Read Online The American Girl by Monika Fagerholm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Monika Fagerholm
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obvious. He put his arm around his daughter and pulled her a little, just a little bit, again almost unnoticeable but the message was clear. Now he wanted to leave.
“You don’t understand anything!” Sandra hissed and tore herself out of her father’s grip. She was calm again but truly angry. Now it was enough! With all of it! Everything!
And she started running. Ran out into the snow, ran and ran, even if it was toward the road because if you did not hurry now it would be difficult to find your way back to the village at all (in the Alps the snow could block off roads in a second, she had read about that in the hotel’s brochure just the day before).
In other words she WAS NOT running after Mom. She was running away. In general. Out into whiteness. Away from Mom, away from Dad, away from the evil eye, away from the house, the ominous house.
Little Bombay. Silk rasgulla. An exclusive blend. Not authentic, but it hangs so softly, so softly
.
Little Bombay, the winter, one of those half-dark days, and at dusk, no one in the store
.
There was never anyone in the store
.
In other words, no customers. Almost. Just Lorelei Lindberg, that is what we call her, and the little girl
.
A small silk dog, who was wagging its tail
.
Or just lying, under a table, panting by her water bowl
.
And the fabric fell over the edge of the table
.
The fabrics that Mom cut, sometimes
.
Dupioni. Italian. It is the best, the one with the very highest quality
.
Then follows, in that order, the Indian and the Chinese
.
Little Bombay, all of the fabrics
.
And, when you looked outside, a wet snow was falling against the dark asphalt, so wet that it melted before it reached the ground
.
There were not any customers in the store. Or: sometimes someone came in and bought a zipper or fabric for a lining
.
One person would want Thai silk, but the texture of the one they had suddenly was not good enough
.
It was supposed to be two-ply, not four
.
These people, what do they think of themselves? thought Lorelei Lindberg, but she didn’t say it out loud
.
She didn’t say anything out loud. Why should she? She wasn’t the one who lit a cigarette and reveled in ambiguity
.
She did not even smoke
.
She arranged spools of thread and made estimates in her notebook. Sometimes she looked up and asked questions. Sandra, little Sandra, what do you think the Islander is doing right now?
And they guessed
.
That was before the period of constant telephoning. He rarely called. Almost never. But he came to the boutique just before closing time
.
It was her friends who called, girlfriends
.
“And now we’ve chatted away another hour again.”
Organza
.
They played music. Her music
.
The banana record
.
Sometimes she put puzzles together. “Alpine Villa in Snow,” 1,500 pieces
.
They were never finished
.
“I’m waiting for the man” was one song
.
“Heroine.”
Another
.
And:
“Take a walk on the wild side.”
You didn’t understand what they meant, you didn’t listen to the words
.
It was like when Bob Dylan sang:
“To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free.”
It wasn’t the words. Of course it didn’t mean anything
.
Just rubbish
.
But you understood perfectly
.
The Islander came at closing time
.
And he took her home
.
Another song that was played a lot at that time:
“Our love is a continental affair, he came in a white Jaguar
I waited for him in my red raincoat because it was raining that day.”
Was that how it went?
They stood in the rain outside Little Bombay and waited
.
The mom, the silk dog
.
And it rained
.
And yes, it rained
.
Shantung
.
Little Bombay, the soft silk dog
.
And all of the fabric
.
But the girl’s cheeky, independent objective to run away on her own did not last very long. She had barely gotten up speed in her wretched boots before she understood she was in no way alone, she had someone after her and someone quickly beside her, someone who was not going to
“You don’t understand anything!” Sandra hissed and tore herself out of her father’s grip. She was calm again but truly angry. Now it was enough! With all of it! Everything!
And she started running. Ran out into the snow, ran and ran, even if it was toward the road because if you did not hurry now it would be difficult to find your way back to the village at all (in the Alps the snow could block off roads in a second, she had read about that in the hotel’s brochure just the day before).
In other words she WAS NOT running after Mom. She was running away. In general. Out into whiteness. Away from Mom, away from Dad, away from the evil eye, away from the house, the ominous house.
Little Bombay. Silk rasgulla. An exclusive blend. Not authentic, but it hangs so softly, so softly
.
Little Bombay, the winter, one of those half-dark days, and at dusk, no one in the store
.
There was never anyone in the store
.
In other words, no customers. Almost. Just Lorelei Lindberg, that is what we call her, and the little girl
.
A small silk dog, who was wagging its tail
.
Or just lying, under a table, panting by her water bowl
.
And the fabric fell over the edge of the table
.
The fabrics that Mom cut, sometimes
.
Dupioni. Italian. It is the best, the one with the very highest quality
.
Then follows, in that order, the Indian and the Chinese
.
Little Bombay, all of the fabrics
.
And, when you looked outside, a wet snow was falling against the dark asphalt, so wet that it melted before it reached the ground
.
There were not any customers in the store. Or: sometimes someone came in and bought a zipper or fabric for a lining
.
One person would want Thai silk, but the texture of the one they had suddenly was not good enough
.
It was supposed to be two-ply, not four
.
These people, what do they think of themselves? thought Lorelei Lindberg, but she didn’t say it out loud
.
She didn’t say anything out loud. Why should she? She wasn’t the one who lit a cigarette and reveled in ambiguity
.
She did not even smoke
.
She arranged spools of thread and made estimates in her notebook. Sometimes she looked up and asked questions. Sandra, little Sandra, what do you think the Islander is doing right now?
And they guessed
.
That was before the period of constant telephoning. He rarely called. Almost never. But he came to the boutique just before closing time
.
It was her friends who called, girlfriends
.
“And now we’ve chatted away another hour again.”
Organza
.
They played music. Her music
.
The banana record
.
Sometimes she put puzzles together. “Alpine Villa in Snow,” 1,500 pieces
.
They were never finished
.
“I’m waiting for the man” was one song
.
“Heroine.”
Another
.
And:
“Take a walk on the wild side.”
You didn’t understand what they meant, you didn’t listen to the words
.
It was like when Bob Dylan sang:
“To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free.”
It wasn’t the words. Of course it didn’t mean anything
.
Just rubbish
.
But you understood perfectly
.
The Islander came at closing time
.
And he took her home
.
Another song that was played a lot at that time:
“Our love is a continental affair, he came in a white Jaguar
I waited for him in my red raincoat because it was raining that day.”
Was that how it went?
They stood in the rain outside Little Bombay and waited
.
The mom, the silk dog
.
And it rained
.
And yes, it rained
.
Shantung
.
Little Bombay, the soft silk dog
.
And all of the fabric
.
But the girl’s cheeky, independent objective to run away on her own did not last very long. She had barely gotten up speed in her wretched boots before she understood she was in no way alone, she had someone after her and someone quickly beside her, someone who was not going to
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