Mankell Henning - When the Snow Fell

There were lots of difficulties. But obviously, the main one was that Joel still wasn’t even fourteen. Perhaps there was a law saying that anybody who wasn’t allowed to ride a moped wasn’t allowed to sell trailers either. Perhaps also there was an age limit for rock idols. How old had Elvis been when he first started? Joel decided to ask Kringström. If anybody knew, he ought to. Even if everybody knew that he hated rock ’n’ roll, and preferred to play something slow and relaxed like a foxtrot.

Joel had reached the top of the hill. There was the block of flats that Kringström lived in. Still no sign of the Greyhound. Joel noted that Kringström’s big black van was parked outside the front door. That meant he was at home. Nobody had ever seen Kringström walking through the streets if he could avoid it. If he had to go anywhere, he always took the van. There was a corner shop over the road from his front door. Kringström even went there by van.

Joel walked up the stairs and rang the doorbell. Kringström answered it. As usual, he had his glasses pushed up onto his forehead.

“You were the one who said he wanted to learn how to play the saxophone,” he said, and was obviously offended. “But nothing came of it.”

Joel had prepared an answer.

“The dentist said that I shouldn’t play wind instruments.”

There wasn’t a jot of truth in that, of course. There was nothing wrong with Joel’s teeth. But Kringström seemed to believe him. It hadn’t been difficult for Joel to lie. There were different kinds of lies: white lies and black ones. And then some that Joel thought were gray. This was a gray lie. It didn’t affect anybody, and it solved the problem. And it also closed down unnecessary conversation even before it had started.

“I want to learn how to play the guitar instead,” Joel said.

“I thought as much,” said Kringström. “That’s what I thought a year ago.”

Kringström let him in. Joel remembered the flat from last year. It was like stepping into a music shop that somebody lived in. There were records everywhere. Mainly 78 rps. But some new LPs had arrived since Joel had been there before. Kringström slumped down into a shabby old armchair and pointed to the other chair. That was for Joel to sit on. As far as he could see, there were no other chairs in the flat, apart from a Windsor-style chair in the kitchen. But on the other hand, there was an apparently infinite number of music stands scattered over the flat in every conceivable place. There was even one in the bathroom. Kringström evidently liked to practice new music all the time. Even when he was on the lavatory.

“What did you say your name was?” Kringström asked.

“Joel Gustafson.”

Kringström looked surprised. So he’d forgotten.

“And you want to learn to play the guitar?”

“I’ve been thinking about a career as a rock idol.”

Kringström stared at him in astonishment.

“You mean to say you regard that screeching and whining as a career?”

“All Elvis Presley does is sing.”

Kringström gestured impatiently with one hand.

“Don’t talk to me about that man,” he said. “He ruins young people’s taste for music.”

Joel realized it would be best not to protest. He didn’t want to risk Kringström’s throwing him out. The most important thing was learning to play the guitar.

“So you want to be a rock idol,” said Kringström in disgust. “And what had you thought of calling yourself?”

“Snow Elvis,” said Joel without hesitation.

“Good Lord,” said Kringström, shaking his head.

“But first and foremost, I want to learn to play the guitar,” Joel said.

“I’ll think about it,” said Kringström. “Come back in a few days’ time when I’ve had time to think about it.”

Kringström had other things to do now. Joel left the flat and went back down the hill. At least the worst was over now. With a bit of luck Kringström wouldn’t turn him down. Before too long Joel would also be able to winkle out of him all the secrets you needed to know in order to become a rock idol. Not least how old Elvis Presley had been when he’d made his debut.

He speeded up as he walked down the hill. There was something else he wanted to do before going home to prepare dinner. He wanted to call in at Ehnströms Livs to make sure that the new shop assistant was still there. That she hadn’t simply been something he’d dreamt about.

As usual there were lots of old women jostling with each other inside the shop. But it didn’t matter today, as Joel wasn’t going to buy anything.

She was still there. And now that he observed her from a distance, he could see that she was beautiful. He could very well imagine her dancing in transparent veils. He could feel his body becoming excited at the thought. All the strange things going on inside him that he still hadn’t managed to work out. Sooner or later he’d have to talk to Samuel about it. Even if he wasn’t at all sure that his dad would be able to give him any answers.

But the shop assistant was still there. He still didn’t know what she was called. But he’d find out. And where she lived as well.

One of the fat women bumped into him.

“Mind what you’re doing,” she said angrily. “Do you have to stand right behind me?”

“You’re nothing but a Hound Dog,” said Joel cheekily.

Then he marched out of the shop.

He hurried home. It had been a good day. He’d done everything he’d planned to do.

The very next day he would start shadowing Ehnström’s new shop assistant.

But before that he had another important thing to do.

He must meet Gertrud. The young woman who lived on the other side of the river. And didn’t have a nose.

He would go and see her that very same evening.

The railway bridge loomed ahead of Joel.

It was lurking there like a petrified dinosaur. The moonlight glistened in the enormous iron arches.

Not so long ago Joel had tried to climb up one of the arches and gotten stuck. In the end, Samuel had come to the rescue.

Joel shuddered at the thought. If he’d fallen, he would no longer be alive. He’d be like Lars Olson. A skeleton six feet down in the cold earth, with a stone over his head. Joel Gustafson. Died at the age of eleven .

He was on his way over the bridge to Gertrud’s house. He both wanted and didn’t want to think about death. If you thought about it, it was like beckoning it to come. You shouldn’t fondle death like you stroked a cat. You should be as wary of it as of a lion in the jungle. But at the same time, the thoughts insisted on forcing their way into his mind. It was difficult to keep them out.

Joel had decided that death was more difficult to understand than life — which was complicated enough. It wasn’t possible to imagine yourself as nothing. To think that you could no longer think.

And moreover, you’d be dead for such a long time. That was the hardest thing of all. Lars Olson had already been dead for twenty years. That was longer than Joel had been alive. But there were lots of people who’d been dead for hundreds of years.

If only you didn’t need to be dead for so long, Joel thought as he contemplated the railway bridge.

Then it might have been tolerable.

He looked up at the moon. It was seven o’clock. He’d had dinner with Samuel. Now he was on his way to Gertrud’s. It was several weeks since he’d seen her last.

He braced himself and started running over the bridge. It was easier to get up speed if he imagined that he was being chased. There were lots of possible pursuers he could think of.

He imagined a cavalry of fat old women riding behind him on horseback, wielding their carrier bags like swords and clubs.