Shadows in the Twilight (7 page)

It was nearly eleven o'clock. He was hungry. He
popped the contents of a full pack of pastilles into his
mouth, then set off for home. On the hill down from
the co-op warehouse and the vet's, he let go of the
handlebars and closed his eyes. He plucked up enough
courage to close his eyes and count up to ten. He had
decided that before he was twelve, he would have
enough courage to keep his eyes closed and not hold
on to the handlebars until he'd counted up to twenty-five.

When he finally stumbled into the kitchen he poured
himself a big glass of milk, and emptied all the pastilles
he still had left onto the table.

123 of them.

If they had been pearls, he'd have been rich.

He scooped the pastilles back into their boxes and
put them in the shoe box under his bed. He'd drawn a
black skull on that box, so that nobody dared open it. A
length of cotton hanging down from the lid could easily
be a fuse . . .

When he returned to the kitchen, he noticed that he
had a stomachache.

Nothing serious yet. Just something nagging away in
the background.

He sat stock still on the kitchen bench, to see if that
would bring on something more painful. But no: it was
still just a nagging ache.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't like the gripes.

Being in pain was painful. If you had a really nasty
stomachache, so bad that it brought tears to your eyes, it
made the whole of your body hurt. Even the thoughts
you had inside your head were painful.

He sat absolutely still, to make sure that the stomachache
didn't get worse. He counted slowly to 123. Then
he could breathe out again. He wasn't going to get the
gripes today.

Nothing could match knowing that you weren't going
to be in pain.

He felt inspired to do something useful. Now was the
time to work out his strategy.

How could he set up a meeting between Gertrud and
the Caviar Man?

He thought again about what he'd read in books about
how grown-ups met in order to decide if they ought to
get married. But nothing of what he remembered
seemed suitable in this case.

Then he thought about Samuel and Mummy Jenny.

They had written letters to each other, Samuel had
told him.

Many years ago, his ship had been in dock in
Gothenburg for repairs. Samuel and some of his shipmates
had gone ashore one evening. He'd been walking
along the street, stumbled on a paving stone and fallen
headlong into the arms of Mummy Jenny.

So that was one way of meeting, and having a son
called Joel who experienced a Miracle.

You stumble in the street and fall into somebody.

And then you write letters.

Samuel had told Joel that after Jenny had prevented
him from hurting himself on the pavement in
Gothenburg, he'd persuaded her to give him her address.
Then he had written to her from all the foreign ports
he'd visited. And in one of the letters they had arranged
to meet in Gothenburg. In a park, behind a statue.

Joel thought carefully about all this.

He suspected it might be too difficult to arrange for
the Caviar Man to stumble on a paving stone and fall
headlong into the arms of Gertrud.

So he would have to miss that part out and go straight
to the letter stage.

They could send secret letters to each other and
arrange a secret meeting. Then no doubt everything
would proceed of its own accord.

Secret letters that Joel Gustafson would write.

But how did you write a letter like that? He had no
idea.

The library, he thought. There must be a book there
about secret letters. A book as important as that had to
exist!

He checked the kitchen clock. There were a lot of
hours to go yet before Miss Arvidson opened the library.
He would have to be patient.

By four o'clock he had only 72 pastilles left. He
thundered down the stairs and cycled to the library.

Miss Arvidson, the lady in charge of the library, was
very strict. She thought that nobody ever borrowed the
right books. Moreover, she refused to allow children to
borrow the books they wanted. On several occasions
Joel had put exciting books about murders and other
crimes on her desk, but she had pursed her lips and
informed him that those books were for adults only.

Joel couldn't imagine how a book about writing
secret letters could be for adults only. Why should
anybody have to wait until they were fifteen before
learning how to do that?

Nevertheless, he had made up his mind to be cautious.
He opened the door quietly, bowed a greeting to Miss
Arvidson and took off his dirty boots. Then he went over
to the shelves and selected a few religious books. He
carried them over to the issue desk.

Miss Arvidson examined the titles and nodded in
approval. And started stamping them.

Here we go.

'I'd like to borrow a book about how to write secret
letters,' Joel said.

Miss Arvidson looked at him in astonishment.

'Secret letters?'

'Love letters,' said Joel. 'Secret love letters.'

Miss Arvidson burst out laughing. It occurred to Joel
that he must be the first person in the whole world who
had heard Miss Arvidson laughing. Lots of disbelieving
faces peered out from among the bookshelves.

Miss Arvidson was howling with laughter.

