***
Larry lowered the newspaper, put his reading glasses on the table and sipped some beer from his glass. “I’ll be damned. What’s going on inside the head of a person like that?”
He showed them the paper with the headline children in shock above a picture of the Vallingby school and a small inset of a middle-aged man. Morgan glanced at the paper, pointed.
“Is that the guy?”
“No, it’s the principal.”
“Looks like a murderer to me. Just the type.”
Jocke stretched a hand out for the paper. Let me see.
Larry gave him the paper and Jocke held it at arm’s length, studied the snapshot.
“Looks like a conservative politician to me, guys.”
Morgan nodded.
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
Jocke held up the newspaper to Lacke so he could see the photograph.
“What do you think?”
Lacke looked at it reluctantly.
“Ah, I don’t know. I get creeped out by that kind of thing.”
Larry breathed on his glasses and polished them against his shirt.
“They’ll get him. You don’t get away with something like that.”
Morgan tapped his fingers on the table, stretched his hand out for the paper.
“How did Arsenal do?”
Larry and Morgan switched to talking about the currently pathetic state of English soccer. Jocke and Lacke sat quietly, nursing their beers, lighting cigarettes. Then Jocke started in on the whole cod thing, how the cod was going to die out in the Baltic. The evening wore on.
Karlsson didn’t turn up, but just before ten another man came in, someone none of them had ever seen before. The conversation was more intense at this hour and no one noticed him until the man was sitting alone at a table at the far end of the room.
Jocke leaned toward Larry.
“Who’s that?”
Larry looked over discreetly, shook his head.
“Don’t know.”
The new guy got a big whisky and quickly emptied it, ordered another. Morgan blew air out through his lips with a low whistle.
“This guy means business.”
The man did not appear to notice that he was being observed. He simply sat motionless at the table, studying his hands, looking like all the trouble in the world had been stuffed into a backpack and strapped onto him. He quickly downed his second whisky and ordered a third.
The waiter leaned down and said something to him. The man dug around in his pocket and showed him a few bills. The waiter made a gesture as if to say that wasn’t what he meant, when of course that was exactly what he had meant, and then he walked off to fill the man’s order.
It wasn’t surprising to them that the man’s credit had been in question. His clothes were wrinkled and stained as if he had slept in them, in some uncomfortable place. The ring of hair around his bald spot was straggly and hung halfway to his ears. The face was dominated by a large pink nose and a jutting chin. Between them were a pair of small, plump lips that moved from time to time as if he were talking to himself. His expression didn’t change at all when the whisky was placed in front of him.
The gang returned to the subject they had been discussing: if Ulf Adel-sohn would be worse than Gosta Bohman had been. Only Lacke looked over at the lone man from time to time. After a while, when the man was on his fourth drink, he said, “Shouldn’t we⦠ask him if he wants to join us?”
Morgan glanced at the man, who had sunk together even more. “No, why? What’s the use? His wife has left him, the cat is dead and life is hell. I know it all already.”
“Maybe he’ll offer to buy us a round.”
“That’s a different story. Then he’s allowed to have cancer as well.” Morgan shrugged. “It’s OK by me.”
Lacke looked at Larry and Jocke. They made small gestures of assent and Lacke got up and walked over to the man’s table.
“Hello.”
The man looked up at Lacke, bleary-eyed. The glass in front of him was almost empty. Lacke rested his hands on the chair on the other side of the table and leaned down toward the man.
“We were just wondering if maybe⦠you wanted to join us?”
The man shook his head slowly and made a befuddled, dismissive gesture, brushing the suggestion away.
“No, thank you, but why don’t you sit down?”
Lacke pulled the chair out and sat down. The man drained the last of his drink and waved the waiter over.
“You want something? It’s on me.”
“In that case. Same as you, then.”
Lacke didn’t want to say the word “whisky” since it sounded presumptuous to ask someone to buy you something expensive like that, but the man only nodded, and when the waiter came closer he made a V-sign with his fingers and pointed to Lacke. Lacke leaned back in the chair. How long had it been since he had last ordered whisky in a bar? Three years? At least.
The man showed no signs of wanting to start a conversation, so Lacke cleared his throat and said, “Some cold weather we’re having.”
Yes.
“Could snow soon.”
“Mmm.”
Then the whisky arrived and made further conversation unnecessary for the moment. Even Lacke got a double, and he felt the eyes of the gang burning in his back. After a few sips he raised the glass.
“Cheers. And thanks.”
“Cheers.”
“You live around here?”
The man stared out into space, as if this was something he had never thought about before. Lacke couldn’t determine if the nodding of his head indicated an answer to the question or if it was part of an inner dialogue.
Lacke took another sip and decided that if the man didn’t answer the next question then he wanted to be left alone, not talk to anyone. If that was the case, Lacke would take his drink and return to the others. He had done his duty. He hoped the man wouldn’t answer.
