A Fairy Tale (20 page)

T
he duvet has been kicked to the end of the bed. we're both naked. I open the curtain, small drops of water have gathered on the inside of the windowpane. Camilla's room is dark red: outside, the sun is rising. There's a plastic clock shaped like a skull on the chest of drawers. It's early in the morning, but I'm running late.

I find the bathroom and splash water on my face. I borrow a blob of toothpaste from a tube and rub it on my gums.

I can't have been asleep for more than a couple of hours. Maybe just the one.

My underwear and socks are lying on the floor, tangled up with her clothes. Camilla rests on her elbow; she watches me while I put my on underwear.

“I need to go away for a couple of days,” I say, taking the joint lying on the windowsill, the one we didn't get round to smoking yesterday. I hold it up and she nods, I can have it.

I kiss her. On my way down the stairs I find my T-shirt. In the living room are my trousers and my hoodie. My rucksack is in the hallway where I left it.

The cold morning air makes me shiver. The sidewalk is wet and smooth. I walk as quickly as I can until I reach the street where Karin and Michael live.

I find pen and paper in my rucksack and use a white Citroën for support. The hood of the car is wet from morning dew and the pen keeps going through the paper and onto the paintwork. I'm as brief as I can be. I write that I'm going away. I tell them not to worry about me. I'll be back in a couple of days.

I don't explain why. Karin knows where I've gone. She must know: she spoke to my grandmother on the telephone and chose not to tell me about it.

I post the letter through their mailbox and think about my sister. She's lying up there, she's so very small. When she sleeps, she drools a little; not very much, but enough to leave snail traces on her pillow.

I run down the street, past the road where Christian lives. Down the main street and past the pet shop.

I sit in the empty train carriage, trying to catch my breath.

The train pulls away from the station. I lean my head against the cold window, my breath steams it up, I watch the houses go past.

I get off at
Hovedbanegården. The sidewalks are littered with cigarette butts and squashed chewing gum. I have twelve minutes to buy my ticket and find the right platform.

The carriage fills up
with young people with gym bags and beers. A couple of stations later a family gets on.

“Do you think Granny will have some sweets for us?” a little boy asks.

His mum nods, yes, absolutely.

I show my ticket to the ticket inspector and sink back into my seat.

The train drives on
board the ferry. I stand on the deck during the whole crossing. The air is cold, my eyes water. I get splashes of salt water in my face and I laugh, but no one can hear me over the ferry's engine. When I get back inside the train, I can no longer feel my fingers or toes.

The passengers around me change as I travel through the country.

I still have many hours' travelling ahead of me, but it doesn't matter. When I half-close my eyes, I'm back in Camilla's room. She has a birthmark on her shoulder and her hair smells of smoke and apples. I can feel her fingers on my arms. Her bare feet are cold against my back. The candles on the windowsill drip wax onto the carpet.

During the night we go down to the kitchen to make more toasties. The house is cold; we're naked and the sweat dries on our backs. She sits on the marble kitchen table, says she's scared of getting frozen to it, and I kiss her on the lips.

The train steward's trolley bumps into my knee. He apologizes. I buy a sandwich with halved meatballs and red cabbage even though I'm not hungry.

Outside, towns glide past. Some small, others bigger.

We reach the last
stop; the day has passed on the train. I'm one of a handful of people getting off. I walk through the railway station where the newsstand is closed, continue through an underpass, and then reach the bus station. I find a shelter; I tighten my jacket around me. Half an hour later the bus arrives.

The light inside the bus is so dim I can barely see my hands. Other passengers sit scattered around. When they get on, they nod to the driver and perhaps to a fellow passenger, but none of them speaks. We drive past fields and through small towns that I recognize. Or towns that look similar. Places I lived when I was a child.

The water appears a couple of times to my right like a black line. We drive past large, square buildings with pigs and corn silos. The bus driver goes outside and smokes a cigarette. He looks at his watch, then we drive on.

When we reach the final destination, I ask the driver where the harbour is. He points and says it's not far.

T
he island is dark. I can't see from the ferry deck how big it is. On the map it looked like a seagull colony that someone had gone to the trouble of naming.

A single car sails with us. The engine splutters to life, the driver presses the accelerator and disembarks.

I walk across the cobblestones. Past a closed snack bar, a small wooden shed with pictures of French hot dogs, meatball sandwiches, and fries.

An old woman in a green wool coat is standing next to an old Opel.

