Margit Sandemo - The Ice People 27 - The Scandal

He waved his hand nonchalantly. “Oh, I ... live in Wexiø. But we’ll soon be moving from there. Up to the Stockholm area, in fact.”

“You will?” she asked, brightening up. “What does your father do? He looked so friendly.”

Christer repressed the urge to make his father sound richer than he was. “Yes, he’s the best father in the world. He is an instrument maker. Very skilled.”

“And your mother? Is she just as nice?”

“My mother?” he said, laughing. “She’s completely wild! She can do magic. And she spoils me. I adore her!”

He sensed that her voice had grown peculiarly miserable. And she confirmed his suspicion by saying, “You are so lucky, Christer!”

He looked deeply and with sympathy into her eyes. “Aren’t your parents nice?”

“I don’t know,” she said miserably. “I don’t know them!”

“You don’t know them?”

“Well, I do. My mother, she’s not my real mother because she’s dead, she’s only my stepmother. She’s probably nice enough – she’s never been mean to me in any way. But I ... how can you know someone who only comes twice a day to kiss your forehead and ask how you are? Who stays with me for half an hour in the evenings to ‘associate’ with me. We have nothing to say to each other, and it always ends up feeling so stiff.”

“And your father?”

Magdalena turned her head away. “I never see him. He’s never at home, and when he is he just greets me indifferently. He’s furious with me for not being a boy. But now he has the boy he wanted, and he smiles at him and talks to him. Father is a trade consul.”

Christer had no idea what that was and he didn’t dare reveal his ignorance by asking her. But it sounded very distinguished.

“Is there no one who cares for you?”

“Yes, Grandfather is nice. But he’s so old and doesn’t see or hear very well any more, so it can be difficult to talk to him.”

Christer nodded solemnly. “I understand. Older relatives can be very good for one. I was close to my great-grandfather. But he died last year and I grieved terribly. I’m still in mourning.”

Magdalena gave his hand a squeeze. “I think you’re so sweet, Christer! Can’t you stay here?”

“If only I could!” he answered fervently. “But Mother needs my help with the move. But what is your Uncle Julius like? He seems strict.”

“He is strict. I don’t know why he brought me here, because he’s never concerned himself with me. But, of course, I am good at running errands for him.”

“And your little brother?”

She let out an impatient sigh. “Of course I love my little brother! But he isn’t even a year old yet and I’m hardly allowed to see him because they think I have lung disease. But I don’t!”

Christer himself had assumed that she must have consumption because she was so skinny and pale. But now he was beginning to understand the whole situation better. A plant that isn’t tended will wither. He noticed that Magdalena had many fine clothes and lacked for nothing in terms of material things, but where was the human companionship and love in her life?

“You must be terribly lonely,” he exclaimed.

She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “I often think about that when I’m walking around the park to get my ‘daily exercise’. My only friend is my little dog Sascha, and I miss him terribly now. I hope they’re being nice to him.”

She pulled herself together. “But you said you could do magic,” she said. “Conjure up some happiness in my life, Christer! And make the scary dreams go away.”

Christer thought back with displeasure to the time when he had tried to get that revolting breakfast to disappear. He had made magical movements with the porridge dish. His father had got rather angry and told him to remove the blobs of porridge from the ceiling and his hair.

“I will,” he said resolutely to Magdalena. “You can count on me. Actually, abstract magic is my forte. I will make your parents realize what a wonderful but lonely girl they have in their house. And make all your bad dreams disappear. I normally use incense for that sort of magic, but it won’t do here ...”

For a moment he remembered the time when he had come close to setting fire to Grandfather Erland’s house in order to spirit away his grandfather’s headaches, which he always suffered from on Mondays. Christer had decided then never to use incense again when doing magic. Especially after Grandmother Gunilla told him that his grandfather’s headaches were self-induced and derived from the schnapps barrel. But she said it with affection, for she allowed Grandfather Erland to enjoy his schnapps on Sundays. He was so infinitely sweet and caused no harm, except to his own head.

“If you can’t use incense, how are you planning to conjure away my dreams?” Magdalena asked shyly and with admiration.

“It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t been initiated,” Christer said. “I have my secret formulas.”

Yes, he most certainly did. But they were pitiful and homemade. His mother, Tula, had been so petty as to keep hers to herself.

Magdalena gave him a devoted look and Christer could almost feel himself growing taller. He was unsurpassed, invincible; he could do anything!

“Trust me,” he said, patting her hand. “My magic never fails.”

Ha! It hadn’t worked a single time. Except in Christer’s imagination.

“But how is it that you can do magic?” she asked with childish faith.

“It’s a secret really,” he said in a voice that was mysteriously hollow. “But I’ll tell you anyway. I belong to a family called the Ice People.”

“Oh, that sounds frightening!”

“Yes, many of my ancestors were witches and sorcerers. They got burned at the stake and that sort of thing. But most of them are exceptionally good people. I have a relative called Heike who’s almost better than me at doing magic. But he only conjures good things, never black magic. Like me.”

“You’re so good!”

Yes, Christer was about to say, but he managed to stop himself. “That’s how we are,” he said, casually. “We can’t help it. But it’s starting to get cold. You mustn’t get chilled.”

She got up reluctantly. “Oh, I don’t want you to go! My life will be twice as empty now.”

He felt that way, too. “I can write to you!”

At first she brightened up at the idea, but then her delicate little face grew sad again. “No, that won’t work. They read my letters and they would get that sorrowful, reproachful look in their eyes that they usually adopt to make me feel guilty. I probably wouldn’t be allowed to read your letter. But I could write to you!”

“Yes!” Christer shouted. “Do! Tell me how you are, whether your dreams have started to go away. But ... I don’t actually know the name of the place where we are moving. It’s south of Stockholm, that’s all I know.”

“And I live to the north. But couldn’t I just send it to your old address?”

“Yes, of course! Then they’ll forward it!”

He told her the address, which she repeated many times in order not to forget it. Feeling much more at ease, they returned to the house. They still had some sort of future with one another.

Christer helped her get back up into the window and then she reached out her hands to him to thank him. He kissed them carefully as he had seen gallant men do. Magdalena sighed dreamily.

“My friend,” she whispered.

Consul Julius Backman looked at the doctor expectantly. “Well?”

It was the following day. The doctor puffed at his cigar as he gave the well-fed man a sly glance.

“She seemed happier today. More open. She’ll recover.”

“Fine,” said the consul. “Keep me informed. Her parents are absolutely determined to find the cause of her delicate state of health.”