She laughed so much that Joel started laughing as well.

That made her furious.

'That's the silliest thing I've ever heard,' she said. 'A
book about how to write secret letters! Of course there's
no such book.'

'Love letters,' said Joel. 'It's not me who wants it, it's
my dad.'

Involving Samuel was no problem, Joel had decided.
He never went near the library anyway.

'If your dad wants to write love letters, he'll have to
manage it on his own,' said Miss Arvidson. 'We have
love poems. But not love letters.'

'Maybe that would do,' said Joel.

Miss Arvidson eyed him up and down, then went to a
shelf and returned with two slim volumes.

'These are pretty love poems,' she said, and started
stamping the books. 'But next time he'll have to come
and borrow them himself.'

Joel cycled back home and put the potatoes on to boil.
Then he started reading the thin poetry collections.

They were mostly about roses and thorns. Tears and
desperate longing. The word 'desperation' came over
and over again.

That would have to do.

When he and Samuel had finished their dinner, he
would write the letters.

One letter from Gertrud to the Caviar Man. One letter
from the Caviar Man to Gertrud.

He had taken some sheets of letter-paper and some
envelopes from Samuel's room.

His big plan was ready.

But when he sat in bed after dinner, resting his letter-paper
on an atlas, it didn't seem so straightforward.

Where should their secret meeting take place?

There wasn't a single statue anywhere in the little
town. There wasn't really anywhere that could be called
a park. Besides, it had to be a place where Joel could
hide nearby and listen to what they said to each other.

He wandered through the whole town in his thoughts.
He kept stopping, but failed to find a suitable place.

The churchyard was too spooky after dark.

There were no lights on the football pitch. They
wouldn't even be able to find each other.

In the end, just as he was about to give up, he found
the solution.

Mr Under's, the horse dealer's, garden.

It was big, there were lots of trees, and Mr Under had
nothing against other people besides himself strolling
about in it. There was also a little birdbath, which was
the nearest to a statue you could find in this place.

In addition, Mr Under wasn't at home. Every autumn
he used to travel south in order to buy horses.

Joel could hide behind the woodshed. It was only a
few metres from there to the birdbath.

So that was that! They'd meet at eight o'clock on
Saturday evening.

So now he needed to write the two letters. To make
sure the handwriting was different, he wrote Gertrud's
letter with his right hand and the Caviar Man's with his
left. The one from the Caviar Man was hardest to write:
the letters kept wandering off in all directions and he got
cramp in his fingers. But eventually, they were done.

He read through what he had written.

Gertrud's letter first:

'
Meet me by the birdbath in the horse dealer's garden
at eight o'clock on Saturday evening. If you aren't there,
I shall suffer the thorn of despair. A secret admirer.
'

Joel wasn't sure about the '
thorn of despair
'. He'd
stolen the phrase from one of the poems. But what did it
mean? He'd chosen it because the poem was written by
a woman.

The letter written by the Caviar Man was longer. Joel
assumed that men wrote longer letters than women. But
maybe it was the other way round in reality?

'
Oh, fondest love of my heart. Meet me at the birdbath
at eight o'clock on Saturday evening. I'm aching to
meet you after a thousand years of longing. I kiss your
tears. Will you drive me to despair? A secret admirer.
'

Joel wasn't sure about 'fondest' – wouldn't it be
better to say 'dearest'? But that was what it said in the
poem, so no doubt it was right.

He folded the letters and sealed the envelopes.

At that moment, Samuel entered the room.

'Are you writing letters?' he asked.

'I've ordered some catalogues,' said Joel.

'I haven't written a letter for ages,' said Samuel. Joel
thought he sounded sad about that.

'You can write to me,' he said. 'I promise to answer.'

Samuel smiled.

'It's late,' he said. 'Time to go to bed if you're going
to be able to get up for school tomorrow morning.'

Joel had intended to take his bike before going to bed,
and post the messages in Gertrud's and the Caviar Man's
letter boxes. But he was too tired. He'd have to wait
until the next day.

It was cold the next evening.

There was a crackling noise from under his tyres
when Joel set off. He parked his bike by the railway
bridge and ran the rest of the way to Gertrud's house. He
paused outside the gate. He could see her shadow
outlined against the curtains.

So, now I'm going to do my good deed, he thought,
and put the letter into the box fastened to the gatepost.

When he came to Lasse the Cabbie's back yard,
everything was calm and quiet. Joel had left his bike in
a side street, and crept forward cautiously through the
shadows. Now he was General Custer's messenger
again, sneaking through enemy territory with a message
that could mean life or death to the recipient.