When I reach her, she gives me a quick hug. She signals with her hand for me to get in.

“I'm glad you came,” she says, and puts the car in gear.

We drive down a narrow street with low houses. Any window that isn't dark is lit up by the flickering glow of a television.

We drive past the hotel. My grandmother makes a small nod with her head.

“Don't go in there,” she says. “Not even if you feel like it.”

We leave the town behind. We drive past tangled shrubs and a few low trees.

She slows down as we pass the church.

“They'll never find another priest,” she says. “It'll be left to rot now.”

The vicarage is the
biggest house I've yet to see on the island. My grandmother parks outside and unlocks the door. She switches on the light as we enter; we pass many closed doors.

“It's expensive to heat,” she says. “Mind your head.”

We take three steps down to the kitchen. It's big and sensibly laid out. If she had help in the house, she could cook for a big family here.

The table I'm sitting at is covered with a red-and-white checked vinyl tablecloth. My grandmother serves me split pea soup.

“It's not exactly a feast,” she says, putting two fat slices of bacon on the edge of the soup bowl. “But you've been travelling for a long time. You need something to sustain you.”

She watches me while I eat. Around us the house is cold and quiet.

“I saw you when you had just been born,” she says. “And later, at a railway station. Your father called me. Gave me a time. I bought an ice cream, you ate half, then the two of you caught the next train. You won't remember.”

When the bowl is empty, my grandmother escorts me past several closed doors and up to a room on the first floor.

“The bathroom's at the end of the passage. Here on the island the day starts early, so I suggest you get some sleep.”

I hear her walk down the stairs. Slowly, one step at a time.

The bathroom is freezing. Four dead flies lie on the windowsill. I turn on the tap; it coughs a couple of times before the water comes out, rust-coloured at first, then it runs clear. I wash, brush my teeth, and go back to the room. It's not very big. It's so dark outside that the glass on the window might as well be painted over.

I sit down on the bed; the mattress is hard and it creaks. I look from the crucifix on the wall, carved in hardwood, to the drawings of a bicycle hanging over the desk. There's a leather football in the corner. It takes me a moment or two to realize that this must be my dad's old bedroom. Unchanged in a large house where no more children followed him and his sister. I open the desk drawer and find exercise books with equations, essays, and several drawings. The subject is the same in all of them: a racing bike. The drawings in the drawer are drafts of the ones on the wall. The bicycle isn't in motion; it's not going over a hill. It's a bicycle drawn in detail, as accurately as possible. With each drawing the tires get rounder and the proportions more realistic. As I'm about to close the drawer, I feel something scrape against it. I pull the drawer right out; underneath it I find an old, yellowing catalogue. It still opens to the last pages, those with pictures of ladies in satin underwear that cover everything from their hips right down to their thighs, suspender belts and bras whose purpose is purely functional. The models don't look at the reader: their gaze is turned away, their smile is friendly, but not inviting. I put the catalogue back under the drawer and go to the wardrobe. It's old and made from rare wood with tiny woodworm holes. The doors catch at first, but then open with a squeak. The wardrobe is empty. My dad must have taken his clothes with him. He went to university, and he wouldn't have been able to do that on the island. There's a sweater at the bottom of the wardrobe, forgotten or deliberately left behind. I pick it up; I feel the wool against my fingers. It smells oily, like spoiled lamb meat.

I kick off my shoes, turn off the light, and lie down on the bed. I still have the sweater in my hands. I press my face into the coarse wool. I can now also smell sweat and tobacco: the smell of my dad when he was my age. I don't remember when I last cried.

T
he cold wakes me up. there's hoarfrost on the inside of the window. The water in the shower never gets properly hot. My hands are shaking as I put on my jeans.

I walk down the stairs and through the house, trying to remember which way we went last night. I open the door to a sewing room and walk into a big cupboard before I find the kitchen.

My grandmother pours me coffee from a pot on the stove. I butter a slice of toast.

“I hope the wind didn't keep you awake,” she says, and I detect a hint of a smile around her lips.

We drive to the
harbour. Today the island is coloured in shades of grey and the faded green of old army vehicles.

“Nothing can grow here,” my grandmother says. “People on this island have always made their living from fishing. Or at least they used to . . .”

My grandmother drives at her own pace. She drives so slowly that we're overtaken by a moped. The driver is my age, cigarette between his lips and leaning into the wind. I see him again as we drive onto the ferry.

