When the Snow Fell (8 page)

“That woman who was here a couple of minutes ago dropped one of her mittens,” Joel said.

“Leave it here,” said Rudin. “No doubt she’ll come back for it.”

“But I want to have a word with her,” said Joel. “Which direction did she go in?”

“I didn’t see,” said Rudin.

Joel left. There were three possible ways she could have gone. If he ran, he might just have a chance of seeing her. He picked the biggest street, the one leading to the church. And his luck was in. He caught a glimpse of her as she turned the corner by the old pharmacy.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

That had been close. You could always trust your parents to make a mess of things. Perhaps there were advantages in Mummy Jenny’s disappearance after all. At the very least, he didn’t have two problems to deal with. He had enough on his plate with Samuel.

She was heading for the buildings on the hill down to the river. So that was where she lived. Unless she lived out at Svensvallen, but that was several miles away. Or she might have a room at Rank’s boardinghouse right on the edge of town. There were no other possibilities.

She stopped at the middle one of the three blocks of apartments, and went in through the front door. Joel
kept his eye on the front of the building. After a couple of minutes a light went on in a second-floor window. So that was where she lived. Joel tried to work out what that implied. She might be lodging with somebody, but goodness only knows who. Or else she had her own apartment.

But as she hadn’t rented a room in the boardinghouse, she must have come here to stay. She wasn’t just working at Ehnström’s shop for a couple of weeks.

Joel waited. He stamped his feet and jumped up and down so as not to be too cold. But his boots really were much too small for him. He’d have to have a word with Samuel, or his feet would be worn away.

Then he crossed the street and went in through the front door. He decided that if anybody came and asked what he was doing there, he would tell them he was looking for somebody called Sverker.

Just inside the front door was a board with the names of all the tenants. But there was a gap against one of the second-floor flats to the left. And that was where the light had gone on. Didn’t she have a name? Or was it a secret? Joel decided it must be because she’d only just moved in. If there was a doorman or a caretaker or whatever, he wouldn’t have had time to insert the name yet. Down at the bottom of the board was a row of unused letters for making the names by pressing them into the little holes on the surface of the board. Joel was very tempted to pick out some and press in a name:
Salome
.

But he didn’t. Which was no doubt sensible of him. Instead he walked up the stairs. To make sure that nobody thought he was sneaking around, he trod down hard with his boots on each step. When he came to the second floor, he saw that there was a bit of paper with a name on the door to the left. He leaned forward in order to read it.

Mattsson
, it said, written in red.

There was something else. In small letters, down at the bottom. The lighting was bad on the staircase. But he made it out in the end. It said:
Ehnström’s Grocery Store
.

At that very moment the door opened. Joel gave a start and took a step backwards. Without his noticing, one of his bootlaces had come undone. He somehow stood on it, stumbled and fell to the floor.

It was her, all right, standing over him. But she wasn’t wearing transparent veils. She had on a checked overall. And she was holding a sweeping brush.

“I thought you weren’t going to come until to morrow,” she said, sounding surprised.

In the midst of his confusion it struck Joel that he’d been right: she certainly spoke with a Stockholm accent.

He scrambled to his feet. What the hell do I do now? he wondered. I hadn’t planned for this.

“I said Thursday,” she said. “It’s only Wednesday today.”

Joel tried to work out what on earth she was talking about. Was he supposed to have come tomorrow instead?

She suddenly burst out laughing. Joel stared at her red lips and white teeth.

“Why do you look so scared? And where’s the catalog you were supposed to bring, with all the Christmas magazines?”

Sometimes, especially when he was in a corner, Joel had the ability to think quickly. He could sometimes surprise himself. He realized that she was mistaking him for somebody else. Somebody who was due to come the next day and show her a catalog with lots of Christmas magazines.

“I must have mixed up the day,” Joel said.

“Where’s the catalog?”

“It’s downstairs.”

Now he’d painted himself into a corner again. What if she asked him to fetch it? Then what would he do?

“Didn’t Ehnström tell you my name?”

“I’ve forgotten it,” he mumbled.

She looked at him and frowned.

