Thin Ice

by Mikael Engström

  ‘No, I don’t want it,’ he said, fishing in his mouth for a feather that was stuck under his tongue.

  ‘You’re brave,’ said Pi.

  ‘No. I got scared.’

  ‘You can actually be scared and brave at the same time.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Yes. Being a coward is something else. You came with me. That’s enough.’

  LETTER TO TONY

  Lena poured hot soup into a thermos.

  ‘Bengt has gone through the ice.’

  ‘What?’ said Mik. ‘Has he drowned? Has he …?’

  ‘No, Bertil saved him. But only in the nick of time. He was in the water for ages. Would you run down with the thermos?’

  Bengt was standing in his long johns, hanging wet clothes to dry above the stove. He swore and muttered and didn’t say hello. Mik pulled up a chair so he could reach the cupboard. He took down two bowls, poured out steaming hot soup and handed it to Bengt.

  ‘It was snowing so hard I couldn’t see a blasted thing. I went the wrong way and suddenly I was in the ice hole. Crack, and there I was in the water. I’ve done it before but this time I couldn’t get myself out.’

  ‘The knife?’ said Mik.

  ‘You had it. I forgot to put another one in my belt.’

  ‘But it turned out okay,’ said Mik. ‘Bertil saved you. You’re alive.’

  ‘OKAY?’ roared Bengt, like an angry bear. ‘OKAY?’

  There were waves in the soup. Mik stood horrified and silent. Bengt held out his arms.

  ‘I would rather have drowned than be saved by him.’

  ‘Why?’ said Mik.

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ said Bengt, shaking his head. ‘Now I owe him my life. I’m in debt. Hell, I feel sick just thinking about it.’

  Bengt removed the wet long johns and hung them above the stove. He stood naked in his kitchen. Blew his nose in the palm of his hand.

  ‘This is the worst bloody day of my life.’

  ‘Here, eat your soup,’ said Mik.

  The evening was clear, with northern lights. The storm had passed over. Brightly coloured drapes rippled against the sky. Mik sat in his pyjamas at the desk and bit his pen. The hawk owl came to rest in the tree.

  Mik put his pen to the paper and wrote.

  Hi Tony,

  I have never written a letter before. Where do I start? I have caught a dragon. It was strong and almost dragged me down under the ice. But I won. Now it’s on its way to France to be eaten in a posh restaurant. School here isn’t like school at home. Because everyone from first grade to sixth is mixed together in one class because there aren’t enough children to make more classes. The teacher is old and it’s very forbidden to swear anywhere near the school, which might be closed. Then we won’t have to go. There’s a girl in my class. She’s called Pi and she’s great. Filip’s a bit mouthy, but he’s a coward. Oskar’s fun, but he’s afraid. None of them dared to go into Maria’s house when we were going to give back the lost cat we had taken. We hide them in the factory until the reward is right. And I got a dead pigeon in my mouth. Auntie Lena is nice. She has burnt her dog and she burns books. I’m going to burn Gustavsson’s dog. Bengt went through the ice and was saved by Synchro-Bertil. They are brothers but haven’t spoken to each other for thirty years. I think there’s a whale living in Lake Selet but Bengt doesn’t think so. He has trouble pissing. So does Synchro-Bertil. There’s a flying troll that sits in the tree outside the window. Konsum is going to be shut down. Then Lena will have to shop at ICA instead. But she says she’ll never do that, because here you’re either a Konsum person or an ICA person. There’s no pizzeria, video shop, underground, commuter trains, traffic lights or escalators here. It’s weird. Even Bengt and Bertil have got a satellite dish. Without a satellite dish you can only get TV2. The forest mountain is in the way.

  Mik read through the letter. He had included everything and thought it was a good letter, considering it was his first. But he added,

  I’m staying here. Lena has promised I can.

  Pi’s …

  Mik looked out of the window, fiddled with the pen and thought. She’s … What kind of words were there? He had suddenly come into an area that was completely unexplored on the map, empty of words. He wrote,

  She’s good. I like her.

  How are you? Bye,

  MIK.

  The stairs creaked. Lena came up with sandwiches and milk. Mik put his hand over his letter.

