The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend
Read The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend Online
Authors: Katarina Bivald
Contents
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Swedish tourist in Iowa must be in want of a man
George's Theory about the Economic Crisis
Caroline Organises a Collection. Again.
To read or not to read, that is the question
The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend
Broken Wheel Gets Ready for the Market
Run-of-the-Mill Chick Lit (Books 3 â Life 1)
Grace and Idgie's Friendship is Put to the Test
Good Times Never Seemed So Good
The Smell of Books and Adventure
Amy Harris Gets Involved, Through a Representative
The Darkness Catches Up With George
Broken Wheel Drowns its Sorrows
If Anyone Knows of Any Reason â¦
Broken Wheel's Next Foreign Correspondent
Epilogue: Happily Ever After (Books 4 â Life 4. Final score: a draw)
The International Bestseller
This is a book about books. All sorts of books, from
Little Women
and Harry Potter to Jodi Picoult and Jane Austen, from to Stieg Larsson to Joyce Carol Oates to Proust. It's about the joy and pleasure of books, about learning from and escaping into them, and possibly even hiding behind them. It's about whether or not books are better than real life.
It's also a book about a Swedish girl called Sara, her elderly American penfriend Amy and what happens when you land a very different kind of bookshop in the middle of a town so broken it's almost beyond repair.
Or is it?
The Readers of Broken Wheel
has touches of
84 Charing Cross Road, The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
and
Chocolat
, but adds an off-beat originality and intelligence all its own.
KATARINA BIVALD
grew up working part-time in a bookshop. Today she lives in Ãlta, Sweden, with her sister and as many bookshelves as she can squeeze in. She has still not decided whether she prefers books or people.
The Readers of Broken Wheel Recommend
is her first novel.
Katarina Bivald
Translated from the Swedish by Alice Menzies
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Broken Wheel, Iowa
April 15, 2009
Sara Lindqvist
Kornvägen 7, 1 tr
136 38 Haninge
Sweden
Dear Sara,
I hope you enjoy Louisa May Alcott's
An Old-Fashioned Girl.
It's a charming story, though perhaps a touch more overtly moralizing than
Little Women
.
In terms of payment, please don't worry about it; I've collected several copies over the years. It's just nice that it's found a new home now, and that it'll be going all the way to Europe! I've never been to Sweden myself, but I'm sure it must be a very beautiful country.
Isn't it funny that my books will have travelled farther than I have? I honestly don't know whether that's comforting or worrying.
With kind regards,
Amy Harris
THE STRANGE WOMAN
standing on Hope's main street was so ordinary it was almost scandalous. A thin, plain figure dressed in an autumn coat much too grey and warm for the time of year, a rucksack lying on the ground by her feet, an enormous suitcase resting against one of her legs. Those who happened to witness her arrival couldn't help feeling it was inconsiderate for someone to care so little about their appearance. As though this woman was not the slightest bit interested in making a good impression on them.
Her hair was a nondescript shade of brown, held back with a carelessly placed hair clip which didn't stop it flowing down over her shoulders in a tangle of curls. Where her face should have been, there was a copy of Louisa May Alcott's
An Old-Fashioned Girl.
She didn't seem to care at all that she was in Hope. It was as if she had just landed there, book and luggage and uncombed hair in tow, and might just as well have been in any other town in the world. She was standing on one of the most beautiful streets in Cedar County, maybe even the prettiest in the whole of southern Iowa, but the only thing she had eyes for was her book.
But then again, she couldn't be entirely uninterested. Every now and again a pair of big grey eyes peeped up over the edge of the book, like a prairie dog sticking its head up to check whether the coast was clear. She would lower the book further and look sharply to the left, then swing her gaze as far to the right as she could without moving her head. Then she would raise the book and sink back into the story again.
In actual fact, Sara had taken in almost every detail of the street. She would have been able to describe how the last of the afternoon sun was gleaming on the polished SUVs, how even the treetops seemed neat and well organised, and how the hair salon fifty metres away had a sign made from laminated plastic in patriotic red, white and blue stripes. The scent of freshly baked apple pie filled the air. It was coming from the cafe behind her, where a couple of middle-aged women were sitting outside and watching her with clear distaste. That was how it looked to Sara, at least. Every time she glanced up from her book, they frowned and shook their heads slightly, as though she was breaking some unwritten rule of etiquette by reading on the street.
She took out her phone and redialled. It rang nine times before she hung up.
