Let The Right One In aka Let Me In
Page 7
He would pretend, for example, that he was an agent on a secret mission, out to spread propaganda against the enemy occupying the country. He sneaked through the hallways, on guard against enemy soldiers who could very well be dressed up as old ladies with dogs.
Or else he pretended that each building was a hungry animal, a dragon with six mouths whose only source of nourishment was the virgin flesh-made to look like advertisements-that he fed it with. The packet screamed in his hands when he pressed it into the jaws of the beast.
The final two hours-like today, just after the second round-he was overcome by a kind of numbness. The legs kept walking and the arms kept moving mechanically.
Put the bag down, place six packets under his arm, open the downstairs door, arrive at the first apartment, open the mail slot with his left arm, put a packet in with his right hand. Second door, and so onâ¦
When he finally came to his own complex, to the girl’s door, he stopped outside and listened. He heard a radio on, low. That was all. He put the packet in the mail slot and waited. No one came to get it.
In the usual way, he ended with his own door, put a packet in the mail slot, unlocked the door, picked up the packet, and threw it in the garbage.
Done for the day. Sixty-seven kronor richer.
Mamma had gone to Vallingby to do the shopping. Oskar had the apartment to himself. Didn’t know what to do with it.
He opened the cabinets under the kitchen sink, peeked in. Kitchen utensils and whisks and an oven thermometer. In another drawer he found pens and paper, recipe cards from a cooking series that his mom had started subscribing to, and then stopped since the recipes called for such expensive ingredients.
He continued on into the living room, opened the cabinets there.
His mom’s crochet-or was it knitting?-things. A folder with bills and receipts. Photo albums that he had looked at a thousand times. Old magazines with unsolved crossword puzzles. A pair of reading glasses in their case. A sewing kit. A little wooden box with his and his mom’s passports, their government-issued identification tags (he had asked to be allowed to wear his but his mom had said only if there was a war) a photograph and a ring.
He went through the cabinets and drawers as if he were looking for something without knowing exactly what it was. A secret. Something that would change things. To suddenly find a piece of rotting meat in the back of a cabinet. Or an inflated balloon. Anything. Something unfamiliar.
He took out the photograph and looked at it.
It was from his christening. His mom was holding him in her arms, looking into the camera. She was thin back then. Oskar was dressed in a white gown with long blue ribbons. Next to his mom was his dad, looking uncomfortable in his suit. Looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands and had therefore let them fall stiffly by his side, almost like he was standing at attention. Was looking straight at the baby. The sun was shining on the three of them.
Oskar brought the image closer to his eyes, studied his dad’s expression. He looked proud. Proud and very⦠unpracticed. A man who was happy to be a father but who didn’t know how to act. What you did. You could have thought it was the first time he had seen the baby, even though the christening was a full six months after Oskar’s birth.
His mom, however, held Oskar in a confident, relaxed way. Her look into the camera was not so much proud as⦠suspicious. Don’t come any closer, her look said. I’ll bite you in the nose.
His dad was leaning forward slightly, as if he wanted to get closer without really daring to. It was not a picture of a family. It was a picture of a boy and his mother. And next to them there was a man, presumably the father, judging by his facial expression. But Oskar loved his dad, and so did his mom. In a way. In spite of everything. How everything had turned out.
Oskar took out the ring and read the inscription: Erik 22/4 1967.
They had divorced when Oskar was two. Neither of them had found another partner. “It just didn’t work out that way.” They had both used the same expression.
He replaced the ring, closed the wooden box, and put it back on the shelf. Wondered if his mom ever looked at the ring, why she kept it. It was made of solid gold. Probably ten grams worth. Worth about four hundred.
Oskar put his jacket on again, walked out into the yard. It was starting to get dark even though it was only four o’clock. Too late to go out into the forest.
Tommy walked by outside the building, stopped when he saw Oskar.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Anything going on?”
“I don’t know⦠Delivering flyers, and stuff.”
“Any money in that kind of thing?”
“Some. Seventy, eighty kronor. Each time.”
Tommy nodded.
“You want to buy a Walkman?”
“Don’t know. What kind?”
“Sony Walkman. Fifty.”
“New?”
“Yup. In the box. With ear phones. An even fifty.”
“I have no money on me. Right now.”
“I thought you said you made seventy or eighty doing that stuff.”
“Yeah, but I’m paid by the month. One more week.”
“OK. You can have it now and then I’ll get the money from you later.”
“Yeah⦔
“OK. Go and wait over there and I’ll get it.”
Tommy gestured to the playground and Oskar walked over and sat down on a bench. Got up and walked over to the jungle gym. No girl. He quickly walked back to the bench and sat down, as if he had done something forbidden.
After a while Tommy came back and handed over the box.
“Fifty in a week-OK?”
“Mm.”
“What are you listening to?”
“KISS.”
“What do you have by them?”
“Alive.”
“You don’t have Destroyer? You can borrow it from me if you like. Tape it.”