  ‘Are you writing a new Christmas list?’

  ‘No, it’s only a letter. To Tony.’

  ‘Right. I can post it for you.’

  ‘I’m going to forget about that list. It’s childish. Only small kids write to Father Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t go in for Father Christmas, either,’ said Lena, putting down the tray. ‘All that Christmas stuff isn’t my thing.’

  Mik picked up a sandwich, started to eat and said, ‘I don’t go in for Christmas either.’

  Lena laid her hand on his head and ran it tenderly down his neck.

  ‘Promise never to go out onto the ice.’

  ‘All right. But I can go fishing with Bengt, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course, but not alone. And always in warm boots.’

  Lena thought for a moment and changed her mind. ‘But he did go through the ice himself, so …’

  ‘Bengt’s big and heavy. I don’t weigh anything. And he didn’t have a knife.’

  ‘Okay then. But never alone.’

  ‘I promise.’

  FATHER CHRISTMAS SMELLS OF PIKE

  It was Christmas Eve and Mik realised he was going to miss the Disney Hour on TV. But that didn’t matter; he’d seen it plenty of times before. But even so, an orange, and Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse, and Chip ‘n’ Dale, and Jiminy Cricket – wasn’t that the moment Christmas happened, when Jiminy Cricket sang?

  Lena didn’t have a television. They had talked about that.

  ‘Do people have to have one?’ said Lena.

  Mik thought for a while and decided that probably people didn’t. He wasn’t entirely sure. But it was odd. Everyone had a TV. It was like not having a toilet, or a cooker, or clothes.

  ‘It’s a matter of principle,’ said Lena. ‘Neither TV, radio or newspapers are going to determine my daily routine.’

  Mik wasn’t actually sure what Lena meant but he knew he was missing Donald Duck.

  ‘You can go down to Bengt at three o’clock,’ said Lena. ‘He’s got a huge flipping TV. But first we’re going to make pizza.’

  There were other things, too, that were different and odd. There were no Christmas decorations in the house. No tree, no tinsel, no Christmas elves, no angels, nothing. Only ice patterns on the windows. They were pretty and a sign that it was terribly cold outside. They spread upwards on the windows when the temperature fell to minus twenty degrees.

  ‘I suffer from Christmas psychosis,’ said Lena. ‘I feel panicky and get a kind of allergic reaction to houses full of Christmas hysteria. The whole Christmas thing makes me ill.’

  ‘Why?’

  She thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  ‘Rotten Christmases when I was a kid.’

  ‘I got a hockey stick and a puck last year.’

  The phone rang. Lena answered and had a short conversation, hung up and turned to face Mik.

  ‘Hilma’s burnt herself making toffee. It’s not a major problem, but would you run over with some salve?’

  Mik pulled on his thermal trousers and boots, his ski jacket, mittens, hat and scarf and stepped outside into the silent cold winter landscape.

  He felt like an astronaut equipped to withstand minus two hundred degrees. He looked around, took out his mobile and held it in front of his mouth like a walkie-talkie.

  ‘Astronaut on distant ice planet reporting to the mother ship. Everything is sparkling white and the ground is creaking under my feet. You can breathe the air if you’re careful. Steam is coming out of my mouth. No other signs of l
ife here. Oh wait, yes, now I see a space alien. What is he doing? Well, he’s emptying a potty. Base, can you hear me? A space alien emptied a potty. Do you require me to take samples?’

  Base did not require that, so Mik requested to be beamed up.

  There was something wrong with Gustavsson’s dog. It was sitting in front of its house, facing the wall. On its head was a red hat with a white pompom, held on with an elastic band, and under its chin hung a white beard. It turned its head and threw a long, ashamed look over its shoulder.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ shouted Mik.

  The dog whimpered faintly and turned to face the wall again.

  The whole of Pi’s house was red. Red and hot. It smelled of food; it smelled of oranges; it smelled of toffee. It smelled of Christmas Cola that had frothed over. And Christmas music blared from the radio. In every window were stars and candles. The curtains were red, the tablecloths were red and Pi was dressed in a red dress with a red ribbon in her hair. Her grandmother Hilma was red too, and the hand she had burned was bright red.

