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Authors: Henning Mankell
Tags: english
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could feel himself blushing again. He thought he
would have to say something that showed he'd understood
what they were getting at.
'I shall never fight over anybody who sells shoes,' he
said. 'Never.'
They all laughed again, and Hilda came up to pat his
head. Joel tried to shrink away, but she left her hand
there and ruffled his hair.
'He's as nice as Rolf and David,' she said. 'The girls
who get them can consider themselves lucky.'
Then she sat down at the table alongside Sara and Karin.
Joel listened to what they said. He had realised that it was
sometimes important to hear what grown-ups were saying.
They sometimes said things you could learn something
from. Not very often. But sometimes. Such as now.
It dawned on Joel that they were talking about the two
young men sitting at a table by themselves and paying
no attention at all to the violent fight taking place.
'If only I were a bit younger,' sighed Hilda as she
massaged her tired feet.
'I wish they'd been my sons,' said Karin.
Sara said nothing. But she nodded in agreement. All
the time Ludde was clattering away at the sink.
Joel stood up and tried to sneak out of the door
without being seen.
He didn't see the bucket standing next to his chair,
and stumbled over it. He fell headlong and ended up in
the middle of the three waitresses.
'A boy's paying us a flying visit,' said Hilda with a
laugh.
Joel could feel that he was blushing again.
He had blushed more today than he'd ever done before.
Karin stood up, took her tray and vanished through
the swing doors again.
Hilda went to the storeroom and began carrying in
new crates of beer.
'What was it you were going to ask me about?' Sara
wondered.
'Does one of them look like the caviar tube?' asked Joel.
Sara looked at him in astonishment.
'What do you mean? The caviar tube? Who's supposed
to look like a caviar tube?'
'David or Rolf? Like the boy on the caviar tube?'
Then the penny dropped. She burst out laughing and
slapped her knee.
'You must be referring to David,' she said. 'You're
right, he does look like the lad with the mop of blond
hair on the caviar tube.'
'I just wondered,' said Joel. 'I must be off. 'Bye!'
And he hurried out of the door before Sara had time
to ask him anything else.
It was already starting to get dark outside. Joel raised
the collar of his jacket and ran round the corner to check
the time on the church clock.
Five o'clock already!
He had better hurry up and put the potatoes on.
Samuel was usually home by six at the latest. The
potatoes had to be ready by then.
David and Rolf would have to wait. He was in a
hurry. . .
It was evening. Joel could hear Samuel in the room next
door listening to the radio. Joel was sitting like a tailor
on his bed, writing up the diary he had taken from the Celestine's showcase.
He wasn't actually writing, in fact. He'd already
finished.
' There was trouble at the bar today . . .'
That's as far as he'd got. He'd had the feeling that it
was silly, keeping a diary. Or logbook, as he used to call
the little book with a black cover. He started reading it
instead. He had glued the edges of some pages and
drawn a red stamp on them, saying that what was written
there had to be kept secret for a year. But he hadn't paid
any attention to that. Declaring part of your own diary
secret was childish and not something anybody who
would soon be twelve could indulge in.
TSFTDTHFAS, it said on the cover.
' The Search for the Dog That Headed for a Star .'
His secret society.
He read bits here and there in the book and thought
that all he had written about seemed to have happened a
very long time ago. In fact, it was only just over six
months ago. Barely even that.
He didn't like the idea of time passing so quickly. Of
everything changing so quickly. Not least himself. He
would really prefer everything to stay the same. You
ought to be able to pick out a day when everything had
gone well and say: It's always going to be like this!
But that wasn't
would have to say something that showed he'd understood
what they were getting at.
'I shall never fight over anybody who sells shoes,' he
said. 'Never.'
They all laughed again, and Hilda came up to pat his
head. Joel tried to shrink away, but she left her hand
there and ruffled his hair.
'He's as nice as Rolf and David,' she said. 'The girls
who get them can consider themselves lucky.'
Then she sat down at the table alongside Sara and Karin.
Joel listened to what they said. He had realised that it was
sometimes important to hear what grown-ups were saying.
They sometimes said things you could learn something
from. Not very often. But sometimes. Such as now.
It dawned on Joel that they were talking about the two
young men sitting at a table by themselves and paying
no attention at all to the violent fight taking place.
'If only I were a bit younger,' sighed Hilda as she
massaged her tired feet.
'I wish they'd been my sons,' said Karin.
Sara said nothing. But she nodded in agreement. All
the time Ludde was clattering away at the sink.
Joel stood up and tried to sneak out of the door
without being seen.
He didn't see the bucket standing next to his chair,
and stumbled over it. He fell headlong and ended up in
the middle of the three waitresses.
'A boy's paying us a flying visit,' said Hilda with a
laugh.
Joel could feel that he was blushing again.
He had blushed more today than he'd ever done before.
Karin stood up, took her tray and vanished through
the swing doors again.
Hilda went to the storeroom and began carrying in
new crates of beer.
'What was it you were going to ask me about?' Sara
wondered.
'Does one of them look like the caviar tube?' asked Joel.
Sara looked at him in astonishment.
'What do you mean? The caviar tube? Who's supposed
to look like a caviar tube?'
'David or Rolf? Like the boy on the caviar tube?'
Then the penny dropped. She burst out laughing and
slapped her knee.
'You must be referring to David,' she said. 'You're
right, he does look like the lad with the mop of blond
hair on the caviar tube.'
'I just wondered,' said Joel. 'I must be off. 'Bye!'
And he hurried out of the door before Sara had time
to ask him anything else.
It was already starting to get dark outside. Joel raised
the collar of his jacket and ran round the corner to check
the time on the church clock.
Five o'clock already!
He had better hurry up and put the potatoes on.
Samuel was usually home by six at the latest. The
potatoes had to be ready by then.
David and Rolf would have to wait. He was in a
hurry. . .
It was evening. Joel could hear Samuel in the room next
door listening to the radio. Joel was sitting like a tailor
on his bed, writing up the diary he had taken from the Celestine's showcase.
He wasn't actually writing, in fact. He'd already
finished.
' There was trouble at the bar today . . .'
That's as far as he'd got. He'd had the feeling that it
was silly, keeping a diary. Or logbook, as he used to call
the little book with a black cover. He started reading it
instead. He had glued the edges of some pages and
drawn a red stamp on them, saying that what was written
there had to be kept secret for a year. But he hadn't paid
any attention to that. Declaring part of your own diary
secret was childish and not something anybody who
would soon be twelve could indulge in.
TSFTDTHFAS, it said on the cover.
' The Search for the Dog That Headed for a Star .'
His secret society.
He read bits here and there in the book and thought
that all he had written about seemed to have happened a
very long time ago. In fact, it was only just over six
months ago. Barely even that.
He didn't like the idea of time passing so quickly. Of
everything changing so quickly. Not least himself. He
would really prefer everything to stay the same. You
ought to be able to pick out a day when everything had
gone well and say: It's always going to be like this!
But that wasn't
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