“Great.”
Oskar had the double album Alive by KISS, had bought it a few months ago but never listened to it. Mostly looked at the pictures from their concerts. Their made-up faces were cool. Like live horror figures. And “Beth,” the one where Peter Criss sang, he actually liked, but all the other songs were too⦠there was no melody or anything. Maybe Destroyer was better.
Tommy got up to leave. Oskar squeezed the box.
“Tommy?”
“Yeah?”
“That guy. Who was killed. Do you know⦠how he was murdered?”
“Yeah. He was strung up from a tree and had his throat slit.”
“He wasn’t⦠stabbed? Like the guy had stabbed him. In the chest, I mean.”
“No, only his throat-phhhhhssst.”
“OK.”
“Anything else?”
“No.” “See you.”
“Yeah.”
Oskar stayed put on the bench, thinking. The sky was dark purple, the first star-or was it Venus?-was already clearly visible. He got up and went in to hide the Walkman before his mom got back.
Tonight he would see the girl, get his Cube back. The blinds were still drawn. Did she really live there? What did they do in there all day? Did she have any friends?
Probably not.
***
Tonight-”
“What have you been doing?” “I took a shower.” “You don’t normally.” “Hakan, tonight you have to⦔ “No, I told you.”
“Please?”
“This isn’t about⦠I’ll do anything except that. Say the word. I’ll do it. Take some of mine, for God’s sake. Here. Here’s a knife. No? OK, then I’ll have to-”
“Stop it!”
“Why? I’d rather do this. Why did you take a shower? You smell like⦠soap.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I can’t!”
“No.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Do it myself.”
“And you ne
ed to shower for that?”
“Hakan⦔
“I would help you if it was anything else. Anything else, I⦔
“Yeah, OK. Fine.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Be careful. I-was careful.”
***
Kuala Lumpur, Phnom Penh, Mekong, Rangoon, Chungkingâ¦
Oskar looked at the photocopied map he had just filled out, weekend homework. The names told him nothing, were simply collections of letters. It gave him a certain feeling of satisfaction to sit and look them up in the geography book, to see that there actually were cities and rivers in just that place where they were marked on the photocopy.
Yes, he was going to memorize them and then his mom could test him. He would point to the dots and say the foreign names. Chungking, Phnom Penh. His mom would be impressed. And sure, it was kind of fun with all these strange names for places that were far away, butâ¦
Why?
In fourth grade they had been given photocopies of Swedish geography. He had memorized everything back then too. He was good at that. But now?
He tried to recall the name of even one Swedish river.
Askan, Vaskan, Piskanâ¦
Something along those lines. Atran, maybe. Yes. But where was it? No idea. And it would be the same thing with Chungking and Rangoon in a few years.
It’s meaningless.
These places didn’t even exist. And even if they did⦠he would never see them in person. Chungking? What would he do in Chungking? It was just a big white area and a little dot.
He looked at the straight lines that his scrawled letters were balancing on. It was school. That’s all. This was school. They told you to do a lot of things and you did them. The whole thing had been invented so the teachers would be able to hand out photocopies. It didn’t mean anything. He could just as well be writing Tjippiflax, Bubbelibang and Spitt on these lines. It would be equally meaningful.
The only difference actually would be that his teacher would say it was wrong. That it wasn’t the correct name. Then she would point to the map and say “Look, here it says Chungking, not Tjippiflax.” Pretty weak argument, since someone had made up the names in the geography book. Nothing spoke for it being true. And maybe the Earth really was flat, but this was being kept secret for some reason.
Ships falling over the edge. Dragons.
Oskar got up from the table. The photocopy was done, filled with letters that his teacher would accept. That was all.
It was past seven, maybe the girl had gone outside? He moved his face to the window and cupped his hands around it so he could see better in the dark. Wasn’t there something moving down by the playground?
He went out into the hall. His mom was knitting or maybe crocheting out in the living room.
“Going out for a while.”
“You’re going out again? I thought I was supposed to test you.”
“We can do that in a while.”
“Wasn’t it Asia this time?”
“What?”
“The worksheet you had. Isn’t it Asia?”
“Yes, I think so. Chungking.”
“Where is that? China?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know’? But-”
“I’ll be back.”
“Alright. Be careful. Are you wearing your hat?”
“Sure.”
Oskar put the hat in his coat pocket and went out. Halfway to the playground his eyes had grown accustomed enough to the dark that he spotted the girl in her usual place on the jungle gym. He walked up and stood below her, his hands in his pockets.
She looked different today. Still the pink top-did she not have any other?-but her hair didn’t look so matted. It lay smooth, black, slick against her head.
“Hey there.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He was never in his life going to say “hey there” to someone ever again. It sounded incredibly stupid. The girl stood up.
“Come up here.”
“OK.”
Oskar climbed up onto the structure until he was next to her, discreetly drawing air into his nose. She didn’t stink anymore.
“Do I smell better today?”
