Shadows in the Twilight (9 page)

He peels the potatoes, fills a pan with water and sits
down at the kitchen table to keep an eye on them and
make sure they don't boil over. Between now and
Saturday there's a big problem he has to solve. How is
he going to be able to get into the Community Centre
and make sure that Gertrud and the Caviar Man really
do meet? He'll have to find some way of sneaking inside
and hiding. But how will he be able to manage that?

The next day everything is back to normal at school.
Miss Nederström is in a good mood, and everybody
seems to have forgotten that the previous day she had
twisted Joel's ear. Moreover, Otto is ill, so Joel doesn't
have to put up with his sneering face.

After school Joel cycles to the Community Centre. He
rides round the building five times, trying to find a good
solution to his problem.

What would Geronimo have done? Joel wonders.
How would he have tricked his way into the fort?

Joel tries to think the way Geronimo would have
thought. If it had been a question of defending the fort,
he would have tried to think his way into General
Custer's mind. Red Indians were best at capturing forts,
but the white soldiers were best at defending them.

What would Geronimo have done?

Joel dismounted and studied the fort. The Community
Centre Fort. In the display cases outside the entrance
were film posters. Just now there was a romantic film
running, starring Vivien Leigh and Gary Cooper. Joel
imagined Vivien Leigh without a nose, and Gary Cooper
with blond hair like the Caviar Man. Then the film could
have been about Gertrud and the Caviar Man.

A notice in the next display case announced that
Kringström's orchestra would be playing at the dance on
Saturday evening.

That gave Joel his idea.

Kringström would help Joel to get into the
Community Centre Fort.

Joel knew that Kringström lived in the same block of
flats as the Greyhound, Eva-Lisa. She had told Joel that
when Kringström wasn't performing somewhere with
his orchestra, all he did was listen to gramophone
records. He used to play them so loudly that all his
neighbours had complained. So he had built a room
inside a room so that no noise could escape through the
walls of his flat.

Kringström played the clarinet and saxophone. But if
anybody in his orchestra was ill, he could stand in for
them and play any instrument you liked.

A brilliant idea occurred to Joel.

Not even Geronimo could have thought of a better
plan!

Joel cycled up the hill to the block of flats where
Kringström lived. As he didn't want the Greyhound to
see him and start asking awkward questions, Joel
sneaked in through the back door as quickly as he could.
Kringström lived on the ground floor. Joel rang the bell.
But perhaps Kringström was in his soundproof room
listening to gramophone records? If no sound could leak
out of there, perhaps no sound could get in either? Such
as the doorbell. Joel rang again. Should he hammer on
the door instead? Perhaps the neighbours would come to
investigate and wonder what was going on? He rang
once more. The door opened, and Kringström appeared,
in dressing gown and slippers, even though it was late
afternoon.

'Ah, good afternoon,' said Joel. 'I'd like to speak to
Mr Kringström, please.'

Kringström adjusted his glasses, which had been up
on his forehead, and eyed Joel up and down.

'I don't want to buy anything,' he said.

'I'm not selling anything,' said Joel. 'I want to learn
to play the saxophone.'

'You don't say,' said Kringström. 'The saxophone?
Not the guitar, like everybody else?'

'No,' said Joel. 'I want to learn to play the saxophone.'

'Well I never!' said Kringström. 'Come in so that I
can have a good look at you!'

He stepped to one side and ushered Joel in.

Joel knew that Kringström lived alone. He had been
married and divorced lots of times. He had a reputation
of being a womaniser, even though he was over fifty and
nearly bald. It was even said that he'd had a relationship
with the scary Eulalia Mörker.

But now he lived alone again. Joel entered the flat and
had the impression he was in a music shop. There were
gramophone records everywhere. Mainly 78s in brown
covers. But there were also some LPs and some little
EPs. The walls were covered in shelves. Where there
were no records, there were instrument cases. Joel
followed Kringström into another room – and here was
the room within a room. In the middle of the floor, like
a ticket office. No windows. Just a door. Kringström
removed a pile of records from a chair and invited Joel
to sit down.

Joel told him his name. He tried to be as polite as he
possibly could.

'The saxophone, eh?' said Kringström, scratching his
nose. 'Why don't you want to learn how to play the
guitar like everybody else?'

'I think the saxophone sounds best,' said Joel.
'Almost like an organ.'

Kringström nodded.

'And you want me to teach you, is that it?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Joel.

Kringström sighed.