“Ehnström said that Digby was sixteen. You can’t be more than fourteen.”

“Digby’s my brother,” said Joel.

“Your brother?”

“Digby’s my brother, and he’s ill.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“Joel.”

“And you’ve come instead of him? But on the wrong day?”

“Digby had a fever and was rambling. He said Wednesday when he should have said Thursday.”

“Is he very ill?”

“He’s dislocated his knee.”

“Does that give you a fever?”

“It can do up here in the north.”

She shook her head.

“You’ll have to come back tomorrow. I don’t have time today.”

“OK,” said Joel. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

She closed the door and was gone. Sweat was pouring off Joel. He retied his bootlace. He was about to start walking downstairs when he heard music coming from inside the flat. He pressed his ear to the door.

There was no mistake about it. It was Elvis Presley.

“Heartbreak Hotel.”

Joel went down the stairs. But what he’d have preferred to do was to go back up, ring the doorbell and then embrace her when she answered. He felt all tingly at the very thought.

When he came out into the street, he turned to look up at her window. But she wasn’t standing there looking at him.

He went straight home. The first tune he’d learn when Kringström had taught him to play the guitar was “Heartbreak Hotel.”

It was echoing in his ears as he bounced home.

He had the delightful feeling that he’d turned into a
ball. Back there in her flat she was no doubt wandering around in transparent veils, listening to Elvis.

It was all too good to be true.

And Samuel was at Sara’s. That was also good. Joel could be in peace. When he’d taken off his outdoor clothes and hurled his boots at the wall to punish them for being too small, he flopped down in Samuel’s armchair and switched on the wireless. He put Samuel’s pipe into his mouth and sucked at it. Pipe tobacco smelled good. But once, when he’d lit the pipe and inhaled the smoke, he’d felt sick. Lots of times he’d bought just one John Silver cigarette and tried smoking properly, but it tasted awful. He wondered what was wrong with him. Why couldn’t he smoke like Otto, for instance? That would have to be one of his New Year’s resolutions next year. To learn how to smoke properly.

He sucked at the empty pipe. The radio was playing classical music, Ludwig van Beethoven. But what Joel heard was “Heartbreak Hotel.” “Heartbreak Hotel” with Elvis van Presley.

“Herbert’s Hotel” with Joel van Gustafson.

What was going on? Ehnström had evidently arranged for somebody to visit her the next day to sell her some Christmas magazines. A boy. Unfortunately not Joel. But somebody by the name of Digby who from now on was Joel’s elder brother. He didn’t know how many boys in town were selling Christmas magazines,
but there must be at least twenty of them. Most of them were around his age. He’d sold Christmas magazines himself last year, but this year he’d forgotten to tell the bookshop that he would be interested in doing it again. Somehow or other he’d have to borrow the catalog from whichever boy it was who was due to visit the new shop assistant.

Joel would wait there again tomorrow night. He’d have to think up a good excuse. And he’d have to raid his tin box, where he kept the money he’d saved. Always assuming there was anything left.

Joel put down the pipe and went to his room. He’d got the tin box from Samuel when he was a very little boy. Once upon a time it had contained cigars. It seemed to Joel that, after all those years, the smell of cigars still lingered. Nowadays he kept it under his bed. That was where he saved his money, when he had any. Which wasn’t very often. He also used it to keep some attractive postage stamps from far distant lands that Samuel had visited when he was a sailor. He fetched the tin box and opened it. Just as he’d thought. Hardly any money left. Three kronor. He wasn’t sure that would be enough to buy him the right to sell Christmas magazines to Ehnström’s new shop assistant. That was a worry. But then it struck him that of course, he could opt not to make any money from selling any magazines to her. He could do the job for nothing.

He put the tin back under his bed. He felt sure that he’d solved the problem.

He went over to the window.

When it was dark it wasn’t easy to see if it was cloudy or not. He went back to the kitchen and checked the thermometer outside the window. Plus one. Neither too warm nor too cold.

So, tonight was when he would start toughening up.

The person who was destined to sell Christmas magazines to a woman wearing transparent veils couldn’t be just any Tom, Dick or Harry.