There were two letter boxes attached to the fence. He
bent down, and managed to make out the names even
though the streetlight was a long way away.

Then he slid the letter into the slot.

He had to be certain that he hadn't made a mistake, as
the letter box was secured with a little padlock.

So, he'd done it at last!

On Saturday night his good deed would be complete.
Then he could concentrate on his geography game. Become
a better football player, and find himself a real friend.

He cycled back home. The streets were deserted. He
met only one car, outside the Grand Hotel.

He parked his bike in its stand.

Then it dawned on him what he had done.

He froze stiff.

He hadn't written David Lundberg on the envelope.

He'd written the Caviar Man.

'
To the Caviar Man from a secret admirer.
'

How could David know that he was the Caviar Man?
Besides, he might not be too pleased about being
compared with caviar.

Damn and blast, Joel thought.

I'm an idiot, idiot, idiot!

Everything is ruined.

He sat down on the freezing cold steps outside the
front door.

How on earth could he have written Caviar Man on
the envelope?

How could he possibly have been so stupid?

That evening Joel realised that there is no anger greater
than the anger you direct at yourself.

He had never been so furious with himself as he
was now.

Even his father wondered what was the matter with
him.

'What are you wandering around and muttering at?'
he asked.

'I'm swearing,' said Joel.

Samuel looked at him in surprise.

'Why?'

'Why not?' said Joel.

'There's usually a reason for swearing,' said Samuel.
'I swear when I stumble in the forest. Or twist my ankle.
Or hit myself on the thumb.'

'I've hit myself on the head,' said Joel.

Samuel looked worried.

'Have you fallen off your bike?' he asked.

'I've hit myself inside my head,' said Joel.

Then he went to his room and slammed the door
behind him.

Samuel could see it was best to leave Joel in peace.
He went back to his armchair and continued reading the
newspaper.

Joel got his own back on himself by eating all the
pastilles he had left. All 72 of them. If he got stomachache
as a result, that would serve him right for being so stupid
as to write the Caviar Man on the letter to David.

Thoughtlessness, that's what it was. He'd learnt that
from Miss Nederström. If you did something stupid you
were thoughtless.

It was a good word. It meant that your head was
empty. Your skull was no more than a tin can on which
there happened to be a pair of blue eyes, a nose and a
mouth. And tousled hair. A rusty tin can by the name of
Joel Gustafson. A rusty, thoughtless tin can.

Of course David wouldn't go to the birdbath on
Saturday evening. He would read the letter twenty
times without understanding a thing. Then he'd tear it
into little pieces and throw it into the wastepaper
basket. At best he would forget all about it. At worst,
he would start thinking. No doubt the Barefooted Man
had told him about the peculiar kid brother who'd paid
a visit to the Underworld. He would realise right away
that it was an imposter. Then he would start searching
the town for him.

It was clear to Joel that he would have to change his
appearance. Dress up as somebody else. But what would
he say when Miss Nederström asked him why he looked
different? What would Samuel say? And his classmates?

And Otto! Needless to say, Otto would put two and
two together. Nobody was as good as Otto when it came
to ferreting out facts. He'd tip off the Caviar Man, Joel
would be captured and thrown into the jaws of the beast
of prey. He would be a human sacrifice in the mouth of
the Lord of the Fire.

Joel went to the kitchen and tried to change his
appearance in the cracked shaving mirror. He sprinkled
water onto his hair and tried to make a parting. But his hair
just stood on end, no matter how wet he made it. Water ran
down inside his shirt collar and formed pools on the floor.
He put on his father's spare pair of reading glasses that he
found on a shelf. But no matter how hard he tried, they
simply slid down his nose the moment he moved.

You ought to be able to change your sex, he thought.
One day Joel, the next Joella.

He stood in the doorway of Samuel's room.

'When will my beard start to grow?' he asked.

Samuel lowered his newspaper and stared at him in
surprise.

'Why do you ask that?'

'I just wondered.'

'You'll have to wait for a few years yet,' said Samuel,
returning to his newspaper. 'Think yourself lucky. You
don't have to worry about getting shaved.'

'I'm going to grow a long beard,' said Joel. 'I'm never
going to shave.'

He went back to his room.

There was nothing he could do.

His big plan was in ruins.

Not even General Custer could help him. When he
stood before the strict general and tried to explain how
he had lost the letter containing the vital information, he
couldn't think of anything to say.

