The Childhood Friend I Don’t Remember

He is the childhood friend I don’t remember.

That he’s my childhood friend has been explained to me, that we were children at the same time and that we met. He visited us at the house, we ran into each other on an island off Möja, and our mothers worked together. All of these encounters have been described to me in detail, but I remember nothing. Not a face, not a feeling. Nothing. It’s as if a meticulous censor has crept into my inner archive and wiped all the files. In the childhood friend, however, there exists a mirrored backup: every mood and scent, the secret hiding places beneath the stairs, the dynamic within my family and, of course — me.

The first time I meet him, I’m an adult. By then, he has already explained, through text, that we know each other from before, after which he recounts things I don’t recognise, but which my mother confirms are true.

Oh, Erik! she says, a warmth lighting up her expression, and she describes his rosy-cheeked mother who worked at the school and kept everyone in good spirits. The conspiracy thickens. Desperately I try to plant memories, thinking that if only I can get some tiny nerve cell to respond, perhaps an old, dormant network might spark back to life. However vividly the summery game on the rocks is described to me, or however gently I hear about his brother’s mild temperament — nothing.

We meet at Gunnarsson’s café, having been nudged together via social media and seemingly having a fair bit in common. Most things, it turns out, though I don’t realise that until later. When I meet him for the first time, he’s meeting me for perhaps the fourth or fifth or more. Where I’m forming a new acquaintance, he’s deepening an existing one that stretches back decades.

We sit across from each other, just a stone’s throw from our homes. There’s something familiar about him, not in appearance, but in expression. He gives off a warmth and an affectionate tone I associate with people I’ve known far longer. The conversation flows seamlessly, even though I talk more than he does. He’s at ease in the situation and seems genuinely interested — as though I’m laying out the pieces of a puzzle we share.

The following year, we don’t see each other. Perhaps we’re the kind of people who don’t need to meet that often. He has things going on: becomes a father, leaves Stockholm for Öland, opens a burger restaurant and writes books about birdwatching. I follow it all from afar, through my phone. I picture peace and love in those beautiful rooms, not with envy or resentment — partly because I’m not prone to such things, but also because we’re friends from way back. Just one I don’t remember.

One autumn, he invites me down. I can stay with his family for a few days, he says, justifying it by saying he’s working on a novel and would like to discuss the craft with a writer. He asks me, which in itself isn’t surprising (he’s expressed admiration for my writing for years, at times with a disarming tenderness). It’s as if I represent something in him, like a yet unplayed symphony. That what I do somehow resonates with his life as well.

I’m still waiting for the great depiction of Saltsjö-Duvnäs, he occasionally remarks about our childhood neighbourhood. He’s probably the one who ought to write it.