“The lady who lives here,” my dad says, leaning the bicycle against a tree, “she looks a little different, you should know that.”
I never know how he gets his jobs; one day he just has them. It’s the same this time.
We walk up the steps to the terrace, the boards creak under our feet. As we stand outside the front door, my dad smooths back his long hair. He wipes his mouth, gives me the once over, and then he nods. He knocks three times before he opens the door. We walk through a large hall and enter a drawing room with lace curtains and porcelain figurines. My dad puts his hand on my shoulder. We wait for a few moments before the old lady appears from the darkest corner of the drawing room. Her face is wrong, contorted, but in the middle of her head are two human eyes. I’m on the verge of tears, but I can still feel my dad’s hand on my shoulder. I don’t look away and I hope he’s proud of me.
“Hello,” the lady says, leaning towards me.
For a moment I’m scared that she’ll take my hand. Surely they can both hear my heart beat; it must make a noise in this drawing room, far away as we are from cars and other people.
Then she starts to walk and it’s a relief to see only her back as we follow her out on the terrace.
“I used to play here as a child,” she says.
We look across an unkempt lawn that ends in dense bushes and trees.
“I knew the garden better than anyone. Of course, that was before it got so overgrown.”
I hear a scraping sound and I think she must be scratching herself.
“I want you to make me a path. It doesn’t have to be a nice path. Not everything that’s nice is good. I would just like to go for a walk without breaking my neck. Do you think you can do that?”
“Of course.” My dad pats her on the shoulder. “But it’s going to take some time.”
I can tell from the old lady’s shadow that she nods.
“And it won’t be a straight path. It has to be a winding path, crooked like the trees.”
Again her shadow nods.
“That’s why I want you to do it.”
When the old lady has gone back inside, I follow my dad around the house. Several times I nearly trip over in the strong, yellow grass. My dad opens the door to the garden shed and we hear the sounds of small animals scurrying away from the sunlight. Tools hang on the end wall. My dad takes down the chainsaw. He runs his finger across its body.
“It’s German,” he says. “It was made more than fifty years ago. It’s the best you can get.”
My dad wipes the metal label with his sleeve. It depicts a bear with big claws and bared teeth.
“They don’t make tools like this today. This saw alone would cost as much as a small car.”
He unscrews the chainsaw’s gas cap, then takes a small bottle from a bag and empties it into the hole.
“I bet you it’ll start,” he says.
He pulls the cord, the chainsaw splutters, and then it starts.
My dad is the only man in the restaurant without a jacket; I’m the only one in shorts. The waiter gives us a strange look until we order the most expensive dishes on the menu and my dad counts the banknotes between the starter and main course.
“Our advance,” he whispers across the table, and empties a glass of red wine. He orders me another soda.
“Never save up money,” he says. “Yes, of course, if there’s something you really want. A bicycle, you can save up for a bicycle. But money isn’t something you should hold on to. People who cling to their money become unhappy. Spend it. It’ll come back to you.”
I had a bicycle once. I think about it while we eat soup from tiny bowls with a kind of mushroom I’ve never seen before. I had a bicycle, and then we had to move to a new town. We washed it, oiled the gears, and pumped up the tires. Then we left it unlocked on a street corner.
At night I dream about the old lady. She opens her mouth and a beetle crawls out. It sniffs the world, its antennae whir, then it takes off from her teeth. For a moment the beetle hangs suspended in the air before its dark carapace opens and the wings unfurl. Several beetles follow. They fly around her head. Her eyes sit deep in her head like two black buttons. I don’t know if she’s crying. I don’t know if she’s smiling, but I think she’s trying.
I don’t walk any further into the garden than from where I can still see my dad on the terrace. The orchard begins where the strong yellow grass ends. I pick apples and pears which I eat while I watch my dad work. He has spread dark green tarpaulin across the wooden terrace, where he sits dismantling the tools. He cleans every single part individually with a white cloth dipped in ammonia. Then he carefully oils all the cogs before they resume their place in the metal casing. The smell of gasoline and oil lingers in the air around him.
“Feel this,” he says, handing me a cog from the chainsaw.
At first I can’t see why it’s anything special. He guides my finger and I can feel that every single tooth is identical. I can find no flaws, not even traces from the cast.
I hear a faint creaking from the planks behind me and see the old lady’s shadow.
“You may eat as much fruit as you want,” she says to me. “But if you find a fruit you don’t know, don’t put it in your mouth. The birds are attracted to its colour. They can’t help taking a bite. You mustn’t do the same.”
Out of the corner of my eye I can see the toes of her tiny, burgundy leather shoes.
“People think nature’s always good, but it can be evil, too.”
My dad nods without taking his eyes off the tools.
“Just buy new ones,” she says. “I’ll give you money for new tools.”
My dad shakes his head. “I don’t expect you to pay me for sitting here. I would’ve done it for free.”
“Nonsense, I wouldn’t hear of it.”
When I pay attention only to her voice, she could be any old lady. Like the one who bought pork chops every Wednesday in the butcher’s where my dad once worked.
“I’ve got something that might interest you,” she says.
We follow her around the building.
“In there.”