'I don't have the time,' he said. 'But I think I'm the
only person in this dump who can play the saxophone.'

'We don't need to start right away,' said Joel. 'I don't
think I can afford a saxophone yet.'

Kringström flung out his arms.

'You can borrow a saxophone from me,' he said. 'But
I don't know if I can teach you, even though I play it
myself.'

Kringström reached down to pick up the shiny golden
saxophone lying on the floor beside him.

He handed it to Joel.

'Blow!' he said. 'See if you can get a sound out of it!'

Joel raised the mouthpiece to his lips and blew. All
that came out was a hissing sound. He tried again, blew
as hard as he could. Now there was a little squeak, as if
somebody had stood on a cat's tail.

Kringström shook his head.

'Give it to me,' he said.

And he played. The tune resounded round the room.
The windowpanes rattled. Notes ran up and down, as if
they were racing up and down stairs.

Somebody banged loudly on one of the walls.
Kringström stopped playing immediately.

'They don't understand music,' he said sadly.

'We could practise round at my place,' said Joel. 'The
woman who lives below us is nearly deaf.'

'I'll think it over,' said Kringström. 'We don't need to
decide anything here and now.'

Now came the crucial moment. Joel would have to
ask the most important question.

'Could I perhaps sit behind the orchestra and listen?'
he asked. 'When the orchestra's performing?'

'Of course you can,' said Kringström. 'But we shan't
be performing until Saturday.'

'Yes, at the Community Centre,' said Joel. 'Could I sit
behind you and listen then?'

Kringström smiled.

'If you help us to carry the instruments in,' he said.

'When do you want me to be there?' Joel asked. He
could feel his face flushing. His plan had succeeded!

'Come to the back door at half past seven,' said
Kringström. 'But you'll have to go now. I must go back
to Paradise.'

Paradise? It was only when Kringström pointed at the
little soundproof room that the penny dropped.

'That's my Paradise,' said Kringström. 'In there, there's
nothing but music. And me.'

Joel cycled home. Geronimo Gustafson had carried
out the first stage of the big plan. On Saturday he would
capture the fort.

He thought about Kringström and his Paradise.

He pictures himself fixing posters in the display
cabinet outside the Community Centre. Joel Gustafson's
Orchestra will play at a dance . . .

Now he's no longer wearing his baggy jacket. Now
he's in a shiny silver blazer. And white shoes. He's
beating time and directing the orchestra. Emblazoned on
the side of the big bass drum it says '
JGO'
in highly
decorated letters.
Joel Gustafson's Orchestra
.

For the rest of the evening he can't get out of his head
what's going to happen on Saturday night.

He goes to Samuel's room. His dad is reading the
newspaper and listening to the sound of the sea on the
radio.

'Can you dance?' he asks.

Samuel lowers the newspaper.

'Of course I can dance,' he says in surprise. 'Can't
everybody?'

'I can't,' Joel says.

'You'll learn before long,' says Samuel. 'Can't Eva-Lisa teach you?'

'But you never dance,' says Joel.

'Do you want me to dance here in the kitchen?' asks
Samuel, with a laugh.

The next question comes tumbling out of Joel's
mouth, without his having thought about it in advance.

'What about Mummy Jenny?' he says. 'Did you
dance with her? Did you dance together?'

'I suppose we did,' Samuel says. Joel can see a
shadow of unrest settling over his face.

He wishes he hadn't asked the question. Where did it
come from? It simply jumped out, as if it had been hiding
inside there and waiting for Joel to open his mouth.

The unrest fades away. Samuel is back to normal.

'Maybe we should,' he says. 'Maybe I should invite
Sara to go dancing with me? Kringström's orchestra is
supposed to be pretty good.'

Joel goes stiff.

Why can he never learn not to keep shooting off his
mouth? Just think, if Samuel gets it into his head to take
Sara to the dance at the Community Centre on Saturday
night?

'Kringström's orchestra is pretty awful,' he says.

'Have you heard them?' asks Samuel in surprise.

'Everybody says so,' says Joel. 'They are the worst
orchestra in Sweden.'

'I've heard the opposite,' says Samuel. 'Maybe I
should go and hear them, and see who's right?'

'You'll regret it if you do,' Joel insists.

Samuel puts down his newspaper and eyes him
intently.

'You seem to know an awful lot about Kringström's
orchestra,' he says. 'But isn't it a bit early for you to start
thinking about going out dancing?'

He ruffles Joel's hair, and returns to his newspaper.

Joel goes to his room and breathes a sigh of relief.

