That was a good story. It could have no end of endings.
When Samuel had been in to say goodnight, Joel curled up and closed his eyes. Now he is no longer in bed. It's a summer's morning, soon after school has broken up. He's sitting in the front seat, next to Simon Windstorm, and they're on their way to Four Winds Lake. Simon doesn't smell foul any longer. He's newly bathed and perfectly clean. He'll soon stop the lorry and drop Joel off. Joel has to look for the secret tree by himself. Simon is merely his chauffeur. He obeys Joel's slightest gesture. The window is open and a butterfly starts flying in circles round Joel's face. It's no ordinary butterfly. Joel soon discovers that the pattern on its wings is not a haphazard mixture of colours. There is a message written on those wings. A mysterious message indicating where he should go in order to find the secret tree. Joel follows every movement the butterfly makes. The message on its wing is beginning to make sense . . .
Joel falls asleep.
The Caviar Man can't reach Joel in his dreams. Big swarms of butterflies keep watch over Joel's slumber.
Samuel tiptoes into the dark room and tucks Joel in.
Then he leaves the kitchen door ajar, so that a narrow strip of light wanders over the floor and settles on Joel's face.
*
Two days later, it's Saturday.
Joel has woken up early. Despite not having been woken up by anybody.
He knows straight away that it's Saturday, and that he doesn't have to go to school.
He pulls the covers over his head, and tries to imagine that it's Sunday instead. That Saturday never existed. A day that was missed out, and nobody noticed. But when Samuel starts clattering about with the coffee pot in the kitchen, it's still Saturday. Joel sits up.
What the hell am I going to do? he thinks.
Shall I go there tonight, and hide behind the woodshed?
Or shall I just forget all about it?
He tumbles out of bed and gets dressed. There are holes in his underpants, and in one of his socks. When he raises the blind, he sees that it's frosty outside again. Red leaves seem to glow against the white background.
There's a mumbling and bumbling coming from the kitchen.
Samuel is trying to button up his shirt.
He and Sara are going off in a car today. They're going to visit a friend of Samuel's who's celebrating his fortieth birthday. Samuel has borrowed a car from Nyberg, the bouncer. Sara fixed it. The intention was that Joel should go as well, but he's said that he'd prefer to stay at home. He still hasn't been able to make up his mind whether he should hide behind the woodshed in horse dealer Under's garden, or not. He's done everything he could think of in order to help him reach a decision. He's tried drawing the shortest straw – if he draws the short one three times in succession, he hides behind the woodshed. If not, he forgets about it. He's borrowed Samuel's pack of cards and tried cutting in various ways in order to decide. At least four cards out of ten must be spades. In that case he'll hide behind the woodshed. But that didn't work either. He's tried counting paving stones and jumping over the cracks, but that didn't help. And so he told Samuel that he'd prefer to stay at home.
'I'm busy inventing a game,' he told Samuel. 'I thought I'd take it to school on Monday and show it to Miss Nederström.'
Sara has made him some pancakes. They're on a dish in the pantry. They are to make up for his not being able to have a slice or two of birthday cake.
'Come and help me with my tie,' shouts Samuel from the kitchen.
It's the blue tie. The sailor's tie. The one Samuel bought in Glasgow. The silk tie. Joel kneels on a chair and ties the complicated knot for his father. Samuel smells of aftershave. He's humming away as he bends his head back to make it easier for Joel to tie the knot.
'Thank you,' Samuel says when the knot is finished.
'Pocket money,' says Joel.
'Haven't you had it already?' asks Samuel with a frown.
It's the same every Saturday. Haven't you had your pocket money already? Then he smiles and takes out his purse and gives Joel one krona.
Joel goes out with Samuel to watch him driving off in Nyberg's car. It's not a very special car. Not like the Pontiac Joel has seen in Krage's showrooms. It's a DKW that rattles and splutters like a motorbike. It's green, with a white roof.
'It's a nice car,' Samuel says.
'A Pontiac would be better,' says Joel.
Samuel gives him a look, then bursts out laughing.
'Don't be silly!' he says. 'Who can afford a Pontiac?
Only the rich.'
We are so poor that we can't even afford a DKW, Joel thinks.
But then he regrets thinking such a thing. He can see how happy Samuel is at the prospect of going out in a car with Sara, even if it is only a borrowed car.
