Having said that, this is how it all did happen:

To begin with, Britt-Marie slept all night through for the first time since she had come to Borg. She slept the unreflective sleep of a child, and she woke up in great spirits. Another day. This alone should immediately have made her suspicious, because little good can come of waking up all enthusiastic like that. She leapt out of bed and immediately started cleaning Bank's kitchen. Not because she needed to but rather because Bank wasn't at home and the kitchen was just there when Britt-Marie came down the stairs. Simply put, she had never met a kitchen she did not want to clean. After this was done, she took a walk through Borg to the recreation center. Then cleaned it from top to bottom. Made sure all the pictures were hanging straight, even the ones with soccer balls in them. She stood absolutely still in front of them and looked at her reflection in the glass of the frames.

Today is the day after, and it's one of the absolute worst days of Britt-Marie's life. She has a bump on her head and apparently she has broken two fingers. At least that is what Ben's mother tells her, and Ben's mother is a nurse, after all, so Britt-Marie has to assume she is qualified to comment on such matters. They are sitting on a little bench behind a curtain at a hospital in town. Britt-Marie has a Band-Aid on her forehead and her hand in a bandage, and she's doing her absolute utmost not to cry. Ben's mother keeps her hand on her sore wrist, but she doesn't ask how all this happened. Britt-Marie is grateful for that, because she'd rather no one ever found out.

With this thought in mind Britt-Marie set off for the pizzeria, to wake up Somebody. They drank coffee and Britt-Marie inquired in a friendly way about postcards and whether Somebody happened to stock them. Somebody did indeed. They were extremely old and had the caption "Welcome to Borg" written across them. That was how you knew they were old, said Somebody; it was a long time since anyone uttered those words.

Britt-Marie wrote a postcard to Kent. Her message was very short. "Hello. This is from Britt-Marie. Sorry for all the pain I have caused you. I hope you are feeling well. I hope you have clean shirts. Your electric shaver is in the third drawer in the bathroom. If you need to get onto the balcony to polish the windows you have to wiggle the door handle a bit, pull it towards you, and give the door a little shove. There is Faxin in the broom cupboard." She wanted to describe how much she missed him. But didn't. Didn't want to cause any bother.

Then she rubbed the white mark on her ring finger. People who have not worn a wedding ring for almost their entire lives are unaware of how a mark like that looks. Some people take theirs off from time to time -- while doing the washing-up, for instance -- but Britt-Marie had never once taken off her ring until the day she took it off once and for all. So the white mark is permanent, as if her skin had another color when she was married. As if this is what is left of her, underneath, if you scrape off everything she turned into.

Britt-Marie immediately looked skeptical, but Somebody promised that her postal service was "the fastest in town!"

"Here," Somebody replied and pointed to the palm of her hand.

Then the two women had a short discussion about the yellow jersey hanging on the wall in the pizzeria, with the word "Bank" emblazoned on its back, because Britt-Marie couldn't quite manage to stop looking at it.

"We are! We were! Best mates before, you know. The whole thing with eyes. Before Bank moved, huh."

As if it was a clue to some mystery. Somebody explained helpfully that Bank did not know it had been hung up there, and if she found out she would probably be so angry that Somebody thought she might behave like a person "with something shoved up her arse, like a whole bloody what's-it-called? Lemon tree orchard!"

"You know, Bank hate soccer, huh! What's-it-called? No one like memories of good time when times are bad, huh?"

"I was under the impression that you and Bank were good friends."

"Might I ask for directions to the nearest postbox?" she asked Somebody.

"Why?"

"In the old days -- Bank loved soccer, huh. Loved more than life. Then this thing with eyes, huh. Eyes took soccer from her, so now she hates soccer. You understand? That's how life is, huh? Love, hate, one or the other. So she went away. Long, long time, huh. Bank's old man not like Bank at all, huh, without soccer they had nothing to, what's-it-called? Converse about! Then the old man died. Bank came here to bury and sell the house, huh. She and me now, we are more like, what's-it-called? Drinking buddies! You could say, we talk less now. Drink more."