That was a close shave, he thinks. Geronimo
Gustafson's big plan very nearly collapsed in ruins.
Samuel came close to making up his mind to take Sara
to the dance at the Community Centre.

Now Geronimo can breathe a sigh of relief. There's
nothing in the way any longer.

But he is wrong, Joel Geronimo Gustafson. When
Saturday comes round and Samuel has made porridge
and they are having breakfast together, he suddenly puts
down his spoon and looks at Joel and says:

'That was a very good suggestion you came up with.'

Joel doesn't know what his dad is talking about. He
hasn't made any suggestions, as far as he knows.

'Sara and I are going to shake a leg at the Community
Centre tonight,' says Samuel.

Joel can't believe his ears.

But it's true. And in a strange way, it's Joel who set
it up.

He stares down at his porridge in the same way as
he'd stared down at his desk top a few days ago.

What is he going to do now?

Would he never be able to do his good deed? Is he
going to have to drag this Miracle around like a
millstone for the rest of his life?

When he finishes eating he goes to his room. Samuel
is doing the washing-up, humming away all the time.

How is Joel going to solve this problem?

What is he going to do now?

Geronimo Gustafson. What on earth are you going to
do now?

General Custer, Joel thought.

Or Geronimo. Or both of them together. They
wouldn't have coped with this. Not even together!

Once it had dawned on him that Samuel and Sara
really had made up their minds to go dancing to
Kringström's orchestra that night, Joel felt that all was
lost. The good deed he had spent so much time and
effort organising and was on the point of achieving,
would never happen now.

He was back where he'd started. Just like when he
took a wrong turning in Simon Windstorm's maze. The
good deed was something he'd never be able to find his
way out of. He'd have to keep pressing on with attempts
to do a good deed until he was so old that he couldn't
even stand up any more.

He sat in his room, swearing. He muttered all the
swearwords he could think of. And he invented several
new ones. All the time, Samuel was bustling around in
the kitchen, humming tunes. He filled the big zinc
bathtub with hot water. Then he shouted for Joel to come
and scrub his back for him. Joel would have preferred to
hit Samuel on the head with the brush instead. Why did
Samuel have to choose tonight of all nights to go out
dancing with Sara? Why not next Saturday? Why not
every Saturday apart from this one?

Why couldn't grown-ups ever understand when it
wasn't acceptable for them to go out dancing?

Joel scrubbed and Samuel grunted. If the brush had
been impregnated with a sleeping potion, Samuel would
have fallen asleep on the spot and not woken up until
tomorrow. Joel would pay Kringström and his orchestra
and he would rent the whole of the Community Centre
for tomorrow night so that Sara and Samuel could dance
together then. But not tonight! Alas, the brush was not
poisoned and Samuel continued humming. He stood in
the middle of the floor in a pool of water, shaving.

'We'll have dinner together at Sara's place this
evening,' he said contentedly. 'Then we'll go dancing.
You can stay in her flat and listen to the radio if you
like.'

'No,' said Joel.

'Why not?' wondered Samuel. 'Sara's a very good
cook. Much better than you and me.'

'I don't want to,' said Joel.

Samuel grew angry. Or perhaps irritated. Joel wasn't
quite sure of the difference.

'Just this once you'll do as I say!' said Samuel.

'No,' said Joel and emptied the bathtub by pouring
bucket after bucket of dirty water down the sink.

'What are you going to eat, then?' asked Samuel.

I shall starve, Joel thought.

But he didn't say that, of course.

'I'll make my own dinner,' he said instead. 'You said
I was good at looking after myself. You did say that,
didn't you?'

'Perhaps I did,' said Samuel. 'I just don't understand
why you're making yourself so difficult to get along with.'

Joel said nothing.

Neither did Samuel.

Another kind of silence, Joel thought. Different from
the one in the forest or in the Underworld.

At six o'clock Joel knotted Samuel's tie for him.

'Are you sure you don't want to come?' Samuel asked
again.

'I prefer to stay at home,' said Joel.

'Please yourself, then,' said Samuel, and left. Joel
didn't bother to stand in the window and wave. He went
straight to his room. He lay down on his bed and pulled
the covers over his head. An hour and a half from now
he was due at the back door of the Community Centre.
That's what had been arranged. But it would be
impossible now.

He sat straight up in bed.

'Oh, hell!' he yelled at nobody in particular. Then he
lay down again with the covers over his head.

Why does everything go wrong? he wondered. You
do the right thing. But it goes wrong even so.

