Read Online A Darker Shade of Sweden by John-Henri Holmberg - Free Book Online
Authors: John-Henri Holmberg
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and completely ordinary people with long, extended noses, noses like slim roots, three feet long. You could see that they were prying into things they shouldnât. It was dangerous. Already in the sandbox there were children prying, small, round children with noses already long. He learned to recognize their kind.
He went up to his long coat and pulled out a slim brown leather glove from one of its pockets. It had probably belonged to a woman. He had found it on his way to Ester. It happened fairly often that he found lost gloves on his nightly walks. If they were made of leather he brought them back with him and boiled them in a steel pot, for a long time, until they had shrunk. He hung them on a clothesline stretched across the kitchen. Almost a hundred shrunken gloves hung there now, fastened by small wooden clips. He viewed it as a row of pennants.
He let the glove fall into an empty pot.
In good time he would boil it.
He glanced at the door to his apartment. Sooner or later there would be a knock on it, he knew that, if he still remained in who he was. It was a wooden door and there was no doorbell; someone would knock on the timber. He tried to imagine the sound and the hand that made it. Whose hand was it? At best it would be himself knocking, at worst someone who wished him ill. Someone whose long nose had discovered him.
He wouldnât open at once. First he would remove the picture of the funnel from the wall and hide it under his pillow; then he would hold his hands under the freezing faucet water until they were numb.
There would be another knock.
Then he would say something through the door, explain that he couldnât open it since he had no hands. What would happen after that he didnât quite know; perhaps they would fetch someone who could pick the lock or perhaps they would just break down the door.
He would have to be prepared for the worst.
He went over and took his long coat from the hanger. Soon it would become light and he wasnât tired; soon the light would come. He felt that it came too fast. He had paced his room for many hours and still wasnât tired. He ought to be.
He ought to sleep.
He ought to be more careful.
He went out.
Gunvor Larsson was seventy-eight years old and lived alone. Her husband had died from an intracranial hemorrhage four years ago. She missed him, on one level, as a life partner should, but at the same time she was relieved. Their last years had been marked by the immense bitterness her husband felt about his life, a life he viewed as ruined by many different things. Those few times Gunvor had carefully tried to suggest that, after all, they had loved each other and stayed together for all of their lives, he had started to weep.
That was almost the worst of it.
But now he was gone and Gunvor was in good health, given her age. Her only problem appeared at night; she always woke up after only a couple of hours and found it difficult to relax again. She had tried almost everything, from medications with strange names to books on tape with just as strange tales. One of her grandchildren had tried to get her to start meditating and made her make up a mantra, a special word which after being repeated interminably would make her relax and be able to go back to sleep. She had chosen the word âocean.â On the first few nights she had mumbled âoceanâ for ten or twenty minutes and then brewed a cup of tea to pass the time.
Tonight was the same again.
Shortly after two she woke and got out of bed, wrapped in her worn, pale blue dressing gown. She put some water for tea to boil and sat down by the kitchen table. During the last few nights she had taken out some of her old photo albumsâshe had quite a fewâand looked through them, image by image, to pass the time. Pictures of children and grandchildren, of trips abroad and summer houses and pets and people whose names she had forgotten. Now she held the last of her albums on her
He went up to his long coat and pulled out a slim brown leather glove from one of its pockets. It had probably belonged to a woman. He had found it on his way to Ester. It happened fairly often that he found lost gloves on his nightly walks. If they were made of leather he brought them back with him and boiled them in a steel pot, for a long time, until they had shrunk. He hung them on a clothesline stretched across the kitchen. Almost a hundred shrunken gloves hung there now, fastened by small wooden clips. He viewed it as a row of pennants.
He let the glove fall into an empty pot.
In good time he would boil it.
He glanced at the door to his apartment. Sooner or later there would be a knock on it, he knew that, if he still remained in who he was. It was a wooden door and there was no doorbell; someone would knock on the timber. He tried to imagine the sound and the hand that made it. Whose hand was it? At best it would be himself knocking, at worst someone who wished him ill. Someone whose long nose had discovered him.
He wouldnât open at once. First he would remove the picture of the funnel from the wall and hide it under his pillow; then he would hold his hands under the freezing faucet water until they were numb.
There would be another knock.
Then he would say something through the door, explain that he couldnât open it since he had no hands. What would happen after that he didnât quite know; perhaps they would fetch someone who could pick the lock or perhaps they would just break down the door.
He would have to be prepared for the worst.
He went over and took his long coat from the hanger. Soon it would become light and he wasnât tired; soon the light would come. He felt that it came too fast. He had paced his room for many hours and still wasnât tired. He ought to be.
He ought to sleep.
He ought to be more careful.
He went out.
Gunvor Larsson was seventy-eight years old and lived alone. Her husband had died from an intracranial hemorrhage four years ago. She missed him, on one level, as a life partner should, but at the same time she was relieved. Their last years had been marked by the immense bitterness her husband felt about his life, a life he viewed as ruined by many different things. Those few times Gunvor had carefully tried to suggest that, after all, they had loved each other and stayed together for all of their lives, he had started to weep.
That was almost the worst of it.
But now he was gone and Gunvor was in good health, given her age. Her only problem appeared at night; she always woke up after only a couple of hours and found it difficult to relax again. She had tried almost everything, from medications with strange names to books on tape with just as strange tales. One of her grandchildren had tried to get her to start meditating and made her make up a mantra, a special word which after being repeated interminably would make her relax and be able to go back to sleep. She had chosen the word âocean.â On the first few nights she had mumbled âoceanâ for ten or twenty minutes and then brewed a cup of tea to pass the time.
Tonight was the same again.
Shortly after two she woke and got out of bed, wrapped in her worn, pale blue dressing gown. She put some water for tea to boil and sat down by the kitchen table. During the last few nights she had taken out some of her old photo albumsâshe had quite a fewâand looked through them, image by image, to pass the time. Pictures of children and grandchildren, of trips abroad and summer houses and pets and people whose names she had forgotten. Now she held the last of her albums on her
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