“So, then. What do you do to make the time go by?”
The man furrowed his brow and the corners of his mouth were lifted spasmodically into a grin, then relaxed again.
“⦠I help out a little.”
“I see. With what kind of thing?”
A spark of alertness flashed under the man’s transparent cornea. The man looked straight at Lacke, who felt a shiver at the base of his spine, as if a black ant had bitten him just above the tailbone.
Then he rubbed his hand over his eyes and pulled a few hundred kro-nor bills out of his pocket, laid them on the table and stood up.
“Excuse me, I have to⦔
“OK. Thanks for the drink.”
Lacke raised his glass to his host but he was already on his way over to the coat rack. He got his coat down with clumsy hands and walked out. Lacke stayed put with his back to the gang, looking at the heap of bills in front of him. Five one hundred kronor bills. A tumbler of whisky cost sixty kronor and this outing had consisted of a total of five, maybe six.
Lacke looked surreptitiously to the side. The waiter was busy settling the bill of an older couple, the only dining customers. While Lacke stood up he crumpled one of the notes into a ball, slipped it into his pocket and walked back to his regular table.
Halfway there he turned back, emptied the remaining whisky from the man’s glass into his own, and took it with him.
A successful evening all around.
***
âBut Nutcrackers is on tonight!”
“Yeah, but I’ll be back for it.”
“It starts in⦠half an hour.”
“I know.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Well, you don’t have to watch Nutcrackers, of course. I can watch it by myself. If you really have to go out.”
“But⦠I’ll be back for it.”
“I see. I guess I’ll wait on heating up the crepes.”
“No, you can⦠I’ll be back later.”
Oskar was torn. Nutcrackers was one of the highlights of their TV week. Mom had made crepes with shrimp filling to eat in front of the TV. He knew he was disappointing her by going out instead of sitting here⦠and sharing the anticipation with her.
But he had been standing by the window since it got dark and just now he had seen the girl come out of the building next door and walk down toward the playground. He had immediately pulled back from the window. He didn’t want her to think that heâ¦
Therefore he had waited five minutes before putting on his clothes and heading out. He didn’t put on a hat.
***
He couldn’t see her on the playground. She was probably sitting high up on the jungle gym somewhere, like yesterday. The blinds in her window were still drawn but there was light coming from the apartment. Except for the bathroom window, a dark square.
Oskar sat down on the sandbox ledge and waited. Like he was waiting for an animal to come out of its hole. He was simply planning to sit here for a while. And if the girl didn’t come out he would go back in again, play it cool.
He got out his Rubik’s Cube, started to twist it in order to have something to do. He had gotten tired of having that one corner piece to
worry about and so he mixed up the cube completely so he could start over.
The creak from the Cube was amplified in the cold air; it sounded like a small machine. In the corner of his eye Oskar saw the girl get up from her perch in the monkey bars. He kept working, creating a new one-colored side. The girl stood still. He felt a flicker of worry in his stomach but took no notice of her.
“You here again?”
Oskar lifted his head, pretending to be surprised, let a few seconds pass and then:
“You again.”
The girl said nothing and Oskar twisted the Cube again. His fingers were stiff. It was hard to tell the colors apart in the dark and so he only worked with the white side that was easiest to differentiate.
“Why are you sitting here?”
“Why are you up there?”
“I came here to be by myself.”
“Me too.”
“So why don’t you go home?”
“You go home. I’ve lived here longer than you.”
Take that. The white side was done now and it was harder to keep going. The other colors were one big dark gray blur. He kept moving pieces, at random.
The next time he looked up the girl was standing on the railing and getting ready to jump. Oskar felt a quiver in his tummy when she hit the ground; if he had tried the same jump he would have hurt himself. But the girl landed as softly as a cat, walked over to him. He turned back to the Cube. She stopped right in front of him.
“What’s that?”
Oskar looked up at the girl, at the Cube, then back at the girl.
“This?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“It’s a Rubik’s Cube.”
“What did you say?”
This time Oskar overenunciated the words.
“Ru-bik’s Cube.”
“And what’s that?”
Oskar shrugged.
“A toy.”
“A puzzle?”
“Yes.”
Oskar held the Cube out to her.
“Want to try it?”
She took the Cube from his hand, turned it, examined it from all sides. Oskar laughed. She looked like a monkey examining a piece of fruit.
“You really haven’t seen one before?”
“No. What do you do?”
“Like this⦔
Oskar got the Cube back and the girl sat down next to him. He showed her how you turned it and that the point was to get the sides to be one color. She took the Cube and started to turn it.
“Can you see the colors?”
“Naturally.”
He snuck glances at her while she was working on the Cube. She was wearing the same pink top as yesterday and he couldn’t understand why she wasn’t freezing. He was starting to get cold from sitting still, even though he was wearing his jacket.
Naturally.
