around the corner when Rebecka drove into the gravel yard. A dusty neon sign that said “LAST STOP DINER” was leaning against the longer side of the building facing the river. A collapsible wooden sign next to the door proclaimed “BAR open.” Three other cars were parked in the yard.
On the other side of the road stood five chalets. Rebecka presumed they were the rooms available for renting.
She switched off the engine. At that moment the moped they’d passed earlier arrived and parked by the wall of the building. A very big lad was sitting on the saddle. He stayed there for a while, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to get off or not. He peered at Rebecka and Torsten in the strange car from under his helmet and swayed backwards and forward toward the handlebars a few times. His powerful jaw was moving from side to side. Finally he got off the moped and went over to the door. He leaned forward slightly as he walked. Eyes down, arms bent at a ninety degree angle.
“The master chef has arrived for work,” joked Torsten.
Rebecka forced out a “hm,” the sound junior associates make when they don’t want to laugh at rude jokes, but don’t want to remain totally silent and risk offending a partner or a client.
The big lad was standing at the door.
Not unlike a great big bear in a green jacket, thought Rebecka.
He turned around and went back to the moped. He unbuttoned his green jacket, placed it carefully on the moped and folded it up. Then he undid his helmet and placed it in the middle of the folded jacket, as carefully as if it were made of delicate glass. He even took a step backwards to check, went forward again and moved the helmet a millimeter. Head still bent, held slightly on one side. He glanced toward Rebecka and Torsten and rubbed his big chin. Rebecka guessed he was just under twenty. But with the mind of a boy, obviously.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Torsten.
Rebecka shook her head.
“I’ll go in and ask if they’ve started serving dinner,” she said.
She climbed out of the car. From the open window, covered with a green mosquito net, came the sound of some sports program on TV, low voices and the clatter of dishes. From the river she could hear the sound of an outboard motor. There was a smell of frying food. It had got cooler. The afternoon chill was passing like a hand over the moss and the blueberry bushes.
It’s like home, thought Rebecka, looking into the forest on the other side of the track. A pillared hall, the slender pine trees rising from the poor sandy soil, the rays of the sun reaching far into the forest between the copper colored trunks above the low growing shrubs and moss covered stones.
Suddenly she could see herself. A little girl in a knitted synthetic sweater that made her hair crackle with static when she pulled it over her head. Corduroy jeans that had been made longer by adding an edging around the bottom of the legs. She’s coming out of the forest. In her hand she has a china mug full of the blueberries she’s picked. She’s on her way to the summer barn. Her grandmother is sitting inside. A smoky little fire is burning on the cement floor to keep the mosquitoes away. It’s just right, if you put too much grass on it the cows start to cough. Grandmother is milking Mansikka, the cow’s tail clamped to Mansikka’s flank with her forehead. The milk spurts into the pail. The chains clank as the cows stoop down for more hay.
“So, Pikku-piika,” says Grandmother as her hands squeeze the udders rhythmically. “Where have you been all day?”
“In the forest,” answers little Rebecka.
She pushes a few blueberries into her grandmother’s mouth. It’s only now she realizes how hungry she is.
Torsten knocked on the car window.
I want to stay here, thought Rebecka, and was surprised by how strongly she felt.
The tussocks in the forest looked like cushions. Covered with shiny dark green lingon with its thick leaves, and the fresh green of
On the other side of the road stood five chalets. Rebecka presumed they were the rooms available for renting.
She switched off the engine. At that moment the moped they’d passed earlier arrived and parked by the wall of the building. A very big lad was sitting on the saddle. He stayed there for a while, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to get off or not. He peered at Rebecka and Torsten in the strange car from under his helmet and swayed backwards and forward toward the handlebars a few times. His powerful jaw was moving from side to side. Finally he got off the moped and went over to the door. He leaned forward slightly as he walked. Eyes down, arms bent at a ninety degree angle.
“The master chef has arrived for work,” joked Torsten.
Rebecka forced out a “hm,” the sound junior associates make when they don’t want to laugh at rude jokes, but don’t want to remain totally silent and risk offending a partner or a client.
The big lad was standing at the door.
Not unlike a great big bear in a green jacket, thought Rebecka.
He turned around and went back to the moped. He unbuttoned his green jacket, placed it carefully on the moped and folded it up. Then he undid his helmet and placed it in the middle of the folded jacket, as carefully as if it were made of delicate glass. He even took a step backwards to check, went forward again and moved the helmet a millimeter. Head still bent, held slightly on one side. He glanced toward Rebecka and Torsten and rubbed his big chin. Rebecka guessed he was just under twenty. But with the mind of a boy, obviously.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Torsten.
Rebecka shook her head.
“I’ll go in and ask if they’ve started serving dinner,” she said.
She climbed out of the car. From the open window, covered with a green mosquito net, came the sound of some sports program on TV, low voices and the clatter of dishes. From the river she could hear the sound of an outboard motor. There was a smell of frying food. It had got cooler. The afternoon chill was passing like a hand over the moss and the blueberry bushes.
It’s like home, thought Rebecka, looking into the forest on the other side of the track. A pillared hall, the slender pine trees rising from the poor sandy soil, the rays of the sun reaching far into the forest between the copper colored trunks above the low growing shrubs and moss covered stones.
Suddenly she could see herself. A little girl in a knitted synthetic sweater that made her hair crackle with static when she pulled it over her head. Corduroy jeans that had been made longer by adding an edging around the bottom of the legs. She’s coming out of the forest. In her hand she has a china mug full of the blueberries she’s picked. She’s on her way to the summer barn. Her grandmother is sitting inside. A smoky little fire is burning on the cement floor to keep the mosquitoes away. It’s just right, if you put too much grass on it the cows start to cough. Grandmother is milking Mansikka, the cow’s tail clamped to Mansikka’s flank with her forehead. The milk spurts into the pail. The chains clank as the cows stoop down for more hay.
“So, Pikku-piika,” says Grandmother as her hands squeeze the udders rhythmically. “Where have you been all day?”
“In the forest,” answers little Rebecka.
She pushes a few blueberries into her grandmother’s mouth. It’s only now she realizes how hungry she is.
Torsten knocked on the car window.
I want to stay here, thought Rebecka, and was surprised by how strongly she felt.
The tussocks in the forest looked like cushions. Covered with shiny dark green lingon with its thick leaves, and the fresh green of
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