Oskar blushed. The girl smiled and held something out to him. His Cube.
“Thanks for lending it to me.”
Oskar took the Cube and looked at it. Looked again. Held it up to the light as best he could, turned it and examined it from all sides. It had been solved. All of the sides were a solid color.
“Did you take it apart?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like⦠did you take it apart⦠and then put the pieces back in the right place?”
“Can you do that?”
Oskar tested the pieces to see if they were loosened from having been taken apart. He had done that once, marveled at how few twists it took to lose one’s movements and forget how to make the sides all one color again. The pieces had of course not been loose when he took it apart, but did she actually solve this thing?
“You must have taken it apart.”
“No.”
“But you’ve never even seen one of these before.”
“No, it was fun. Thanks.”
Oskar held the Cube up to his eyes, as if it could tell him what had happened. In some way he was sure she wasn’t lying.
“How long did it take you?”
“Several hours. If I did it again it would probably go faster.”
“Amazing.”
“It’s not so hard.”
She turned toward him. Her pupils were so large that they almost filled the whole iris, the lights from the building reflected in the black surface and it looked like she had a distant city in her head.
The turtleneck sweater, pulled high onto her neck, further accentuated her soft features and she looked like⦠a cartoon character. Her skin, its quality-he could only compare it to a wooden butter knife that had been polished with the finest sandpaper until the wood was like silk.
Oskar cleared his throat.
“How old are you?”
“What do you think?”
“Fourteen, fifteen.”
“Do I look it?”
“Yes. Or-no, but⦔
“I’m twelve.”
“Twelve!”
For crying out loud. She was probably younger than he was, since he was going to turn thirteen in a month.
“What month were you born?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? But⦠when do you celebrate your birthday and that?”
“I don’t celebrate it.”
“But your mom and dad must know.”
“No. My mom is dead.”
“Oh. I see. How did she die?”
“I don’t know.”
“And doesn’t your dad know?”
“No.”
“So⦠you mean⦠you don’t get any presents or stuff?”
She stepped closer to him. Her breath wafted onto his face and the city of light in her eyes was extinguished when she stepped into his shadow. Her pupils were two marble-sized holes in her head.
She’s so sad. So very, very sad.
“No, I never get any presents. Ever.”
Oskar nodded stiffly. The world around him had ceased to exist. Only those two holes, a breath away. Their breaths mingled and rose, dissipated.
“Do you want to give me a present?”
“Yes.”
His voice was not even a whisper. Only an exhalation. The girl’s face was close. His gaze was drawn to her butter-knife cheek.
That was why he didn’t see her eyes change, how they narrowed, took on another expression. He didn’t see how her upper lip drew back and revealed a pair of small, dirty white fangs. He only saw her cheek and while her mouth was nearing his throat he drew up his hand and stroked her face.
The girl froze for a moment, then pul
led back. Her eyes resumed their former shape; the city of light was back.
“What did you do that for?”
“I’m sorry⦠I-”
“What did you do?”
Oskar looked at his hand, still holding the Cube, and relaxed his grip on it. He had been squeezing it so hard the corners had left deep imprints in his hand. He stretched it out toward her.
“Do you want it? You can have it.”
She slowly shook her head.
“No. It’s yours.”
“What’s⦠your name.”
“Eli.”
“My name is Oskar. What did you say your name was? Eli?”
“Yes.”
The girl seemed suddenly restless. Her gaze flitted around as if she were looking for something, something she couldn’t find.
“I’m⦠going now.”
Oskar nodded. The girl looked him straight in the eyes for a few seconds, then turned to go. She reached the top of the slide and hesitated. Then she sat down and slid to the bottom, started off toward her front door. Oskar squeezed the Cube.
“See you tomorrow?”
The girl stopped and said “Yes” in a low voice without turning, then kept going. Oskar watched her. She didn’t go home, though; she walked through the archway that led to the street. Disappeared.
Oskar looked at the Cube again. Unbelievable.
He twisted a section one rotation, broke up the unity. Then he turned it back. Wanted to keep it like this. At least for a while.
***
Jocke Bengtsson was chuckling to himself on his way home from the movies. Damned funny film, The Charter Trip. Especially that part with the two guys running around the whole movie looking for Peppe’s Bodega. When the one pushed his hungover friend in a wheelchair through Customs: “invalido.” Damn, that was funny.
Maybe he should go off on a trip like that with one of the guys. But which one.
Karlsson was so boring he made the clocks stop; you’d get sick of him in two days. Morgan could get ugly when he had too much to drink and he was sure to do that when it was cheap. Larry was OK but way too sickly. In the end you’d have to push him around in a wheelchair. “Invalido.”
No, Lacke was the only one who would do.
They could have a lot of fun down there for a week. But Lacke was poor as a church mouse, and could never afford it. He could sit and drink beers and smoke every night and that was totally cool by Jocke, but he’d never have the dough for a trip to the Canary Islands.