She talked funny too, like a grown-up. Maybe she was older than him, even though she was so puny. Her thin white throat jutted out of her turtleneck top, merged with a sharp jaw bone. Like a mannequin.
But now the wind blew in Oskar’s direction and he swallowed, breathed through his mouth. The mannequin stank.
Doesn’t she ever take a bath?
The smell was worse than old sweat; it was closer to the smell that came when you removed the bandage from an infected wound. And her hairâ¦
When he dared to take a closer look at her-she was completely absorbed by the Cube-he noticed that her hair was caked together and fell around her face in matted tufts and clumps. As if she had put glue or⦠mud in it.
While he was studying her, he happened to breathe in through his nose and had to suppress the urge to vomit. He got up, walked over to the swings, and sat down. Couldn’t be close to her. The girl didn’t seem to care.
After a while he got up and walked over to where she was sitting, still preoccupied with the Cube.
“Hey there, I have to go home now.”
“Mmm⦔
“The Cube⦔
The girl paused. Hesitated for a moment, then held the Cube out to him without saying anything. Oskar took it, looked at her and then handed it back.
“You can keep it until tomorrow.”
She didn’t take it.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I may not be here tomorrow.”
“Until the day after tomorrow, then. But you can’t have it for longer than that.”
She thought about it. Took the Cube.
“Thanks. I’ll probably be here tomorrow.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Bye.”
“Bye.”
As Oskar turned and left he heard softs creaks from the Cube. She was going to stay out here in her thin top. Her mother and father must be⦠different, letting her go out dressed like that. You could end up with a bladder infection.
***
Where have you been?” “Out.”
“You’re drunk.” “Yes.” “We agreed you wouldn’t do this anymore.”
“You agreed. What’s that?”
“A puzzle. You know it isn’t good for you-”
“Where did you get it?”
“Borrowed it. Hakan, you have to-”
“Borrowed-from who?”
“Hakan. Don’t be like this.”
“Make me happy, then.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Let me touch you.”
“Alright, but on one condition.”
“No. No, no. Not that.”
“Tomorrow. You have to.”
“No. Not one more time. What do you mean, ‘borrowed’? You never borrow anything. What is it anyway?”
“A puzzle.”
“Don’t you have enough puzzles? You care more about your puzzles than you do about me. Puzzles. Cuddles. Puzzles. Who gave it to you? Who gave it to you?, I said!”
“Hakan, stop it.”
“What do you need me for anyway?”
“I love you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. In a way.”
“There is no such thing. You either love someone or you don’t.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“In that case I have to think about it.”
SATURDAY
24, October
“The suburban mystique is the absence of riddles.”
â Johan Eriksson
Three thick bundles of advertising catalogs lay outside Oskar’s apartment door on Saturday morning. Mom helped him fold them. Three different pages in every package, four hundred and eighty packages total. For each package he made about fourteen ore. In the worst case h
e only got one page to deliver, yielding seven ore. In the best case scenario (or the worst in a way, since it involved so much folding prep) he received up to five pages a package yielding twenty-five ore.
He was helped by the fact that the large apartment buildings were included in his district. He could dispatch up to one hundred and fifty packages there per hour. The whole round took about four hours, including a trip home in between to fill up on packets. If it was a day when there were five papers per packet he needed to go home twice.
The packets had to be delivered by Tuesday at the latest but he usually did it all on Saturday. Got it over and done with.
Oskar sat on the kitchen floor, his mom at the kitchen table. It wasn’t fun work but he liked the chaos he made in the kitchen. The large mess that bit by bit transformed into order, into two, three, four overstuffed paper bags full of neatly folded packets.
His mom put one more pile of packets into one of the bags, then shook her head.
“Well, I really don’t like it.” “What?”
“You can’t⦠I mean, if someone were to open the door or something⦠I don’t want you to⦔ “No, why would I?”
“There are so many crazy people in the world.” “Yeah.”
They had this conversation, in some form or another, almost every Saturday. This Friday evening his mom had said she didn’t think he should make any deliveries this Saturday, on account of the murderer. But Oskar had promised to scream to high heaven if anyone so much as said “hi” to him, and then his mom had given in.
No one had ever tried to invite him in or anything like that. Once an old guy had come out and yelled at him for filling his mailbox “with this garbage” but since then he had just avoided putting anything in the man’s mailbox.
The man would have to live without knowing he could get a haircut with highlights for that special event for only two hundred kronor at the hair salon this week.
By eleven-thirty all the pages were folded and he set off on his rounds. There was no point in stuffing the bags into the garbage can or something; they always called and checked up on him, made random tests. They had made that perfectly clear when he called up and signed up for the job six months ago. Maybe it was a bluff, but he didn’t dare take the chance. And anyway, he didn’t have anything against this kind of work. Not for the first two hours, at least.
Let The Right One In aka Let Me In Page 6