal-black eyebrows, brown eyes. Pretty. Maybe she was a haji, what the Americans called the civilians down there.
    He started walking up the stairs. Sweaty. But it didn’t feel like it was from the run. More from the rat shock.
    The girl followed. He fumbled with his keys.
    She stood outside her door, on the same landing. Checked him out. Opened the door.
    Dressed in sweat pants, a big sweatshirt, and flip-flops.
    Then he realized—she was his neighbor. He should say hi, even if he didn’t know how long he’d be living here.
    “Hi, maybe I should introduce myself,” he said.
    Without really having the time to realize it himself, he heard his own voice say,
“Salaam alaikum. Keif halek?”
    Her face broke into a completely different expression—a broad, surprised smile. At the same time, she looked down at the floor. He recognized the behavior. Over there, a woman never looked a man in the eye, except the whores.
    “Do you speak Arabic?” she asked.
    “Yeah, a little. I can be neighborly, anyway.”
    They laughed.
    “Nice to meet you. My name is Jamila. I guess I’ll see you around. In the laundry room or something.”
    Niklas introduced himself. Said, “See you later.” Then she disappeared into her place.
    Niklas kept standing outside his door.
    Happy, somehow. Despite the rat he’d seen down there.
    In the kitchen, four hours later: him and Mom. Niklas was drinking Coca-Cola. She’d brought a bottle of wine. On the table: a bag with almond cookies that she’d picked up too. She knew Niklas loved those particular cookies. The dry, sweet taste when the cookie got stuck in the roof of your mouth. Nursing-home cookies, Mom called them. He laughed.
    The apartment was sparely furnished. There was a worn wooden table in the kitchen. Covered with round stains from warm mugs. Four wooden chairs—extremely uncomfortable. Niklas’d hung a T-shirt over the back of Mom’s chair to make it a little softer.
    “So, tell me. What really happened?”
    It was like pushing a button. Mom leaned over the table as if she wanted him to hear better. It poured out of her. Disjointed and emotional. Hazy and horrified.
    She told him how a neighbor’d woken her up. The neighbor said something’d happened in the basement. Then the police showed up.Told everyone, “No need to worry.” They asked strange questions. The neighbors were standing outside, on the street. Talking in low, frightened voices. The police cordoned off the