Culture
Of:
Jack Hilden
This is a cultural article which is part of Aftonbladet’s opinion journalism.
Came to Sweden in 1990 – now she sees a different country
When Slavica’s restaurant burned down, she did not live for several months afterwards. The set fire at Pappagallo i Hag eater did not hurt anyone physically, but her life’s work was destroyed in a matter of hours. The restaurant that has become her obvious focal point since she fled Yugoslavia in 1990, when the war broke out.
The year 2025 was only three days old when the alarm call came during the night. In addition to the completely destroyed restaurant, the apartment building in the same building was also damaged. No one was arrested, and the preliminary investigation was dropped in November of the same year.
I meet her outside a café in Hagsätra, an early spring morning in May. Her son, Milanhas forewarned that she may not be as I remember her. The fire took a toll on her, he has said. He is the one I contacted to arrange the meeting, and several times he has doubted whether it will even be possible. But as soon as I see her in the square, I’m happy. A little grayer in the hair, sure. But that energy, that enthusiasm that can almost be exuberant bordering on the aggressive, I don’t even have to talk to her to see that it’s still there. The first thing she says to me is:
– Jack, what do you want to do with this?
Yes, whatever I do? A few months earlier I am here alone, to see Rågsved IF qualify for Division 1. Then it is a decaying autumn. Niklas Strömstedt and Andreas Johnson’s “Hagsätra IP” is played from a can speaker as the players’ studded boots click against the asphalt before they come out onto the pitch. I buy a club scarf for one hundred kroner that is sold on a plastic table. That little Rågsved is even relevant for Division 1, i.e. something approaching elite football, is something of a feat. They beat IFK Östersund convincingly. Later, they fall in the next qualifying round. But this particular evening, many people are there, there is a loud cheer when 2-0 is rolled in on penalties and afterwards I go to the neighborhood pub and have a beer. I barely have time to put the glass down before someone far too drunk ensnares me in conversation.
That’s how it was then too – when I lived here, in Rågsved, for six years. Every now and then I come back. I’ve been thinking about why I, like Bruce Springsteen who told me that during sleepless nights he used to drive to his childhood home just to look at it, constantly having to return here. To the place where we got cats and took care of them, while alternating between pre-party, party and after-party.
I always had so much time. I think about that as I leave the bar – time was plentiful. I have walked the rain-soaked asphalt roads at Hagsätra IP until the soles wore out. Rye wood was considered so remote and unsought after that it opened up an opportunity – it belonged to us. Where we now live, in Bagarmossen, houses enough media junkies that you will never really be able to reach the blessed state of being disconnected, on your own. I like Bagis, but it’s not mine.
In addition, the abundance of time about to change. When Rågsved wins over Östersund, there is a month or so left until my daughter is born. I know that time will soon contain something else, a state I cannot yet fully grasp. That is probably why I return.
One of the places that housed the sluggish ticking of time was Pappagallo. A small strange oasis in an area that was otherwise mostly characterized by the suburban square’s classic mergers of pizzeria and bar. Pappagallo was something else. Black and white tiles, red and dim lighting. Pleasant atmosphere, except on the occasions when all the town’s thirstiest decided to gather at the same time. Everyone seemed to know each other.
And then Slavica ruled. Behind the till and on the floor. Often there was something rushed about her, but she always greeted with a “Hello, friend”, when you entered through the doors. She still does. Sometimes I get a light pat on the shoulder or knee, like she wants to check that I’m still following along. When asked what I should do with this, I answer that I want to write about everything that happened for Aftonbladet. She whistles a little.
– You know, we ended up in Dagens Nyheter once. Maybe twenty-five years ago. It was two journalists who came out of nowhere, you know, like you do. I was preparing today’s lunch, with plates and cutlery so that it would be ready when the guests arrived. A guy your age came and just “Hey, I have a newspaper for you”. I had a coffee machine where I put all the bills and the mail that came in, I just threw it away on the pile. After a while the phone started ringing like crazy. People wanted to know if we were Pappagallo. I just: Yes? The phone kept ringing, but I had so much to do. I didn’t understand what happened. I don’t read Swedish newspapers, Dagens Nyheter is just something that… you know, it’s not for me. But in the end, a juggler friend called and congratulated him on the nice text in the newspaper. I gave the magazine to my husband and told him to check. They had even drawn us on the map.
One of the things she still cries about is that text. It hung framed in the restaurant, and disappeared along with everything else.
– But from that day, my restaurant just like this.
She points upwards.
In the former Yugoslavia Slavica worked as an economist. The restaurant industry was not something she even reflected on. Everything was there where she lived: mountains, seas, a continent that was easy to travel around.
– I was a happy person when I was young. I was happy. Neither I nor my husband could believe that such a thing could happen there, even in the worst nightmare. Then came -89, it really started, you just feel it… and the month of November, that was our last time there. My husband said that’s enough, we’re going to Sweden.