My grandmother doesn't pay for our crossing. I don't notice this until we sit in the lounge and everyone who walks past us nods to her or presses her hand. They all stare at me with curiosity before quickly looking away again.

There are white traces of salt on the window; gulls fly around outside. My grandmother gets up, but before she reaches the coffee vending machine, a man in a thermal jacket has put in some coins. He carries two plastic cups of coffee over to our table.

We disembark. I see
the town from yesterday in daylight, a mixture of old houses and new buildings, ice cream parlours closed for the season. A supermarket and a snack bar practically identical to the one on the island. My grandmother parks on the main street.

“You only have city clothes,” she says.

I follow her into a menswear shop.

A family man who is trying on a pair of jeans is left to fend for himself as the shop assistant measures me and stacks up clothing on the counter as directed by my grandmother.

The boots and a thick winter jacket are the only items I'm told to put on straightaway.

“He'll need a suit. A black suit and a white shirt,” my grandmother says.

The shop assistant rings up the items on the till. The legs of the suit trousers need to be taken up, but they'll be ready in a couple of days. I'm looking for my wallet when the shop assistant asks if he should add it to the account.

My grandmother swallows.

“Yes,” she then replies. “Put it on the account.”

We get back in
the car and drive through an area that's neither town nor country. We pass a gas station, a crazy golf course, and the ruins of a hotel my grandmother says burned down a couple of years ago.

We join the motorway. My grandmother drives in the middle lane, still going at her own pace. The speedometer never goes above 70 km/h. If she sees the cars behind us, she isn't bothered by them. Twenty minutes later, we turn off and drive down towards a large, square concrete building. Inside, the light is dim; there's a newsstand and a hairdresser's with their opening hours displayed in the windows. We follow blue arrows along the floor down a hospital corridor and take the elevator up.

My grandfather has almost
disappeared under the blanket. He was a tall man, I can tell from the bump his feet make at the foot of the bed. My grandmother puts her coat on a chair.

“He'll wake up one of these days,” she says. “The doctors don't agree with me. But I know that he'll wake up, that he wants to talk to you.”

She looks down at the man in the bed.

“Your grandson's here. Don't keep him waiting for too long.”

The man's face makes me forget the hospital smell, forget the pale blue walls and the tubes connected to his body. The man in the bed looks like a very old version of my dad. Much older than I remember him. Much older than the years that have passed.

I look out the
window, I look at the machines keeping my grandfather alive, but I avoid his face. My grandmother sits next to me, looking expectantly at her husband.

A couple of hours later she takes her coat from the chair.

A woman is waiting in the corridor.

“My name's Merete,” she says, holding out her hand.

I'm told she's my aunt. Her hair is reddish, her skin gleams with moisturizer. The boy sitting on the bench by the wall is my cousin. When he sees my grandmother, he quickly takes off his headphones. The music keeps playing, the sound of a drum being hit over and over. He fumbles in his pocket and finally manages to switch it off. His sister is thin and has black hair; her natural reddish colour is growing in at the roots. She looks down at herself as if she has just spilled something.

“Are you going in to see him?” my grandmother asks.

The woman shakes her head. “We've been waiting for you in the cafeteria.”

We follow the blue arrows and return to the parking lot.

“Please, could Louise go in your car?” asks the woman who's my aunt. “I haven't got the energy to listen to her and Frederik bickering all the way.”

My cousin sits in
the passenger seat in front of me, as close to the car door as she can get, ready to throw herself out if necessary.

“It's been a long time since you last visited,” my grandmother says to her. My cousin doesn't reply; in the mirror I see her gaze move around the car. “But I suppose you're busy at school.”

The dark blue station wagon with my aunt and my other cousin overtakes us.

We sit in one
of the booths in the ferry lounge. My aunt gets coffee from the vending machine.

“Have you thought about what we discussed?” she says, putting a plastic cup in front of my grandmother. “I'll deal with the practicalities. Ring round.”

My grandmother lifts the cup to her lips. She blows on the hot coffee.

“There's no point in waiting till the last minute.”

My grandmother looks across the plastic cup.

“You don't bury people while they're still alive,” she says, in a dialect that's now so broad I can barely make out the words.

My aunt lights one of her long, thin cigarettes and looks out the window.