The general passed sentence on the spot. Joel would
be shot at dawn, when the first rays of sun turned the
prairie red . . .

And all this was due to him not looking both ways
before running across the street outside the bar. If
Eklund had only turned up ten seconds sooner or ten
seconds later, nothing would have happened.

Joel used to think that what made a day exciting was
when something unexpected happened. Now he wasn't
so sure any more. You ought to know about some events
before they happened. And you should also be able to
forbid certain things from happening.

He wondered if he ought to say a prayer.

Not because he thought it would help. But there was
no harm in trying. Perhaps Miracle People had certain
rights that other people didn't have?

He put his hands together and mumbled a prayer, as
fast as he could.

'
Dear God, please make the Caviar Man come to the
birdbath on Saturday. Amen.
'

He regretted it immediately.

Perhaps God didn't like the idea of people who didn't
really believe in him saying prayers. Maybe it was a bit
like cheating when you were playing cards?

There was nothing he could do.

He went into Samuel's room. His dad had taken off
his socks and was clipping his toenails.

'Are you still wandering around and swearing?'
Samuel asked.

'No,' said Joel. 'But I want to tell you something I
want for my twelfth birthday.'

'Are you really going to be twelve next?' said
Samuel. 'Good heavens, but time flies!'

'Can I?'

'Ask for whatever you want. As long as it's not too
expensive.'

'It costs nothing,' said Joel.

'Good,' said Samuel. 'What do you want?'

'I want us to move,' said Joel. 'Now. Soon.'

Samuel stopped clipping his toenails and eyed Joel up
and down.

'To the sea,' said Joel. 'I want you to become a sailor
again, and to take me with you. I want us to move now.'

'Not until you've finished school,' said Samuel. 'Then
we can move, perhaps. But not before.'

'I've learnt enough,' said Joel. 'I want us to move now.'

Samuel gave him a searching look.

'Has something happened to make you want to move
now?' he asked.

Joel very nearly came out with the truth. Explained
everything that had happened. But something stopped
him. He didn't want to reveal what a thoughtless rusty
tin can he really was. Maybe Samuel might say it was
impossible to take such an empty-headed fool with him
to sea? He couldn't afford to risk that.

'Nothing has happened,' said Joel. 'Nothing ever happens
here, except when I get run over by the Ljusdal bus.'

'That's not something to joke about,' said Samuel.
His voice was suddenly as sharp as Miss Nederström's.

Joel didn't like that voice. It frightened him.

'It doesn't matter,' said Joel. 'Of course we'll have to
wait until I've finished school before we move.'

'Exactly,' said Samuel. 'Then we shall see.'

His voice was back to normal again now. A bit rough
and hoarse. Just as Joel was used to hearing it.

Joel got undressed and settled down in bed.

In order not to think about the Caviar Man and the
letter, he decided he would tell himself a story. He
searched his brain for stories he'd started before, but
never finished.

There was one about how he was looking for a secret
tree in the depths of the forest, not far from Four Winds
Lake. A map was buried at the foot of this tree. If he
found it, he'd be able to sail to The Forgotten Island. A
big island somewhere in the Indian Ocean. An island
that could only be found by somebody who had the map.

That was a good story. It could have no end of
endings.

When Samuel had been in to say goodnight, Joel
curled up and closed his eyes. Now he is no longer in
bed. It's a summer's morning, soon after school has
broken up. He's sitting in the front seat, next to Simon
Windstorm, and they're on their way to Four Winds
Lake. Simon doesn't smell foul any longer. He's newly
bathed and perfectly clean. He'll soon stop the lorry and
drop Joel off. Joel has to look for the secret tree by
himself. Simon is merely his chauffeur. He obeys Joel's
slightest gesture. The window is open and a butterfly
starts flying in circles round Joel's face. It's no ordinary
butterfly. Joel soon discovers that the pattern on its
wings is not a haphazard mixture of colours. There is a
message written on those wings. A mysterious message
indicating where he should go in order to find the secret
tree. Joel follows every movement the butterfly makes.
The message on its wing is beginning to make sense . . .

Joel falls asleep.

The Caviar Man can't reach Joel in his dreams. Big
swarms of butterflies keep watch over Joel's slumber.

Samuel tiptoes into the dark room and tucks Joel in.

Then he leaves the kitchen door ajar, so that a narrow
strip of light wanders over the floor and settles on Joel's
face.

*

Two days later, it's Saturday.

Joel has woken up early. Despite not having been
woken up by anybody.