"But you never talk about soccer?"

Somebody laughed drily.

Britt-Marie didn't laugh. Somebody cleared her throat.

"You know, here and there, when you have lemon in your arse you don't want to sit still, do you?" laughed Somebody.

"She was in London, Lisbon, Paris, I got one of them postcards! Have it somewhere, huh. Bank and dog, around the world. You know, sometimes I think she left because she was angry. But sometimes I think she went because this thing with eyes gets worse and worse, you know? Maybe Bank want to see the world before completely blind, you see?"

"Ha. Might one ask where she went when she left Borg?"

"Is it hard to get into that?"

"How did it happen? How did Bank lose her sight?"

"Ha. Is that something special?"

Britt-Marie was annoyed by this, so she didn't ask anything else. Instead she suddenly blurted out, to her own consternation:

"It's… national team," said Somebody, as if she found the question odd.

"Why is the jersey yellow? I was under the impression that soccer jerseys in Borg are white."

"Disease. Bloody crap. Came, what's-it-called? Sneaking along! Many years. Like financial crisis…"

"National team."

"It's… national team," answered Somebody, looking bemused.

Not that Britt-Marie is the sort who sticks her nose into other people's business, obviously, but still. She did wake up feeling enthusiastic today, and obviously anything can happen when you do. Her common sense was yelling at her inside, but by then it was already too late.

She found the postcard from Paris. Britt-Marie wanted so badly to hold it in her hand, but she stopped herself. Instead, she tried to distract both Somebody and herself by pointing at the wall and asking:

"I fell off one of them boats. When I was small, huh. If you wondering."

Somebody's eyebrows sank towards her sweater. "You know, Britt-Marie, people say Bank good in spite this thing with the eyes, huh. I say Bank good because this thing with her eyes. You understand? Had to fight harder than everyone else. Therefore -- she became the best. What's-it-called? Incentive! You understand?"

Britt-Marie wasn't entirely sure that she did. She wanted to take the chance of asking Somebody how it had come to pass that she was in a wheelchair, but at this point the sensible part of Britt-Marie put a stop to things, and in this she was backed up by common practice, because it certainly wasn't seemly to ask questions of this nature. So the conversation tailed off. Whereupon Somebody rolled back one full turn of the wheels, and then forward one turn.

"I know, Britt, I know," said Somebody, grinning. "You don't have prejudice. You get that I am human, huh. Happen to have the wheelchair. I not wheelchair that happens to have human in it, huh." She patted Britt-Marie on the arm and added: "That is why I like you, Britt. You are also human."

"I certainly wasn't wondering!" insisted Britt-Marie.

Britt-Marie wanted to say she also liked Somebody, but she was sensible about it.

"Flower? For who?"

So they didn't say anything else. Britt-Marie bought a Snickers for the rat and asked if Somebody happened to know of anywhere that sold flowers.

"But Bank likes beer! Take her beer instead, huh?"

"For Bank. It strikes me as impolite when I am renting a room from her for all this time that I have never offered her so much as a flower, it's common practice to give flowers."

Britt-Marie didn't find this very civilized, but she accepted that beer might be a little like flowers to someone who liked beer. She insisted on Somebody finding a bit of cellophane, which Somebody failed to do, but after a few minutes Omar showed up in the doorway and cried: "You need cellophane? I have some! Special price for a friend!"

Because that is clearly how things happen in Borg.

With this cellophane, which came at a price that Britt-Marie was certainly not prepared to categorize as very friendly at all, Britt-Marie wrapped up a can of beer to make it look decorative, with a little bow at the top and everything. Then she went to the recreation center, left the front door ajar, and put a plate with the Snickers on the threshold. Next to the plate she put a note, written neatly in ink: "Out on a date. Or a meeting. Or whatever it's called nowadays. No need to put away your plate when you have finished, it's no trouble at all for me." She wanted to write something about how she hoped the rat would find someone else to share its dinner with, because she did not feel the rat deserved to eat alone. Loneliness is a waste of both rats and people. But her common sense ordered her not to get involved in the rat's personal choices about social relationships, so she left it at that.