When the ferry has
docked, we quickly lose sight of my aunt and her dark blue car. They must have gone through the town in seconds. We're driving down the main street when the door to the hotel opens and a big man staggers outside. Equal parts muscle and fat packed inside a dark blue sweater with holes in the sleeves. He stops in the middle of the road with his back to us. My grandmother brakes and waits a few moments before sounding the horn. The man turns around, the muscles in his back tense up, he's about to shout and take a run at the car. Then he sees who's behind the wheel. He steps aside and gestures with a bow and a big, sweeping arm movement for us to please drive past.

“They used to drown,” my grandmother says. “That was before the fishing quotas and . . .”

My cousin tries to muffle her laughter in her sleeve. My grandmother glares at her until she falls silent again. We drive past a house with a hole in the roof and an upended fridge in the front garden.

The doors to the
dining room have been opened. A small woman with grey hair sets out salt and pepper shakers on the table. The room is furnished so simply it seems almost modern. A couple of plates with fishing motifs hang on the white walls, but there's not a lace doily or a china figurine in sight. We sit down at the table, my grandmother folds her hands, her lips move silently. Frederik weaves the white fabric napkin in between the teeth of his fork.

I try to catch Louise's gaze. I don't succeed.

The grey-haired woman puts a bowl of chopped parsley on the table before disappearing again.

“Do you still not pay her?” my aunt asks.

My grandmother shakes her head.

“If it's about the money then I don't mind . . .”

“It's not about the money.” My grandmother looks across to me, then she smiles. “She needs something to do. Otherwise she'd just be sitting at home.”

We eat lamb with a white mustard sauce and small, yellow potatoes.

My grandmother raises a wine glass to her lips, but it's difficult to see if she actually drinks from it. My aunt is on her second glass of white wine, and she pours me a glass without asking. Frederik stares at my glass; neither he nor his sister was offered wine. They've been given orange soda.

I hear only a single car on the country road outside the house during the meal. I see one gull fly past the window.

My aunt says, “I'd almost forgotten how good lamb can taste,” and pours herself more white wine.

Louise's hands are thin and scratched. I look at them while she cuts a slice of potato and puts it in her mouth.

Frederik leans over the table, whispers to his sister: “What a shame about all this delicious food, eh? It's wasted on you.”

The girl drops her cutlery and it hits the plate. She runs out of the dining room, we hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Why can't you be nice to her?” my aunt sighs.

After lunch I tell
my grandmother I'm going out for a bit of fresh air.

“If you meet anyone, tell them you're my grandson.”

I put on my new clothes, the boots and the thick jacket.

I haven't gotten far when I hear footsteps. Frederik comes up beside me.

“They thought it best I come with you. I know the island better.”

I make no reply, I carry on walking. We walk past the first low trees. I use the inside of my jacket as a shield from the wind while I light the joint.

“Can I have some?” my cousin asks.

I walk on. The landscape is flat and deserted. I wouldn't be able to get away from him even if I started running.

He comes up beside me again.

“What's wrong with your sister's hands?” I ask.

“Every time she eats something, she sticks her fingers down her throat. The stomach acid eats the skin on her knuckles.”

I hand him the joint. He takes a deep drag and forces himself to keep the smoke in his lungs.

“You can screw her if you want.” The smoke slips out of his mouth with the words. “It's not difficult. Like Open Sesame.”

He takes another deep drag; the flame flares up and eats its way through the loosely rolled tobacco. I take the joint from him and carry on down the road.

I've been walking for a couple of minutes when I start to wonder why I can no longer hear footsteps behind me. I don't turn around; I just carry on walking while I finish smoking the joint. I get so close to the sea that I can taste salt on my tongue before I turn around.

Frederik is sitting at the roadside, staring into the distance.

I pull him to his feet. He stumbles along the road and I catch him each time he's about to fall. He groans, mumbles, and struggles to focus his eyes.

I sit him down on the bench opposite the vicarage.

In the kitchen I find his sister sitting at the table. She has started drawing a fine mesh pattern on a sheet of paper; she's halfway down the page, tiny lines gripping each other. Behind her, the grey-haired lady is doing the washing up.

I ask Louise to help me with her brother. She looks up; her eyes are still red. I stay there until she gets up and comes with me.

When she sees her brother sitting on the bench, she grins into her sleeve, the same grin I saw in the car.

She leads the way, keeping a lookout while I help Frederik through the house and up the stairs. She opens the door to his room, a small attic with no windows.

I throw Frederik on the bed, I take off his shoes. If anyone looks in, he's having an afternoon nap.