Why is life so difficult?

He got out of bed. Lying there with the covers over
his head didn't help. He checked the kitchen clock. 17
minutes past six. The clock didn't have a second hand,
so he tried to count sixty seconds. But the clock showed
18 minutes past six when he'd only got as far as 49. He
was counting too slowly.

I give up, he thought. The Caviar Man and Gertrud
will have to manage without me. If there is a God, he'll
have to do without a thank you for his Miracle. He can
send the police after me for all I care. I, Joel Gustafson,
couldn't care less about that.

But at that very moment, he had an idea. He would
disguise himself. Surely he could dress up so that
nobody would recognise him? He'd be able to hide
behind the fat drummer, Holmström. He was the fattest
man in town. The fattest drummer in the world.

He looked at the clock again. 24 minutes past six. He
cursed for not having made up his mind sooner.

Joella, he thought. I can dress up as a girl. I can tell
Kringström that unfortunately my brother is ill, but I'd
also like to learn to play the saxophone . . .

No, that's not possible, he thought immediately. I
can't wear Mummy Jenny's dress. And there isn't anything
else.

He checked the clock again. Nearly half past six.

When ten past seven came round, he still hadn't
thought of a good way of disguising himself. He would
have to go now. Yet again he'd decided to stay at home,
but the moment he'd pulled the covers over his head,
he'd bounced back up again. He would have to go! He
took Samuel's hat from the wardrobe, the one he'd
bought in Hull. He pulled it down over his eyes. Then he
took Samuel's spare pair of reading glasses and let them
hang down over his nose. That was all. He raced down
the stairs and out into the chilly evening air. It will soon
be winter, he thought. It will snow before long.

He ran so fast that he got a stitch. He had to pause and
catch his breath. Then he set off running again. As the
church clock chimed twice, he arrived at the Community
Centre. Kringström's big Ford had backed into the
courtyard. The members of the orchestra were already
busy unloading their instruments. The fattest drummer in
the world was carrying the big bass drum in front of him,
looking as if he had an extra stomach. The double bass
player was perched on the car roof, untying the rope
round his instrument case. Joel knew that his name was
Ross – but was that his first name or his surname? Just
then Kringström came out of the back door with the
Community Centre manager, Mr Engman. Joel stopped
dead when he heard that they were quarrelling.

'Of course we have to have a bulb that works in our
dressing room,' growled Kringström. 'Do you expect us
to get changed in the pitch black? Are we supposed to
drink our coffee in darkness during the interval?'

'You don't drink coffee,' said Engman testily. 'You
drink vodka and whisky. And then you are all so drunk,
you can hardly hold your instruments.'

'Take that back here and now,' roared Kringström. 'If
not, you can find yourself another orchestra.'

The quarrel ended as quickly as it had begun. Engman
vanished through the back door, muttering away to
himself.

Joel stepped forward.

Kringström looked at him in surprise.

'What's all this?' he asked. 'A dwarf in a hat?'

'I'm the one who wants to learn to play the saxophone,'
said Joel, raising his hat. Kringström burst out
laughing. He explained to the other members of the
orchestra who Joel was. As if Joel had been a grown-up,
they all marched up to shake him by the hand. Ross's
first name was Einar. The world's fattest drummer had a
hand so big that Joel's disappeared inside it.

'We'd better get a move on,' shouted Kringström.
'The pack of wolves will be after us before we know
where we are.'

Joel helped to carry the instruments.

'What pack of wolves?' he asked Ross.

'The audience,' said Ross. 'The audience are a pack
of wolves. If we don't play well, they gobble us up.'

It didn't take long to unpack the instruments. The
sheet music was distributed and placed in the correct
order, and they started tuning up. Each of them would
occasionally take a swig from a bottle that was passed
round from hand to hand. The manager, Engman,
appeared and assured the orchestra that he had replaced
the broken light bulb.

'So, we'd better get changed,' said Kringström to
Joel. 'Stay here on the stage and keep an eye on the
instruments.'

Joel is alone on stage. The empty auditorium in front of
him is suddenly full of people. Everybody is waiting for
Joel Gustafson's Orchestra to start playing. Joel does what
he's heard you are supposed to do. He stamps on the floor,
beating time, counts to four and raises his saxophone.

Kringström is in the wings, tying his bow tie. He
notices Joel's solo performance, and signals to the other
members of the orchestra. They stand in the wings and
watch Joel. Then they all run onto the stage and start
playing pretend instruments as well. When Joel realises
what is happening, he stops playing. But Kringström
urges him on.