'Don't do anything silly while we're away,' says Samuel, who has already sat down behind the wheel.
I've already done something silly, Joel thinks.
'Of course not,' he says.
'I won't be late,' says Samuel. 'But don't sit up waiting for me.'
Then he engages gear and drives off. Joel waves. Then he goes back up to the kitchen and eats one of the cold pancakes. He gets out the jars of lingonberry jam and cloudberry jam and some cream and some sugar. He spreads double layers of everything onto the pancake and rolls it up. If Samuel had seen it he would have been annoyed – but Joel doesn't have a guilty conscience. After all, Samuel's going to be eating birthday cake all day.
Joel has counted the pancakes. There are eight of them. He's already eaten one. He'll have two for lunch. And save the rest for dinner.
The only question is: will he be able to wait until lunch before eating the next one?
As a reward for not eating a second pancake now, he awards himself two spoonfuls of jam. When he returns the jars of jam to the pantry, he quickly unscrews the lid of the cloudberry jam jar and takes another spoonful.
The day passes slowly. He takes out one of Samuel's rolled-up sea charts, the one showing the east coast of Africa and the islands of the Indian Ocean. He tries to work out where the secret island might be. He searches for a spot where the sea is very deep, and it's a long way away from both Africa and India.
Suddenly a dead fly falls down from the lampshade and onto the map. It lands on a spot where the sea is three thousand metres deep. Joel imagines the long journey down to the bottom of the sea.
Then he rolls up the chart again.
The day passes very slowly.
And he still hasn't made up his mind whether to hide behind the woodshed or not.
He gives himself an order to make up his mind no later than two o'clock. Four hours to go. He can't wait any longer than that.
The one-krona coin is on the kitchen table in front of him. He'll be able to spin it if necessary and choose heads or tails.
But three o'clock comes round, and four, and five, and he still hasn't made up his mind. He eats the pancakes that are almost bursting with cream and jam. He shifts the furniture round in his room, and moves the bed so that he'll be lying with his feet towards the window and the blinds. He spends half an hour trying to roll up the blind using only his foot.
It's dark outside already.
I won't bother, he thinks. I'll forget all about those letters.
But at seven o'clock he goes out even so. He's eaten the last of the pancakes, and the jar of cloudberry jam is empty.
A noisy car packed with teenagers thunders past. The back seat is lit up by a red lamp. A fox's tail is attached to the radio aerial. It's a Chevrolet, he notices. Black, with shiny chrome. A portable gramophone on the shelf in the back window is blaring out music. Elvis.
There's a noisy group of people outside the Grand Hotel. Joel recognises Mr Waltin, editor of the local newspaper that comes out once a week. Mr Waltin has been on safari in Africa. Now he writes about boring meetings and log jams in the river. But that man has been to Africa. He has been under the same hot sun that has also heated up Samuel . . .
br /> Just past the Co-op is a green-painted block of flats. Joel can hear voices arguing through an open window. As he can't see any faces, it's the voices that are arguing. They rise and fall and natter away at each other like monkeys in a tree top.
Joel can see the face of the church clock, gleaming yellow. Nearly half past seven.
He walks along the path that meanders between the river and the vicarage. When he gets to the back of Mr Under's house, he pauses and listens. There is a rustling sound behind him. A cat? No, just a woodmouse. Then everything is quiet again. The stars are glittering in a clear sky. He climbs over the fence and gropes his way forward between the rows of currant bushes. Now he can see the birdbath lit up by a not very bright lamp. Nobody is there yet. Red leaves are floating in the cloudy water of the birdbath. He hurries over to the woodshed and tries to melt into the shadow. He stumbles into a broken sledge and staggers slightly from the impact. More rustling around his feet. Lots of mice are making their way towards the houses. That's what happens every autumn. And it's autumn now. He can feel that the air he's breathing is cool.
The church clock in the distance chimes three times: a quarter of an hour left.
Nobody will come, he thinks. Not the Caviar Man, not Gertrud either.
He suddenly feels scared. What if they've realised that he's the one who's written the letters! Gertrud might never let him into her house again.
Can good deeds be turned into evil deeds?
He hears a crunching noise coming from the gravel path leading from the main road. This isn't a mouse. These are footsteps. There's somebody coming.
A black shadow glides past the birdbath.
Joel can't believe his eyes.
It's Miss Nederström! What's she doing here?
Joel gets ready to run away.