  ‘Come and look at the tree,’ said Pi.

  It stood in the middle of the floor with gold tinsel, red baubles, angels and elves. Presents were piled under it. Mik felt he would faint from overheating in his astronaut suit, or perhaps he was about to faint because Pi looked so incredibly beautiful there in front of the tree. Her white smile in the middle of all that red.

  She straightened her dress, took a few dance steps in front of him and stretched out her hands towards the tree.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely? I decorated it myself.’

  The house was full of people. Cousins, second cousins, uncles, aunties. The little children were prodding and shaking the presents. The house vibrated with expectancy.

  ‘We’ve made a snow lantern that’s shining out there,’ said Pi, dragging Mik to the window.

  He came up close to her. She smelled good. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to creep in under the Christmas tree, take Pi with him and live there for the rest of his life. To creep in under this Christmas and stay forever. It made him go dizzy. His brain was filled with a red, twirling shimmer and in the middle of all the red Pi’s mouth laughed. Red lips with white teeth. He had become red-blind.

  Pi’s mum danced into the room. ‘Come on, kids,’ she said, ‘Let’s dance round the tree.’

  Grandma came in and started dancing and the radio belted out ‘Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus’.

  ‘Don’t want to,’ yelled the children, rummaging among the presents.

  ‘But Grandma thinks it’s fun,’ said Pi’s mum. ‘Come and dance now, for her sake.’

  Grandma twirled around the tree, whee-heeing and whoo-hooing, and frightened the smallest child, who started crying.

  Mik went out into the hall and Pi followed.

  ‘I’d better go now,’ said Mik and looked over Pi’s shoulder at several men standing in the kitchen, drinking.

  ‘You can stay if you like.’

  ‘No, I’ve got to get home. Donald Duck and …’

  ‘Do you want some toffee?’

  She gave him a whole bag and bent forward and kissed him on the mouth.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said, and he staggered out into the cold as a kind of mist filled his head.

  Gustavsson’s dog was still sitting facing the wall with the Santa hat on its head.

  ‘Have you got Christmas psychosis?’ shouted Mik.

  Bengt had a china Father Christmas on his kitchen table, but apart from that there was no sign of Christmas. His TV in the best room was silver and unbelievably huge. It didn’t fit in with the odd assortment of furniture in the crowded room. It looked as if it had travelled through a hole in time and landed here.

  Mik sat on the floor and Bengt sat in the armchair. The picture was amazing, almost like the cinema.

  ‘Super Trinitron tube,’ said Bengt. ‘Seventy kilos. Got it cheap now everyone wants flat screen TVs. Do you know how many channels I can get?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fifty-one, but that’s including Turkish and Albanian and who knows what bloody else.’

  ‘That’s a lot,’ said Mik.

  ‘But I watch videos mostly. Doris Day. See, on that shelf? I’ve got videos of all her films.’

  ‘Doris who?’

  ‘We can watch one some evening,’ said Bengt and put down a bowl of nuts. ‘April in Paris is best. What a woman!’

  It got to three o’clock and Disney Hour. Chip ‘n’ Dale were mean to Pluto and Donald Duck was angry in the jungle.

  ‘He’s funny, that crazy bird,’ said Bengt.

  But he didn’t like Ferdinand the bull sitting under the cork oak tree.

  ‘Someone ought to chop down that bloody oak.’

  The bull smelled the flowers.

  ‘He’s gay.’

  But Bengt thought one of the picadors was funny. It looked like Bertil.

  Baloo started singing.

  ‘This is the best one,’ said Bengt and sang along for a few lines until he got the words muddled up.

  Bengt was all right, thought Mik. Bengt was just being himself. There was nothing else hidden behind there. Nothing that would suddenly jump out and scare you. Bengt said he thought like a pike, and what he meant was that he always knew where, when and how they should be caught. But he probably thought more like Baloo. He was actually quite like that stupid jungle bear.

  Christmas flickered from the super Trinitron. Robin Hood stole the king’s money and during Lady and the Tramp Mik suddenly thought of Pi. He knew very well why.