He knows straight away that it's Saturday, and that he
doesn't have to go to school.

He pulls the covers over his head, and tries to imagine
that it's Sunday instead. That Saturday never existed. A
day that was missed out, and nobody noticed. But when
Samuel starts clattering about with the coffee pot in the
kitchen, it's still Saturday. Joel sits up.

What the hell am I going to do? he thinks.

Shall I go there tonight, and hide behind the
woodshed?

Or shall I just forget all about it?

He tumbles out of bed and gets dressed. There are
holes in his underpants, and in one of his socks. When
he raises the blind, he sees that it's frosty outside again.
Red leaves seem to glow against the white background.

There's a mumbling and bumbling coming from the
kitchen.

Samuel is trying to button up his shirt.

He and Sara are going off in a car today. They're
going to visit a friend of Samuel's who's celebrating his
fortieth birthday. Samuel has borrowed a car from
Nyberg, the bouncer. Sara fixed it. The intention was
that Joel should go as well, but he's said that he'd prefer
to stay at home. He still hasn't been able to make up his
mind whether he should hide behind the woodshed in
horse dealer Under's garden, or not. He's done everything
he could think of in order to help him reach a
decision. He's tried drawing the shortest straw – if he
draws the short one three times in succession, he hides
behind the woodshed. If not, he forgets about it. He's
borrowed Samuel's pack of cards and tried cutting in
various ways in order to decide. At least four cards out
of ten must be spades. In that case he'll hide behind the
woodshed. But that didn't work either. He's tried
counting paving stones and jumping over the cracks, but
that didn't help. And so he told Samuel that he'd prefer
to stay at home.

'I'm busy inventing a game,' he told Samuel. 'I
thought I'd take it to school on Monday and show it to
Miss Nederström.'

Sara has made him some pancakes. They're on a dish
in the pantry. They are to make up for his not being able
to have a slice or two of birthday cake.

'Come and help me with my tie,' shouts Samuel from
the kitchen.

It's the blue tie. The sailor's tie. The one Samuel
bought in Glasgow. The silk tie. Joel kneels on a chair
and ties the complicated knot for his father. Samuel
smells of aftershave. He's humming away as he bends
his head back to make it easier for Joel to tie the knot.

'Thank you,' Samuel says when the knot is finished.

'Pocket money,' says Joel.

'Haven't you had it already?' asks Samuel with a frown.

It's the same every Saturday. Haven't you had your
pocket money already? Then he smiles and takes out his
purse and gives Joel one krona.

Joel goes out with Samuel to watch him driving off in
Nyberg's car. It's not a very special car. Not like the
Pontiac Joel has seen in Krage's showrooms. It's a
DKW that rattles and splutters like a motorbike. It's
green, with a white roof.

'It's a nice car,' Samuel says.

'A Pontiac would be better,' says Joel.

Samuel gives him a look, then bursts out laughing.

'Don't be silly!' he says. 'Who can afford a Pontiac?

Only the rich.'

We are so poor that we can't even afford a DKW, Joel
thinks.

But then he regrets thinking such a thing. He can see
how happy Samuel is at the prospect of going out in a
car with Sara, even if it is only a borrowed car.

'Don't do anything silly while we're away,' says
Samuel, who has already sat down behind the wheel.

I've already done something silly, Joel thinks.

'Of course not,' he says.

'I won't be late,' says Samuel. 'But don't sit up
waiting for me.'

Then he engages gear and drives off. Joel waves. Then
he goes back up to the kitchen and eats one of the cold
pancakes. He gets out the jars of lingonberry jam and
cloudberry jam and some cream and some sugar. He
spreads double layers of everything onto the pancake and
rolls it up. If Samuel had seen it he would have been
annoyed – but Joel doesn't have a guilty conscience. After
all, Samuel's going to be eating birthday cake all day.

Joel has counted the pancakes. There are eight of
them. He's already eaten one. He'll have two for lunch.
And save the rest for dinner.

The only question is: will he be able to wait until
lunch before eating the next one?

As a reward for not eating a second pancake now,
he awards himself two spoonfuls of jam. When he
returns the jars of jam to the pantry, he quickly
unscrews the lid of the cloudberry jam jar and takes
another spoonful.

The day passes slowly. He takes out one of Samuel's
rolled-up sea charts, the one showing the east coast of
Africa and the islands of the Indian Ocean. He tries to
work out where the secret island might be. He searches
for a spot where the sea is very deep, and it's a long way
away from both Africa and India.