She points to a huge bush. It takes a couple of moments before I realize there’s a shed behind it. My dad pulls aside the branches to get to the door. The padlock has rusted red. He whacks it with a hammer and then he disappears into the darkness.
I stand very still and hear my dad rummage around inside the shed; I keep my eyes peeled on the door. I don’t want to look at the old lady, alone here in the garden with no shadows. I hear something creak and I follow the sound around the shed. The branches give or snap. Two doors swing open and I’m looking into what was once a garage. There’s a car inside, grey with dirt. My dad takes a step backwards and admires the car for a long time in silence.
“I didn’t know there were any of these left,” he says at last.
He finds a rag in his pocket, spits on it, and polishes a circle on the bonnet so we can see the black paintwork gleam in the sunshine.
I explore the garden one metre at a time; I’m an explorer again. In the distance I can hear the chainsaw my dad is using today. From where I am, the sound isn’t much louder than an angry bee trapped in a jam jar. I watch where I’m going and I don’t take the next step unless I’m sure I’ve got solid ground under my feet. No quicksand, not yet. The trees in the garden are different from anything I’ve seen before: they don’t grow straight, but twist and get tangled up in each other. At first I think it’s fun that I have to wiggle my way through them. Then I see the skeletons of tiny birds caught in the branches.
I run back to the lawn, stumble, and get back on my feet, hoping that the trees won’t wake up and think I’m a bird or yet another plant they can merge with.
I find my sketchbook in the grass where I left it. I sit down and start drawing. I decide not to go deeper into the gar
den. I’m going to stay here. Between the old lady in the house and the trees.
I draw myself with a cowboy hat on my head and a six-shooter in my hand. I shoot a snake through its heart. I’m not really sure where a snake’s heart is, so I guess.
At noon my dad emerges from the bushes. He has leaves in his hair, aphids in his beard, and small scratches on his neck.
“I look like a troll, don’t I?”
Together we walk up to the house. The old lady has set out food for us on a small, white metal table on the terrace. Fabric napkins have been slipped under the plates. The bread we eat isn’t rye or white bread, it’s dark and sweet. The egg salad tastes fantastic. My dad says the lemonade is made with fresh lemons. Apart from that he doesn’t say much, but he smiles while he chews. The chainsaw lies so close that he can reach out and stroke the metal with his hand.
I listen to noises from the house and keep my eyes glued to the front door. The house creaks, but the old lady doesn’t appear. She must know that it would be impossible to swallow a single bite if she were standing in front of us.
After lunch I follow my dad to the first row of bushes and find my sketchbook in the grass.
I’m drawing when a young man comes cycling down the path and out between the trees. His bicycle is like my dad’s, a butcher’s bike. He swings his leg over the crossbar and jumps off while it’s still moving. He grabs the large wicker basket from the front; he has to lean to the side to haul it up to the terrace. There, another basket is waiting for him. He picks up an envelope, puts it in his inside pocket, and takes the basket. It looks lighter; perhaps it’s empty. He walks back to the bicycle, slowly, like someone who has promised himself not to run. His lips are moving slightly, I think he’s talking to himself. Then he stops, he has seen me on the grass. He stares at me as if I don’t fit in, as if I shouldn’t be sitting here, drawing. He takes a few steps towards me. Then he turns around again. As he leaves the garden, he stands upright on the pedals.
The midges buzz around our heads; my dad has just come out from between the trees. He gives me a quick kiss on my forehead.
“We’re going home shortly.”
He goes to the car in the shed. I hear the sound of tools, hear him talk in there, but I can’t make out the words.
I’m waiting on the furthest board on the terrace. I let my legs dangle over the edge. If shadows from the trees reach my feet, the old lady will come and get me. The shadows look like fat fingers, they point at me as they slowly creep up on me. When they’re less than half a metre from the toes of my shoes, my dad reappears. He has dark spots on his face, and his teeth glow yellow in the dark.
I follow my dad’s finger with my eyes. Two men are standing in the archway leading to the courtyard of the building where we live. They’re both wearing jeans and windbreakers over their shirts. I nearly fall off when my dad slams on the bike’s brakes.
“Look how they stand,” he whispers into my ear. “Notice how hard they try to look as if they just happen to be there. Far too relaxed. Smoking casually.”
I narrow my eyes, but struggle to see anything other than two men in an archway.
“Do you remember what I told you about the White Men?”
“The Queen’s helpers?”
“Yes, them.”
“Are they the White Men?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think we should try to find out.”
We get back on the bicycle. We ride out of city until the tarmac turns into gravel, which later turns into hardened earth. When we can no longer see the city lights, my dad pulls over. He paces up and down, then he sits down against a tree and smokes. I try to be quiet. I don’t want to disturb him while he’s thinking.
Two cigarettes later he gets up.
“I think we might have to move again.”
We cycle down the path to the old lady’s house. The colours are smudged. Dark branches reach out for us, like the trees in the fairy tales my dad tells me. Forests filled with trolls who may grant you three wishes, but who’ll always want something in return. Trolls who love little boys, keeping them as servants before they put them on the spit and roast them or eat them with wild berries.