So Amy Harris was a bit late. Surely there would be a perfectly reasonable explanation. A flat tyre maybe. Out of petrol. It was easy to be â she checked her phone again â two hours and thirty-seven minutes late.
She wasn't worried, not yet. Amy Harris wrote proper letters, on real, old-fashioned writing paper; thick and creamy. There wasn't a chance in the world that someone who wrote on proper, cream-coloured writing paper would abandon a friend in a strange town or turn out to be a psychopathic serial killer with sadomasochistic tendencies, regardless of what Sara's mother said.
âExcuse me, honey.'
A woman had stopped beside her. She gave Sara an artificially patient look.
âCan I help you with anything?' the woman asked. A brown paper bag full of food was resting on her hip, a can of Campbell's tomato soup teetering perilously close to the edge.
âNo, thank you,' said Sara. âI'm waiting for someone.'
âSure.' The woman's tone was amused and indulgent. The women sitting outside the cafe were following the whole conversation with interest. âFirst time in Hope?'
âI'm on my way to Broken Wheel.'
Maybe it was just Sara's imagination, but the woman didn't seem at all satisfied with that answer.
The can of soup wobbled dangerously. After a moment, the woman said: âIt's not much of a town, I'm afraid, Broken Wheel. Do you know someone there?'
âI'm going to stay with Amy Harris.'
Silence.
âI'm sure she's on her way,' said Sara.
âSeems like you've been abandoned here, honey.' The woman looked expectantly at Sara. âGo on, call her.'
Sara reluctantly pulled her phone out again. When the strange woman pressed up against Sara's ear to listen to the ringing tone, she had to stop herself from shrinking back.
âDoesn't seem to me like she's going to answer.' Sara put the phone back in her pocket and the woman moved away a little. âWhat're you planning on doing there?'
âHave a holiday. I'm going to rent a room.'
âAnd now you've been abandoned here. That's a good start. I hope you didn't pay in advance.' The woman shifted the paper bag over to her other arm and clicked her fingers in the direction of the seats outside the cafe. âHank,' she said loudly to the only man sitting there, âgive this girl here a ride to Broken Wheel, OK?'
âI haven't finished my coffee.'
âSo take it with you, then.'
The man grunted, but got obediently to his feet and disappeared into the cafe.
âIf I were you,' the woman continued, âI wouldn't hand over any money right away. I'd pay just before I went home. And I'd keep it well hidden until then.' She nodded so violently that the can of tomato soup teetered worryingly again. âI'm not saying everyone in Broken Wheel is a thief,' she added for safety's sake, âbut they're
not
like us.'
Hank came back with his coffee in a paper cup, and Sara's suitcase and rucksack were thrown onto the back seat of his car. Sara herself was guided carefully but firmly to the front seat.
âGo on, give her a ride over, Hank,' said the woman, hitting the roof of the car twice with her free hand. She leaned towards the open window. âYou can always come back here if you change your mind.'
âSo, Broken Wheel,' Hank said disinterestedly.
Sara clasped her hands on top of her book and tried to look relaxed. The car smelled of cheap aftershave and coffee.
âWhat're you going to do there?'
âRead.'
He shook his head.
âAs a holiday,' she explained.
âWe'll see, I guess,' Hank said ominously.
She watched the scenery outside the car window change. Lawns became fields, the glittering cars disappeared and the neat little houses were replaced by an enormous wall of corn looming up on either side of the road, which stretched straight out ahead for kilometres. Every now and then it was intersected by other roads, also perfectly straight, as though someone had, at some point, looked out over the enormous fields and drawn the roads in with a ruler. As good a method as any, Sara thought to herself. But as they drove on, the other roads became fewer and fewer until it felt as though the only thing around them was mile after mile of corn.
âCan't be much of a town left,' said Hank. âA friend of mine grew up there. Sells insurance in Des Moines now.'
She didn't know what she was meant to say to that. âThat's nice,' she tried.
âHe likes it,' the man agreed. âMuch better than trying to run the family farm in Broken Wheel, that's for sure.'
And that was that.
Sara craned to look out of the car window, searching for the town of Amy's letters. She had heard so much about Broken Wheel she was almost expecting Miss Annie to come speeding past on her cargo moped at any moment, or Robert to be standing at the side of the road waving the latest edition of his magazine in the air. For a moment, she could practically see them before her, but then they grew faint and whirled away into the dust behind the car. Instead, a battered-looking barn appeared, only to be immediately hidden from view once more by the corn, as though it had never been there in the first place. It was the only building she had seen in the last fifteen minutes.
