When the Snow Fell

Nine

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.

He was woken up by somebody talking to him.

When he opened his eyes he found himself looking straight into Samuel’s face.

This wasn’t the first time Joel had slept in Samuel’s room when his dad had spent the night at Sara’s place.

“Why is there a bed down there outside the shed?” Samuel asked.

“Is there?” said Joel.

“The shed door was open. I was going to close it when I noticed that old bed standing outside at the back. One of the corners was sticking out. It looked as if somebody had been sleeping there last night.”

“Perhaps it was a tramp,” said Joel.

Samuel frowned.

“Who sleeps out in the open when it’s snowing? He’d have slept inside the shed, of course. Why lie outside and get covered in snow when it wasn’t necessary?”

“Maybe it was somebody trying to toughen himself up.”

The moment he said that, Joel realized he would never be able to tell Samuel what he was doing. He’d blown that possibility.

“It’s very odd in any case,” said Samuel. “Now you’d better hurry up or you’ll be late for school.”

Joel got up. His body felt as if it was made of iron. Before long he really would have to go to bed at the usual time. He couldn’t remember ever feeling as exhausted as he did now.

He got washed and dressed. He took one look at his boots and was overcome by anger. He picked one of them up and marched out into the kitchen. Samuel was sitting at the table with his cup of coffee, humming a tune. He always hummed when he’d spent the night with Sara.

Samuel was not a good singer. Even his humming was out of tune. Joel wondered despondently if that meant that he, Joel, also sang out of tune.

You could bet your life that Elvis Presley’s dad didn’t sing out of tune.

“My boots are too small,” he said. “I’m getting sores on my feet.”

Samuel looked up from his coffee cup.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“I’m growing,” said Joel. “My feet are getting bigger. I’ll soon have to borrow your axe and cut holes in the boots for my toes.”

Samuel nodded. That surprised Joel. His dad usually looked worried if they started talking about something that was going to cost money.

“Then you’ll have to have a new pair, of course,” he said. “We’ll go to the shoe shop on Saturday.”

Joel couldn’t believe his ears. Had Samuel really understood what he’d said?

A new pair of boots would cost a lot of money.

Samuel started humming again as he put on his outdoor clothes.

Then he set off for work. It seemed to Joel that his dad’s back wasn’t quite as hunched as usual this morning.

He also realized that he’d discovered a secret. From now on he would only ask for things that cost money after Samuel had spent the night with Sara. Never at any other time.

The feeling that Joel’s body was as heavy as a fully loaded railway wagon had gone. Nothing could make Joel feel as energetic as he felt when Samuel had just agreed to pay for something that Joel wanted. He hurried to finish his breakfast, so as not to be late for school.

When school was over Joel was pleased to note that he hadn’t fallen asleep during lessons a single time. I’ve already started to toughen up, he thought.

During the art class he’d also had time to think about what had happened the previous night. The mistake he’d made had been to decide to sleep in the open for a whole night right from the start. In future he’d start by aiming to sleep out just for an hour. When he woke up without feeling cold, he’d increase that to two hours. And then three. And so on, until he could cope with sleeping out of doors for a whole night. By then he’d be really tough.

As soon as school had finished Joel walked up the hill to Kringström’s flat. This time he was happy to be accompanied by the Greyhound. He was sure that Kringström would make time to teach him to play the guitar. In which case, people’s knowing about it had to be a good thing. As the Greyhound was more gossipy than most, it could be an idea to start by telling her. And before you could say Jack Robinson, the whole town would know.

He walked by her side up the hill.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m going to visit you,” Joel said.

“Oh no, you’re not.”

“I’m going to sign your visitors’ book.”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

“I thought you might agree to get dressed up in transparent veils for me.”

“Are you feeling all right? How childish can you get?”

“Yes, I’m childish, no doubt about it. Can you tell me what I should do in order not to be childish? So that I can be as grown-up as you are?”

“Go away and leave me in peace.”

“Kringström’s going to teach me how to play the guitar.”

The Greyhound hesitated. Joel was pleased. She didn’t know what to say.

“Is he really?”

“We’re going to start today.”

“But you can’t play the guitar.”

“I’ve just said, I’m going to learn.”

“With hands like yours?”

“What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

“You have to have long fingers. You don’t.”

Now it was Joel’s turn to hesitate. He felt worried. Was she right? Did you really have to have long fingers? Were his fingers shorter than other people’s?

The Greyhound grinned.

“You’re telling porkies, Joel. You’re making it up. You’re not going to learn to play the guitar at all.”

“You can go to hell.”

“Go to hell yourself.”

She grinned again, then started running. Joel knew there was no point in trying to catch up with her. She wasn’t called the Greyhound for nothing. Miss Nederström used to say in PE lessons that the Greyhound was a prodigy. One of these days she was bound to become a Swedish running champion.

Or sprint champion, as Miss Nederström called it.

Ordinary people ran, but greyhounds and future gold medalists like Eva-Lisa sprinted.

But if he had been able to catch up with her he would have stuffed snow down her collar. Preferably down every item of clothing she was wearing.