Samuel wasn’t there, so he couldn’t notice anything. If the alarm clock went off early enough, he could hide the bed away before Samuel got back home.

Joel hadn’t yet made up his mind if he was going to tell Samuel about his plans to toughen himself up. There was a risk that his dad wouldn’t understand, and would forbid him to sleep outside in the garden. But there again, Samuel was impressed by strength. He often talked about how strong he’d been as a young man. And about people he’d met who had achieved impressive feats of endurance. Perhaps Joel might be able to persuade Samuel to join him in sleeping out in the open now and then? Maybe that would do something towards correcting his dad’s hunched back?

Joel sat down in Samuel’s armchair. On the wireless, somebody was droning on and on about something or other. Joel tried to listen to what the man was saying in
his squeaky voice. It had something to do with cows. Cows and milking machines. Joel started to fiddle with the tuning knob. Crackling sounds came from lots of different foreign stations, but sometimes he could hear a voice that was loud and clear. Occasionally he could hear music, and wondered what country it was coming from.

It was like traveling, he’d often thought. Without needing to get up from your armchair. You just twiddled a knob, and off you went.

He soon got tired of it all, and came back to the man talking about cows. He was still at it. Joel yawned. He had trouble keeping his eyes open. But it was still too early to go outside and go to bed.

He managed to keep awake until eleven o’clock. Then he put on several layers of clothes and packed his alarm clock into a wooly sock. Now he was ready. He was sure he’d fall asleep the moment he’d carried the bed out from the woodshed and snuggled down into it.

When he emerged into the garden, carrying his rolled-up mattress and all the bedclothes, it felt colder than he’d expected. No doubt that was because he was very tired. He opened the shed door and dragged out the bed. Some of the springs were broken, but that couldn’t be helped. That could be a part of the toughening-up process.

He’d decided to place the bed behind the woodshed. Nobody would be able to see him there. But there again,
it wasn’t completely dark—the streetlamp penetrated that far.

He got everything ready, checked that the alarm clock stuffed into a sock was properly set, then crept down under the covers. He had his wooly hat on his head, and a woolen scarf wrapped round his face.

It felt cold when he’d settled down in bed. It was very odd, lying there and staring up at the night sky.

He could feel sleep creeping up on him. It felt less cold, now that he’d pulled the thick quilt over his head.

Before long he was fast asleep.

And the snow started to fall.

Joel dreamt that he was cold.

It was a strange dream. He was standing by the stove, stirring a saucepan. The stove was hot. So hot that he’d unbuttoned his shirt right down to his stomach so as not to sweat. But he was cold even so. He stirred and stirred, unfastened even more buttons, and sweat was pouring off him. But nevertheless, he was so cold that he was shivering.

Then he woke up. At first he didn’t know where he was. It was his usual quilt that he’d pulled up over his head. But it was cold all around him. He tried to curl up even more. Then he noticed he was all stiff. And wet.

Then he remembered. He sat bolt upright.

The bed was almost entirely covered in snow. The brown quilt had a layer of fresh white snow. And the newly fallen snow had found its way into his bed and
melted. He was so cold that he felt sick. He started to panic. Had he frozen to death? He jumped out of bed. His body was creaking. He started jumping up and down and flailing his arms about. Then he packed up the bedclothes and the wooly sock with the alarm clock. He left the bed where it was. He didn’t bother about the creaking steps on the stairs. Once he was inside the flat he flung all the stuff he’d carried up with him into a heap on the floor, and sat down next to the radiator.

He couldn’t remember ever having experienced any thing so blissful.

The heat spread through his body. His hands softened up.

He fell asleep, sitting there by the radiator. He didn’t know how long he slept. When he woke up he was still so tired that he could hardly open his eyes. Nevertheless, he forced himself to stand up, take off his boots and the rest of his clothes and put his pajamas on. He carried the mattress and the bedclothes into his room and put them on the bed. Everything was still wet. He took the alarm clock with him and snuggled down into Samuel’s bed. It smelled of Samuel. It ought to have been the salty smell of the sea, but in fact it smelled of pine resin and forest.