But in spite of all: it felt like something new, traveling on a bus on her own.

She turned off the lights and waited for dusk, because, conveniently enough, at this time of year the sun set well in advance of dinnertime. Once she had made sure that no one could see her, she briskly set off for the bus stop on the road leading out of Borg in two directions and left in one of those two available directions on a bus. It felt like an adventure. Like freedom. Not to the extent that she was unconcerned about the state of the seat, obviously, so she tidily spread four white napkins over it before sitting down. You had to have some limits, after all, even when you were out adventuring.

All the way, she rubbed the white mark on her ring finger.

The tanning salon next to the cash machine in the town was deserted. Britt-Marie followed the instructions on a machine that told her to put coins in it. Its display started flashing, and then half a dozen large fluorescent tubes in the hard plastic bed turned themselves on.

Britt-Marie is no connoisseur when it comes to solariums, and as a result she was possibly not very familiar with the basic functions of the machine. Her idea had been to sit on a stool next to the lit-up bed, sticking her hand into the light, and gently closing the lid on top of it. How long she would have to sit there bronzing her hand into one without a white mark on it she did not know, but she imagined that the process could not be more elaborate than cooking salmon in the oven. Her plan was to simply remove her hand now and then and see how it was all going.

It must have been something to do with the soporific humming of the machine, perhaps, as well as the heat of it, especially as she had gone around all day being enthusiastic -- that was how it happened. Her head slumped, as one's head has a way of doing when one goes to sleep on a stool, and then her forehead struck the lid of the tanning machine very hard, and her hand got horribly twisted under the lid. She rolled onto the floor and passed out, and now she's in the hospital. With a bump on her head and broken fingers.

"Don't be upset, things like this happen to the best of us," whispers Ben's mother encouragingly.

The cleaning staff found her, and this makes Britt-Marie even more indignant, because everyone knows how cleaning staff gossip at their meetings.

Ben's mother is sitting next to her, patting her on the arm.

Britt-Marie may want to retort something, but humiliation and common sense compel her to leave the room. The children from the soccer team are sitting in the waiting room. Quite decimated, Britt-Marie avoids their eyes. This is something new to her -- the feeling of having yearned for something, only to collapse on the ground. Britt-Marie is not used to hoping.

"No, they don't," says Britt-Marie, so that her voice cracks. She slips off the bench. Ben's mother holds out her hand but Britt-Marie glides away. "Enough people in Borg are giving up, Britt-Marie. Don't become one of them, please."

So she walks past the children and wishes with all her heart that they were not here.

Sven is waiting with his cap in his hands. He has brought a little basket with baguettes in it.

"Well, ah, I thought that… well, I thought you wouldn't want to go to the restaurant now… after all this, so I made a picnic. I thought… but, yeah, maybe you'd rather just go home. Of course." Britt-Marie shuts her eyes hard and holds her bandaged hand behind her back. He looks down into his basket.

"I bought the baguettes but I wove the basket myself."

Britt-Marie sucks her cheeks in and bites them. There's no way Sven and the children knew what she was doing in the salon, but this makes her feel all the more ridiculous. So she whispers:

"Please, Sven, I just want to go home."

He tries to say something when they stop, but she gets out before he has time. He's still standing outside his police car with his cap in his hands when she closes the front door. She stands motionless on the other side, holding her breath until he leaves.

So Sven drives her to Bank's house, even though she wishes he wouldn't. And wishes he'd never seen her like this. She hides her hand under the bamboo screen and more than anything she'd like to be taken back to her proper home. Her real life. And be dropped off there. She's not ready for enthusiasm.

She cleans Bank's house from top to bottom. Has soup for dinner, alone. Then slowly walks up the stairs, fetches a towel, and sits on the side of the bed.