conference in May. I need to ask him…’
‘Yes, ask him what he does best. I think that’s a good move,’ said Peter, suspecting that victory was almost his. ‘And be sure to tell him that he gets to take part in a press conference in the spring.’
Knowing Tomas, he would rush to turn down the position. I’m doing you a favor, buddy.
‘Otherwise, are you willing to jump on board and write something more accessible?’
‘Me? Absolutely!’
14
Reproduction refers to the worker’s daily recreation of his own or others’ labor power. This includes everyday tasks – such as food preparation and laundry – that maintain life and the worker’s ability to show up to work. Much of this household work has historically been the responsibility of women, which is why reproduction is of particular interest to feminist economists.
From Vera’s reading in the university library
Vera refused to buy the brown bra; she said something incoherent about it ‘not being her.’ But she thanked Cissi for her help and bought a simple white bra that fitted properly. She also returned the red dress to Formal Clothes. Cissi didn’t understand. Wasn’t the problem solved? she asked.
Vera tried at first to explain. ‘I felt like I was in costume.’
‘Life is a theatre,’ Cissi shrugged her shoulders, ‘Who isn’t in costume?’
The objection was on the tip of Vera’s tongue. Why should I want to be dressed up like Playmate of the Week for assholes? Vera sensed that Cissi wouldn’t have anything against being looked at the way Peter had looked at her, and she could imagine that Cissi would look like a real bombshell in her low-cut, gold, draping dress at the banquet next weekend. But Vera felt all wrong in the red outfit, and she decided that she would go to the second-hand shop to look for a long dress that was more discreet.
When she got home, Vera put on ‘Enter Sandman’, turned the volume up high, and went into the bathroom. She washed off the make-up, removed her contact lenses, and put her hair up in a ponytail. After carefully wiping her glasses, she put them on. Vera looked at herself in the mirror, changed her mind, took out the hair tie, and arranged her chestnut-colored curls into their usual braid down her back.
She hated feeling like a cliché, and she realized that she had spent half the day doing just that. As much of a cliché as the girl in the endless parade of American films where the premise is that if the smart, boring girl in glasses would just take off her spectacles and go on a crazy shopping spree to buy provocative clothes, she would discover that she could hook up with the most popular hunk in school. It was like they were trying to drum into the ears of girls everywhere the message that happiness lies in trying to live like Paris Hilton. Consume more, thought Vera, and shivered uneasily. She realized that she needed to eat.
Matt and Vera had eaten dinner together and they were still sitting at the table talking when Peter came into the kitchen with a bag from the local grocery store. Peter’s hair was wet and he was carrying a gym bag. He glanced toward the table as he put the milk in the refrigerator, and when he saw that Vera was there he stood up so quickly that he hit his head hard on the cabinet door that he had just opened. Peter smiled tentatively, glanced shyly at Vera and quickly disappeared out of the room with his hand over his forehead.
Although it wasn’t her intention, Vera heard how critical she sounded when she asked: ‘When, in fact, was it his week to take care of the kitchen?’
Matt looked at Vera in surprise: ‘What are you talking about? Did something happen?’
‘No, I don’t know.’ She shrugged her shoulders and bit into her flat-bread sandwich.
‘So you’re just negative for no reason?’
‘I’m not negative!’ Vera knew how unconvincing her answer sounded, and Matt looked at her critically.
‘I didn’t suspect that about you.’
Like you know anything, thought Vera, and immediately felt ashamed of herself. Why am I so touchy? It’s not Matt’s fault! She tried to fix things.
‘No. Well, you know. That girl, Sandra, the one who eats here sometimes. And her, the Asian one…’ Vera gestured with her hands, sweeping them from beside her face downwards in front of her body to illustrate long, loose, dark hair.
‘Aye. Linda,’ Matt nodded.
‘And today, downtown, I saw that he…’ she went silent, looked down at the table, ‘made contact, like he wanted to be with a third one.’
‘Aye. Lots of lasses. But maybe he can’t control his, what do you call it, his charisma?’
‘He is a complete “spaller”!’ Vera exclaimed.
‘Huh?’
‘It’s a north Swedish dialect word but I think it came from English. It means… something unstable. But even such a spaller could at least try to control himself!’ She took another bite.
‘Are you sure? That girl today – maybe she is Miss Right?’
Vera thought she heard steps from the hall, as Matt continued.
‘Maybe he’ll be faithful to her for the rest of his life?’ Matt got up and picked up his plate. His brown eyes twinkled mischievously and he suddenly began to sing. An unexpectedly rich baritone filled the dorm: ‘Where do I begiiin, to tell the story of how great a love can beee?’
Vera tried to stop him. She stood up hastily and got a piece of flat-bread stuck in her throat. She shook her head, coughed, sat down again and waved her hands helplessly. Matt stopped singing, sat down beside Vera and thumped her on the back.
‘Oh! Do you want me to…?’
Then Peter came back into the kitchen. He had put on clean clothes and fixed his hair, as if he were going to see someone special. He looked at Vera, who had recovered sufficiently that she was at least getting enough oxygen. She put her plate down on the counter before she hurried out of the kitchen blushing.
‘I’ll wash my plate later,’ she whimpered between coughs.
Vera spent a lot of time at the university library. She had an idea what she wanted to write about, something that was needed to secure future welfare. She surfed online and searched the library catalogue using the words ‘economic reproduction’, ‘care deficit’, and ‘basic needs’. She copied stacks of journal articles and borrowed books. It got dark early, and she hobbled slowly home, leaning against her bicycle up the hill through the rustling pine grove, her head full of things she wanted to have said. It was only when she was going downhill that she carefully rode her bike, because she could not bend her left leg enough to pedal a full circle. Adam wouldn’t like this, she thought as the bike rolled downhill and she exposed her weakened leg to the risk of even greater injury. But do ‘we’ even exist any more? The question pained her.
On Monday she went to the department to see Cissi and discuss her chapter. Cissi was upset. There was some problem