But Miss Nederström doesn't stop at the birdbath. She keeps on walking and disappears into the shadows. Her footsteps die away. Joel remembers that she has a sister who lives on the other side of the river. Perhaps she's on her way there, and has taken a short cut through the horse dealer's garden?
He suppresses a giggle. Miss Nederström taking a short cut! Perhaps she climbs over fences as well . . .
The clock strikes eight. Joel counts the chimes to be certain . . . Seven, eight.
The red leaves are still floating in the birdbath.
Nobody. Nobody at all. Joel is the only one who has turned up.
It's cold behind the woodshed. Mice are scuttling around through the fallen leaves. There's one mouse in particular that is scratting away at the other gable end of the woodshed. Scratting and scratting away.
Then it coughs. It clears its throat.
It isn't a mouse at all. There's somebody standing there, at the other gable end of the woodshed. Somebody who's hiding, just like Joel is.
Joel closes his eyes, in the hope that it will make him even more invisible. What he really wants to do is to run away. But his fear paralyses him.
There is a crunching noise from the gravel path again. The footsteps are coming from the side facing the river. They are getting closer.
Then they fall silent. There is no coughing from the other end of the woodshed either. Joel hardly dares to breathe. Who is it, hiding behind the other end of the woodshed?
Now the footsteps are approaching again. It's Gertrud. She's moving very cautiously, as if she'd rather not be there at all. Joel wants to shout out and run to greet her. He wants to tell her that there's somebody behind the other end of the woodshed. Then the pair of them will run away, along the river bank, over the railway bridge, and they won't stop until they are in Gertrud's kitchen. It'll be warm and light there. Maybe Gertrud will fetch her trombone and play a tune for him?
Joel can see Gertrud standing at the very edge of the area illuminated by the lamp. He can see that she's put on her very best clothes. The hole she has instead of a nose is plugged with a silk handkerchief. Joel knows she never uses that normally.
The church clock chimes once again. A quarter past eight. Gertrud looks round.
The Caviar Man isn't going to turn up, Joel thinks.
Then the penny drops.
It's the Caviar Man hiding behind the woodshed, of course. Spying on Gertrud.
Joel is furious. Even though he's the one who has set it all up, he feels sorry for Gertrud. She's not somebody people are allowed to spy on.
Now the rustling sound starts again. It's getting nearer. And nearer. Joel crouches down next to the broken sledge. He hardly dares to breathe.
A shadow passes in front of him.
How can you see a shadow when everything is black?
Then he hears a whisper.
'That bloody noseless bitch.'
That was all. The shadow vanishes silently in among the currant bushes.
Gertrud is standing there motionless, waiting.
The clock chimes again. Twice. Half past eight.
Then she leaves. Joel can see that her head is bowed. She's disappointed. Her footsteps sound sad. They fade away, and she's gone.
Joel runs through the garden like a madman. He has to get away from there. He runs all the way home. When he fumbles for the door key under Samuel's old shoes in the porch, he's so out of breath that he can hardly stand up. His legs are shaking.
He switches on every light in the flat. He wants to get rid of the darkness.
I've hurt Gertrud, he thinks.
How could it turn out like that?
He goes to the pantry and eats some more jam. He shovels it into himself, spoonful after spoonful.
Then he goes to the kitchen and examines himself in the cracked shaving mirror.
The Miracle Man, Joel Gustafson.
'What should I do now?' he asks his reflection.
What should I do now?
Then he thinks he can see Gertrud's face in the mirror.
She looks very sad.
All alone in her kitchen. On the other side of the river. . .
9
Some days could be worse than others.
But Joel couldn't remember ever experiencing one like this.
Absolutely everything went wrong.
It started in the morning as he was getting ready to leave for school. He couldn't find one of his wellingtons. He looked everywhere, but there was no sign of it. How on earth can a wellington boot disappear? And why only one? He conducted another search, and even looked in the pantry. But no luck. He could see from the kitchen clock that if he didn't find it within the next minute, he would be late for school.
But no wellington. It had vanished without trace.
So he put on his shoes instead and started to tie the laces. No problem with the left one, but the lace in the right shoe snapped. No doubt a mouse had been nibbling at it. He swore and tugged at the lace, cut it with a pair of scissors and tried to thread it through the eyelets, but of course they were too small. The kitchen clock seemed to be going faster than before – the hands were racing round.