When he came to the block of flats where Kringström lived he was still worrying about his fingers. How could you make them longer? Could you stretch them some how or other? Or should you just let your fingernails grow longer?

Then he noticed, to his great disappointment, that Kringström’s enormous van wasn’t there.

Kringström’s orchestra must have been playing at a dance somewhere or other.

He was just about to leave when one of the windows high up in the building opened. It was the Greyhound, of course. Even at that distance he could see that she was smirking.

“Kringström’s gone to play at a dance,” she said. “You’ll have to find somebody else to teach you how to play the guitar.”

“Where’s he gone to?” Joel shouted.

“I’m not telling you,” she shouted back. “But he’s gone to Brunflo.”

Joel knew that Brunflo was a town even further north. He didn’t know if it was a big town or not, but just now the place annoyed him. He hoped that everybody living in Brunflo would soon move away. And that in the end there would be zero persons living there. Brunflo would be at the very bottom of the league table in Where When How. Kringström ought to have been at home, and placing a guitar in Joel’s hands.

A guitar! Joel stopped dead.

He didn’t have a guitar! And he hadn’t seen one in Kringström’s flat either. That was the only instrument Kringström didn’t play, because everybody else did. And also because most of the ones who did play were involved in music that Kringström didn’t approve of. Rock ’n’ roll.

Joel trudged down the hill. How could he have been so stupid as to forget the most important thing of all? That he didn’t have a guitar. All they had at home was a rusty old harmonica. Did he know anybody who had a guitar? Gertud didn’t, nor did any of his schoolmates he could consider asking. Some of them had accordions. And violins. A few had harmonicas. But nobody had a guitar.

He stopped dead. He’d seen a guitar somewhere or other. He was certain of it. The only question was where? Who had it? He started walking slowly, concentrating hard. He thought about all the homes he’d been in over the last few years. Ture had a guitar, but he’d taken it with him when he moved away. And Joel wouldn’t have wanted to borrow that one anyway. He disliked Ture too much.

And then the penny dropped.

Simon Windstorm had a guitar. It was hanging on the wall in Simon’s peculiar house in the trees. Joel didn’t know if it was in good enough condition to play. He couldn’t even remember if it had any strings. But it was a guitar. Deep chestnut brown in color. Almost black. Just like the record sleeve with Elvis Presley. When he sang “That’s All Right, Mama.” Or maybe it was “Hound Dog”?

He’d reached the bottom of the hill. From there he could see the hands on the church clock. It was too late to pay a visit to Simon Windstorm.

That would have to wait until tomorrow. Still, he was greatly relieved to have remembered somebody with a guitar. The Greyhound would start gossiping tomorrow. Joel would become a laughingstock if he didn’t have a guitar.

Joel stood in the shadows and waited until the bus to Ånge had clattered past. Then he unbuttoned the four fly buttons on his pants. There should really have been five, but one had dropped off.

Then he started peeing and drew a yellow guitar in the snow. He had nearly enough for the whole thing, but when he came to the pegboard where you tightened the strings at the top of the neck, he had nothing left.

He stood and pulled at his willy for a while before fastening his fly. Thought about what he was going to do that evening. It was like scratching a mosquito bite. The same peculiar feeling.

He buttoned up his fly before it became completely stiff. Then he looked round guiltily. Had there been somebody in the shadows watching him?

He could hardly imagine anything more horrific. What if the Greyhound had seen what he was doing, for instance? He would have had to dig himself down in the churchyard next to Lars Olson. But without a stone telling everybody where he was buried.

By half past five he had prepared Samuel’s meal and written a note that he left in the middle of the kitchen table.

I’ve already eaten. I’ve gone to the library. Joel.

He was in place outside the block of flats where she lived when she came home. She swayed slightly as she walked, the movement of her head tossing her hair about. When he put his hand in his pocket he could feel the money.

He started to worry again. What if it wasn’t enough? He still didn’t know who would come. His supposed brother called Digby, who was sixteen years old.

He waited. Tried to think about the boots he was going to buy with Samuel. But all the time he could see veils hanging in front of him. Veils that he couldn’t yet quite see through.

Six o’clock came, then half past six. He was starting to feel cold now. He decided he wouldn’t do any toughening up that night. Not even for an hour. Besides, he had a whole year ahead of him. If he only toughened up every third night, that would still be more than a hundred times before the year was out. Then he tried to work out how many days, weeks and months would pass by before the year 2045. How many had gone already, and how many did he have left? He kept losing count and having to start all over again.

And then he saw a boy walking towards the building. He was carrying something under his arm. Joel knew immediately that it was Digby. But he couldn’t yet make out who it was.

Now the boy was approaching a streetlamp.

Joel couldn’t believe his eyes.

Otto!

Otto was the last person he wanted to talk to. But he couldn’t get out of it now.

Otto had already seen him.

So he was the one selling the Christmas magazines. Of all the people in existence, it had to be Otto, of course.

Joel felt like screaming out loud in anger. But he didn’t. What he did do was to step forward and stand in Otto’s way.

There’s going to be a duel, he thought.

A duel over a Christmas magazine catalog.