Slavica’s partner, whom she usually calls “the old man” had been in Sweden from time to time over the years. She herself was twenty-five years old the first time she came there. She left Arlanda and immediately picked up a dustpan, started tidying up his newly found pizzeria in Hökarängen. At that time, she experienced that the country of Sweden just stood with open arms and waited. There were jobs, and she was welcome.
Next time me visiting Rågsved it is early summer. This time with a stroller. The pizzeria on Hagsätra torg has opened its outdoor dining area. The Alkis have thus moved out into the sun, not that it changes anything, the same difficult-to-define atmosphere where all parties seem to know each other in different ways, and cross between the tables. If you stay for a while, you notice who likes each other and where factions have arisen. A kind old man advises me that babies like it when you rattle your keys in front of them. He’s looking for contact, just like that kind of man usually does. I imagine he was once a loving father, but sooner or later the drinking took over, and now the relationship is strained. Otherwise, you don’t sit here.
Pappagallo’s outdoor dining was the place where I started drinking alone. When my girlfriend was away, I walked the short distance and sat down. On the fake marble tables I had a book and a beer, and the tables were so close to the thick bushes that you could smell a vague smell of earth and dog poo. Wasps circled the glass.
Slavica was quickly drawn into restaurant life. They acquired Pappagallo early on, but have sold it and reacquired in installments. She’s the kind of person who always has to work, doesn’t want to screw around. For a while they got a restaurant right out in Stavsnäs, Gustavsberg.
– It was 53 kilometers from my accommodation. Almost every day for four years we went back and forth, me and old man. He drove there, I drove back because…
She raises her hand and drinks from an invisible bottle.
She tells about the first time she went to Stavsnäs. The roommate had only said that it was Gustavsberg, not that Stavsnäs belongs to the farthest tip of the municipality, where the boats out to the archipelago go.
– He said I could take the bus, at that time I had never even taken the subway. I was like from another planet. Everyone was looking at me on the bus, because I didn’t know if the seats had a number or what to sit on. I had to ask the bus driver if you could sit wherever you wanted. There were no signs as to when the station would appear, and I was ashamed to ask. What kind of a bitch can’t read? So it was just a matter of sitting and waiting. An hour passed, and finally Stavsnäs arrived. I thought about scolding my partner, he had cheated on me. But when I got off and saw the water, it reminded me of my hometown.
Slavica and her partner worked at the restaurant in the summers. She loved it.
– People who live there are relaxed, they were born there. They pay, but aren’t the tipping type. But if they want extra gorgonzola or beef tenderloin, they pay. They just want quality.
Something Slavica returns to is a feeling of betrayal and humiliation. She is the kind of person where wounded pride is among the worst things there is. She was usually warm towards the guests, but she could also bite. There were visitors who had to endure some pretty harsh jargon if they didn’t behave. But everything pales in front of the disappointment she feels for those she thought would protect her from the worst. Basically, she loves Sweden. When they visit family in Montenegro, she says they should Home when it’s time to go back.
– I have never had a problem with the Health Care Authority or hygiene or anything like that. But they come to us so often, especially us out-of-towners. Two policemen came one Friday when the place was completely full. I felt: what are my guests really going to believe? But after the fire they were nowhere to be found. We have been harassed for a long time, and they have not said a word or come to us.
The feeling is not new. What she experiences as racism and segregation has crept in. Both in the children’s school and in her professional life. For a few years they had a restaurant on Kungsholmen.
– We asked the city of Stockholm if it was possible to fix a small outdoor terrace where people can sit in the summer. We were immediately refused. I didn’t like it there at all. My son asked me what was wrong – if I don’t have lipstick on, he knows I’m the unluckiest woman in the world. We sold the place. But last week when the weather was nice, I thought it had been a long time since I took a walk. I made it to Kungsholmen. You know, today there is outdoor dining on the street. It hurts. They denied me like this.
She snaps her fingers.
– It’s glazed, right at the edge. People can barely walk on the sidewalk. I hadn’t even asked for that whole bit.
It is Slavica who offers me the coffee, not the opposite that usually prevails when you interview someone. At the cafe, she walks up and hugs one of the guests, who used to be one of her own. For six months after the fire, she was broken, sick. After that she started working again, though not with anything that could bring anywhere near the same joy.
But a few hundred meters away, a renovation is underway. Pappagallo is so slowly building up, even if it’s a few months away. Slavica’s name is still on the contract. She longs to return.
– I now feel like a bird without wings. It was my second home. And my guests said I was in every centimeter of the walls. I loved them. I had neighbors who came in slippers and pajamas and asked “Slavica, do you have some milk”, or wanted cigarettes or to borrow money. Go ahead, whatever.
She calls the son so that I can talk to him. I’m not sure what to say, but thank you for arranging the meeting. He was the one who showed my byline picture to Slavica, and that’s when she remembered me.
– But you had longer hair then.
We talk for a while about our children. Hers, who live their own lives. Mine, who just learned to sit up straight. It’s important to be careful, she says. “Then it’s kindergarten, and then…”
She claps her hands together, as if to say: Then it’s already about to end.