Another kind of silence, Joel thinks. The silent
instruments' orchestra . . .

Kringström takes over.

'We'd better stop now if we're going to have time to
change before the pack of wolves closes in on us.'

'That sounded great,' says the World's Fattest
Drummer, patting Joel on the shoulder with his gigantic
hand.

Joel blushes. It was only a game, after all! A game that
somebody who'll soon be twelve is too old for. . .

Then he feels his worries creeping up on him again.
No game in the whole world can change reality. That's
what it is, full stop. Soon Sara and Samuel will appear.
And Gertrud and the Caviar Man. And the pack of
wolves.

He looks at the big curtain hanging behind the
orchestra. It's like an enormous painting – even bigger
than the altarpiece in the church. It's summer on the
curtain. A blue lake is glistening. Birch trees have come
into leaf. Blue and green. There's a white seagull soaring
up in the sky. Joel goes behind the curtain. It's dark and
dusty there. But what he has done is to exit from the
autumn of the world outside this stage, and to enter into
summer instead. That's the way it should always be. You
should live in a house in which every room was a
different season. So that you could choose. The kitchen
could be summer and the bedroom spring. The pantry
could be winter and the hall autumn . . .

He discovers that there's a peephole in the tall curtain.
He can stand behind one of the white birch trees and
look out into the auditorium. People have started to
come in. Girls with their hair up and in high heels. Boys
in black winkle-pickers and Brylcreemed hair. Joel can
see that there's a log jam at the very back of the room.
Mr Engman, the manager, is waving his arms about.
Suddenly everything turns black before Joel's eyes. It
was Ross walking over the stage and starting to tune his
doublebass. More and more people are entering the
auditorium. The light is dimmed. But there is a hell of a
noise already. The girls are standing in clusters by one of
the walls. Joel knows that it's called the Mountain Wall.
The boys are gathered by the opposite wall. Somebody
kicks the floor, as if he were a horse. Somebody slaps
somebody else on the back. More and more people are
turning up. But not Sara and Samuel. And not the Caviar
Man nor Gertrud either.

Now the orchestra is in place. A row of footlights
shine red and yellow. Joel is standing behind the curtain,
but is almost blinded. All the members of the orchestra
are wearing red jackets now. Kringström's face is
already sweaty.

Then they start playing. Not many people dance at
first. Some of the boys venture over to the Mountain
Wall, but they soon retreat to the opposite wall again. All
the time Joel is keeping an eye on the swing doors where
Engman is trying to keep the Pack of Wolves under
control. None of those Joel is expecting to see has
arrived as yet. But it's starting to get crowded out there
now. Queues are forming at the swing doors. Engman is
flailing his arms about. The orchestra starts to play
another tune. It's a faster beat. More people are dancing
now. A group of boys are standing in front of the stage,
watching the orchestra. They are not dancing. They are
just watching and listening.

Then Joel notices Sara and Samuel. Engman is still
flailing his arms about, and Sara and Samuel make their
way through the throng.

They can't see me here, Joel thinks. Not while I'm
hidden behind this birch tree.

Now they are dancing. Samuel has his arm round
Sara. It looks as if he is jumping. He's sticking his
bottom out and pushing Sara along in front of him. Joel
starts laughing behind his birch tree. He's never seen
Samuel like this before. His eyes are glued to Sara and
Samuel, and he forgets all about keeping an eye on the
swing doors. Only when the dance has finished and Sara
is wiping the sweat from her face does he remember that
he has to keep a check on who comes in. It is as crowded
as ever around the doors. He can't see either the Caviar
Man or Gertrud.

It's Samuel's fault, he thinks in annoyance. If he
hadn't brought Sara here, I'd never have forgotten to
keep an eye on the swing doors.

The orchestra starts playing again. Sara and Samuel
are dancing. Joel keeps his eyes skinned. He suddenly
catches sight of the Caviar Man. He can see the back of
his head among all the couples on the dance floor. But
then he realises it isn't the Caviar Man after all. It's
somebody else. And where is Gertrud?

They're not going to turn up, he thinks. It's gone
wrong again . . .

It's hard work, peering through the hole in the birch
tree. He has to lean forward all the time in order to see.
When the orchestra finishes playing, he stands erect and
stretches. He walks to the edge of the birch woods and
looks into the wings. The World's Fattest Drummer is
wiping the sweat from his brow. Kringström puts down
his saxophone and picks up the clarinet instead.