Swedish Tea Sets

remembered from January...


“…Sweden is incredible. All is white and old, European looking and stylish. It’s maddeningly spectacular…”
Beatrice took me, our second night in Sweden together, to the family home of her dear friend Carl Hugo. Carl Hugo had just returned home from a stay in the emergency room due to a sudden heart attack which had sprung forth of his chest during a spritely game of squash. His parents thus invited some of his friends over for a heartfelt gathering of condolences and support immediately post New Years, post-hospital release. Among the attendants was myself, and Bea, her friend who is a dentist, a marvelously beautiful blonde Swedish woman and her adoring African boyfriend- Inya.
It was Inya who captivated my attention.
I can still play the scene back in my mind step by step- I was smiling politely through the rather dull conversation which, naturally- as it was primarily among rather conservative friends excluded me- was occurring on the couches of Carl Hugo’s posh living room. The doorbell set forth such a magnificent motion of events. In came Inya and the Lady- elegant, unknowingly gorgeous, and they seated themselves across the carpet from my perch.
Inya was black.
In a wintered country of white snow, white skin, white hair- it was a thrill to my heart to see a Nigerian within my scope of vision. It was a mere few seconds until we established our African connection and then we both were lost in the merriment of our own conversation.
Carl Hugo’s mother provided white linens on the dining table, delicate china, typical Swedish holiday desserts and the most robust coffee for her guests as we sat discussing miracles, the establishment of Dutch churches and dentistry.
Throughout the entirety of th evening- my eyes kept darting the smoothly polished upright piano in the corner. At this point, I had not been able to touch a piano in months, and now here one stood, keys exposed, and the only thing between the keys and my desperate fingers was a rather formal tea party of Swedes.
By the end of tea-time, I had shamelessly offered that I had played piano for years and “My! What a lovely piano you have!” to such welcomed demographic that I was asked- nay, begged to grace the company with my notes.
I sat shaking with overwhelming happiness on the bench and delicately, timidly, danced my fingers through a melodic step through the key of D, nearly bringing myself to tears.
My heart has never felt so at home- so rescued. So clearly elevated above its abyss of deprivation, I could feel it rising in my chest with each treble trill. Then, beauty of all beauties- my eyes fell to the hymn book propped on the piano and I cracked it to Silent Night and let the haunting melody drip from page to resounding chords as Inya quietly, worshipfully sang along behind me. I heard the gratitude in his voice recognizing the unanticipated holiness of the moment and I only pray he felt my consumed, wrecked companionship seeping from my heart to the notes in that silent night, that holy night.