  When you wish upon a staaaaar, makes no difference who you aaaare. The candle melted. And that was the end of Christmas Eve.

  ‘Now you must go home and wait for Father Christmas,’ said Bengt and switched off the television. ‘I’ve got a difficult crossword puzzle to solve.’

  He got up out of the armchair stiffly, coughing badly. He cleared his throat and said, ‘Then we can go fishing early tomorrow morning. You’re going to catch the big pike.’

  ‘I’m too old for Father Christmas and I haven’t asked for anything.’

  ‘Not asked for anything? What do you mean? Everyone always wants a load of rubbish. It’s all about using up the world’s resources to make brightly coloured toys. That’s the meaning of life. And here you are, not wanting anything. What’s going to happen then? The whole machinery will grind to a halt. The stock exchange will crash. People will lose their jobs. Suicide and worldwide depression.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  Bengt laughed.

  ‘Are you a communist?’

  Outside it was dark and the stars twinkled in the sky. No wind, no sound.

  Light streamed from every house. There were fairy lights in garden trees, strings of rope lights flashing along house roofs. Shining Father Christmases in the gardens. Flashing Happy Christmas signs. The whole village sparkled like a firework in the winter darkness. And over there, on the other side of the river, the forest began. No troll would dare make its way to the village on such a night. Mik sang, ‘When you wish upon a STAAAAAAARRRR.’

  He shouted, ‘When you’re fishing from AFAAAARRRR.’

  Then he yelled with all his might, ‘When you wonder where you AAAAARRRGGGHHH!’

  Gustavsson’s dog began to bark and Synchro-Bertil opened his door and came out onto his front steps.

  ‘It’s Christmas,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mik.

  ‘Want a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Well, Happy Christmas, then.’

  ‘Happy Christmas to you.’

  Mik and Lena lit candles, ate pizza and didn’t wait for Father Christmas. They burnt books and played board games.

  ‘We’ll honour this day by burning classic literature,’ said Lena, putting a pile of books in the stove. ‘August Strindberg, and here’s a Joseph Conrad but it’s a bad translation. Then I think we’ll have some Hemingway with our mulled wine.’
>
  ‘Mulled wine?’

  ‘It’s alcohol-free, so you can have some.’

  ‘No.’

  Lena looked at him. The table was full of candlelight that glittered in her eyes. It was lovely and calm; everything was all right. Nothing would happen. Nothing could happen. Lena leaned across the table and ruffled his hair. The candle flames flickered.

  ‘My dad drank too,’ said Lena. ‘He was also an alcoholic and around Christmas he would be drunk for several days. One year, when I was ten, he got so drunk and mad that he wanted to shoot my mother. He had a shotgun. Something just snapped in his head and we were chased down into the cellar. My big brother protected Mum. He stood in front of her. I wet myself.’

  ‘Did he shoot?’ said Mik. ‘Did he shoot your brother?

  ‘No, Dad lowered the gun and went. He fell asleep in front of the TV and we hid the weapon. After that he was dead as far as I was concerned. Christmas was also dead.’

  ‘But your brother, he was all right, wasn’t he? He saved your mum?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Lena.

  ‘What a brave brother you’ve got.’

  ‘Yes. He’s your dad.’

  Mik didn’t understand at first. His thoughts froze and trillions of snowflakes fluttered in his brain. Lena was his dad’s sister. Dad’s sister, but …

  ‘The worst thing,’ said Lena, ‘was that my mum also started drinking. They would get as drunk as you could possibly get. I was always worried in case something happened. And Mum hit Dad, and …’

  Lena fell silent and stared into the candle flames. Wax dripped down onto the table. She went on, ‘That anxiety, it crawled around in my body all the time.’

  ‘The Snake,’ said Mik.

  ‘The snake?’ Lena looked at him.

  ‘Snake Alone with his back-to front-scales.’

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ said Lena. ‘Like a snake with back-to-front scales.’

  ‘But …,’ said Mik. The thoughts still whirled in his head. ‘…if the same thing happened to Dad, why does he … Why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s a curse, things repeat themselves through generations,’ said Lena. ‘And that snake you mentioned can get very thirsty as time goes on.’