My dad opens the door to the garage. The car has been washed since I last saw it. He opens the back door and I get in. The leather upholstery is cold against my bare legs.
“I know you’re not ready. I know that. But we need you.” He puts his hand on the dark wood of the dashboard. “Afterwards we’ll take really good care of you. But do this for us, please.”
He turns the key, but nothing happens.
“Just today, sweetheart.”
Again he turns the key. The engine growls, then the whole car starts to shudder like a dog shaking off water.
“That’s right, you can do it.”
Slowly we drive across the uneven lawn, down the path, and out onto the big road.
Sometime later my dad pulls over and takes a woolly blanket from the trunk. He covers me with it.
“Try to get some sleep if you can,” he says, and gets back behind the wheel.
I experience that night in glimpses, in the brief moments when I’m awake.
I know we’re by the sea, I can hear the waves. My dad stands in the glow from the headlights. He smokes and looks at his watch.
Another glimpse, we’re back on the road again. The engine purrs: a calm and friendly sound. I lie staring up at the roof of the car.
Yet another glimpse: we’ve stopped in front of the archway leading to the courtyard. My dad is busy filling the trunk; he’s holding the box with the records.
“Just go back to sleep,” he says.
I’m woken up by my head bouncing up and down on the seat. We drive past the old lady’s house and into the garage.
My dad empties the car, it doesn’t take him long. Every time we move, we have fewer things. The last thing he takes out of the trunk is my easel; in his other hand he has the portfolio with my drawings.
“We can always buy new towels,” he says.
We sit in the old lady’s kitchen eating crispbread with salami and cheese. I drink fruit punch, my dad heats coffee in a saucepan on the stove.
He talks to the old lady in the hallway; they whisper as if there were other people in the house we should try not to wake. My dad laughs; it sounds as if it was his plan all along to move in here. The old lady wishes us a good night and I hear the sound of her slippers down the hallway.
There’s still one last bite of crispbread on the plate, but my eyes grow heavy. My dad carries me up the stairs. He pushes open the door with his foot, our new home. The room isn’t big, but bigger than our last apartment. The wallpaper is pale yellow with small flowers, the mattress is hard. My dad puts me down on the bed; the sheet is stiff and smells of fresh air.
I wake up alone in the room. In the distance I can hear the sound of the chainsaw. I stay in bed and read the same comic over and over. I get to know every single cobweb on the ceiling. The abandoned ones and the ones where I occasionally see a black spider darting up and down. I get to know the cracks in the wallpaper; a small flap points down at me. I stand on the suitcase and pee out the window. I’m scared that the old lady is going to come and get me every time the house creaks. Then I hide under the blanket.
At noon my dad comes up to my room to fetch me. We go downstairs and have lunch together. I ask him if he would please wake me in the morning, take me with him outside, I promise to look after myself. He nods and I’m glad he doesn’t ask why.
I stay on the lawn until my dad has finished his work for the day. He says goodnight to the car: “We were too hard on you. But you did well.”
In the kitchen a big pot of soup is waiting for us with slices of freshly baked whole-grain bread. Bowls have been set out on the table, a beer for my dad, a soda for me.
At night the wind makes the house sq
ueak and groan, wood rubbing against wood like a ship sailing on a stormy sea.
When I wake up the next morning, I’m alone in the room again. I search the suitcases but grow increasingly convinced that my dad packed just a single comic when he cleared out the apartment. I know the words by heart; all I have to do is close my eyes to see the pictures, one by one. I sit on the bed and I cry. I think my dad is doing this on purpose, leaving me here in the room. I’m meant to learn something.
Before I’ve time to think about it, I’m standing with my hand on the door handle. I let go and race back to my bed. I pull up my feet as if the ground is toxic. I sit there for a while, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. My dad won’t be coming to fetch me for a long time. Yesterday morning, I listened out for all the noises of the house, doors opening and closing. I’m almost certain that the old lady doesn’t leave the drawing room until she goes to make lunch for us. I should have at least a couple of hours to make it down the stairs and out into the garden.
I open the door; I hold my shoes in my hand. I walk down the passage as quietly as I can. I’ve reached the top of the stairs when I stop. One of the doors is ajar. I notice something inside. It looks like hair, but I’m not sure. I know it’ll bug me for the rest of the day if I don’t find out what it is. I go back and push open the door. The room I’m looking into is filled with antlers. Not just one or three: it’s crammed with them, all four walls from floor to ceiling. No furniture, only antlers from deer, and gazelles, and every imaginable horned animal. I bolt down the stairs and out the front door.
I’m sitting on the grass drawing when my dad appears between the trees. He smiles; I think he’s proud to find me here.
“This is a strange house,” I say to him while we eat liver pâté sandwiches with meat jelly.
“People are much stranger than they’re prepared to admit.” He takes a bite of a large pickle. “So why shouldn’t their houses be?”
The next day I stand at the top of the stairs again. I know that I should just walk down them. Not just walk, but hurry as much as I can without running. Down the stairs, out the door. And yet I stay where I am. I managed it yesterday, I still have all my arms and legs.
A Fairy Tale Page 8