the nails back in. He had to hang his wet jeans over the stove and could find nothing else to wear while they were drying. There were some old jackets, but no trousers. He wrapped a blanket round his legs and stumbled around as if in a long skirt.
There was some cocoa left in the packet, but only a few yellowish lumps remained of the dried milk, sticky with damp. The cocoa he made was watery, but at least hot. The biscuits tasted of the cottage.
What a bloody hassle just to get a bit of warmth and something to eat! The sun had risen as he crawled under the quilts. All this time, the eel had lain writhing in its shirt parcel; Johan forgot all about it until he was well bedded down. He got up, untied the shirtsleeves and let the eel down into the bucket of water. For a while its long glossy body thrashed around and the water swirled from the force of those hidden muscles. Then it lay still in a circle at the bottom of the yellow plastic bucket and Johan was too tired to watch it any more. Or to think. That had to be postponed. He had to get some sleep.
But he was so damned cold, he couldn’t sleep. It was too light, and he could hear the noise of the birds through the ill-fitting window, especially a great tit constantly repeating two shrill notes. Behind his tightly closed eyelids, his eyeballs were still smarting from the smoke and he could only relieve that by opening his eyes.
After a while, he got up and put some more dry birchwood full of mouse droppings into the stove. When he thought about Torsten being the one who had chopped the wood, who had hauled the beaver-felled trunk with the scooter, he felt panic-stricken. Torsten had made the warmth for him. Everything he had eaten since he was born, Torsten had provided. He could see him in front of his eyes, bare torso, work trousers sagging. Brown skin with powerful bunched muscles. Black hair growing in a cross on his chest, the foot of the cross rooted firmly in that invisible area in his loins.
He was wide awake now, shuddering with cold under the damp quilts. The sun was shining brightly through the east window, the great tit persisting.
He had wanted to think. But not like this. Thoughts and images were forcing their way into him like the sunlight from outside. He couldn’t shut them out or sort them.
He could see Torsten by the washstand, snorting in the water, his powerful body leaning forward, spots and blotches on the skin of his back. He pictured Gudrun’s hand on that back, her fingers sliding over the spots. How the hell could he see that so clearly, something he had never seen?
He was trapped. Caught in a web, captured. The food he ate was Torsten’s muscular strength. Everything he knew, truly deep down knew, came from the minds of Torsten and Gudrun. They loaded their programs into him. And now his mind was exhausted and heated from the mass of data he wished to shut off, but could not stop as it all went on racing through his skull.
He got up and switched on the radio. It was hanging on a nail in the ceiling to escape the barrier made by the hillside behind, but the batteries were low and all he could hear was crackles.
Perhaps he’d feel better after he’d had something to eat. He found a tin of baked beans, opened it and ate them without heating them up. They tasted sweet and revolting. Afterwards, a warmth gradually began to spread from within, especially in his loins and thighs. Together with a kind of drowsiness, this feeling often crept up on him in the afternoons, making him horny. He took hold of his member and it felt warm and large. Then he forgot it and could no longer hear the great tit. Sleep fluttered in his mind, using no force, but nonetheless he would have been unable to resist it.
There weren’t many midges by the Blackreed River. The evening was warm enough but maybe they hadn’t yet got going that year. Nor were the salmon trout rising. In three hours, they managed to get twelve, though only five of any size. They
There was some cocoa left in the packet, but only a few yellowish lumps remained of the dried milk, sticky with damp. The cocoa he made was watery, but at least hot. The biscuits tasted of the cottage.
What a bloody hassle just to get a bit of warmth and something to eat! The sun had risen as he crawled under the quilts. All this time, the eel had lain writhing in its shirt parcel; Johan forgot all about it until he was well bedded down. He got up, untied the shirtsleeves and let the eel down into the bucket of water. For a while its long glossy body thrashed around and the water swirled from the force of those hidden muscles. Then it lay still in a circle at the bottom of the yellow plastic bucket and Johan was too tired to watch it any more. Or to think. That had to be postponed. He had to get some sleep.
But he was so damned cold, he couldn’t sleep. It was too light, and he could hear the noise of the birds through the ill-fitting window, especially a great tit constantly repeating two shrill notes. Behind his tightly closed eyelids, his eyeballs were still smarting from the smoke and he could only relieve that by opening his eyes.
After a while, he got up and put some more dry birchwood full of mouse droppings into the stove. When he thought about Torsten being the one who had chopped the wood, who had hauled the beaver-felled trunk with the scooter, he felt panic-stricken. Torsten had made the warmth for him. Everything he had eaten since he was born, Torsten had provided. He could see him in front of his eyes, bare torso, work trousers sagging. Brown skin with powerful bunched muscles. Black hair growing in a cross on his chest, the foot of the cross rooted firmly in that invisible area in his loins.
He was wide awake now, shuddering with cold under the damp quilts. The sun was shining brightly through the east window, the great tit persisting.
He had wanted to think. But not like this. Thoughts and images were forcing their way into him like the sunlight from outside. He couldn’t shut them out or sort them.
He could see Torsten by the washstand, snorting in the water, his powerful body leaning forward, spots and blotches on the skin of his back. He pictured Gudrun’s hand on that back, her fingers sliding over the spots. How the hell could he see that so clearly, something he had never seen?
He was trapped. Caught in a web, captured. The food he ate was Torsten’s muscular strength. Everything he knew, truly deep down knew, came from the minds of Torsten and Gudrun. They loaded their programs into him. And now his mind was exhausted and heated from the mass of data he wished to shut off, but could not stop as it all went on racing through his skull.
He got up and switched on the radio. It was hanging on a nail in the ceiling to escape the barrier made by the hillside behind, but the batteries were low and all he could hear was crackles.
Perhaps he’d feel better after he’d had something to eat. He found a tin of baked beans, opened it and ate them without heating them up. They tasted sweet and revolting. Afterwards, a warmth gradually began to spread from within, especially in his loins and thighs. Together with a kind of drowsiness, this feeling often crept up on him in the afternoons, making him horny. He took hold of his member and it felt warm and large. Then he forgot it and could no longer hear the great tit. Sleep fluttered in his mind, using no force, but nonetheless he would have been unable to resist it.
There weren’t many midges by the Blackreed River. The evening was warm enough but maybe they hadn’t yet got going that year. Nor were the salmon trout rising. In three hours, they managed to get twelve, though only five of any size. They
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