The Invoice Read Online Free PDF

first few questions…”
    “Okay,” she said after a brief pause. “Question number one, then…let’s see…age, gender, education…But I suppose what you really want to…okay, here it is: Do you think your life has a purpose, a meaning? And you answered…”
    I imagined I could hear her running her finger across the page to the column of answers.
    “Yes,” she continued. “The first option, in fact. ‘Agree strongly.’ ”
    Yes, that was true. I had a clear memory now of having given that answer. I wondered if I might have replied with the first option to almost all the questions. I mean, it felt a bit cool to stick to the same response. Sort of like shrugging my shoulders at the questions. Not taking it too seriously.
    Maud moved on to the second question.
    “Do you feel that your opinions and ideas are listened to at your place of work?”
    What opinions and ideas?! I could hardly have any ideas, apart from renting films to people who came into the shop. Maybe sell the odd bag of crisps or two-liter bottle of soda. Jörgen didn’t give a damn about any opinions I might have. We never talked about that sort of thing. I got paid, and I kept the shelves tidy. That was all. What was I supposed to answer? Most of the time I just stood there thinking about other things, trying to keep an eye on the time and when I could go home. Sometimes Roger would pop in, and if I had time I’d stand there chatting to him. Maybe check out a few videos on YouTube. I thought it worked pretty well, and I certainly didn’t have any better suggestions about how to run things.
    Maud was about to read out the third question, but all of a sudden I felt I didn’t want to hear any more, and said I had to go. I don’t even know if I said goodbye properly.

With some reluctance, I had to admit that I was actually pretty happy with my life. I didn’t really have anything to complain about. No impoverished childhood, no addictions or abuse or emotionally cold upper-class teenage years at a prisonlike boarding school. The years I spent in our little terraced house on Fågelvägen seemed to have passed without any real conscious thought. My parents were dead now, but, to be fair, they were both well over seventy when they died, so not even that could be counted as particularly traumatic. And I still had my sister, even though we didn’t see much of each other these days. The best thing about her was her kids. In limited doses. I was undeservedly happy with my tranquil existence here in my apartment, and I’d never really dreamed of anything more. I hadn’t had a proper relationship since Sunita, and naturally I sometimes wished I had a girlfriend, but I had to admit that most of the time I was happy on my own, and the Internet came in very useful.
    I didn’t miss company. On the contrary, I was happy if I could avoid it. Especially compared to my sister’s chaotic life, trying to juggle work and preschool and vomiting bugs and family therapy sessions. I couldn’t really think of any injustice that had left any deep scars. Roger was always falling out with people. He often told me about the quarrels he had with his brother, or the National Insurance people, the Tax Office, people he owed money to, or who owed him money. Obviously I got upset and miserable sometimes, but most of the time I soon forgot about it and moved on. That sort of thing never really made much of an impression on me. I loved my parents, and of course I missed them, but I didn’t actually have a problem accepting the fact that they were gone. That was just the way it was.
    I tried to remember the last time I was properly angry. The previous week I swore out loud to myself when the handle of a paper bag broke and all my shopping fell out onto the pavement. I had to carry it all in my arms, and was seriously cross by the time I eventually made it back to the apartment. But it passed, and I was soon in a good mood again when I realized I had three copies of