A Fairy Tale (31 page)

I
'
m standing in the street in front of Elsebeth's apartment, taking small steps on the spot to keep warm. The wind smokes my cigarettes, raindrops threaten to put them out. I'm about to go back inside the stairwell when the van comes around the corner. A box van with German plates; at first it drives past me, then it reverses.

The van has a big scratch on its side that reveals several layers of paint. Once it was yellow; it has also been brown and blue.

On the side in big letters it says
Ergüls Frucht und Gemüse
.

The driver gets out. He's a big man in a hand-knit sweater whose stitches are stretched to bursting. He opens the back doors and I can smell rotten vegetables.

He helps me carry my paintings down from the bedroom. He can manage three at a time; he holds them in outstretched arms, resting them on his stomach. He puts them into the back of the van, moving them around so they won't fall over. Before he gets back in the driver's seat, he shakes my hand; his fingerless gloves scratch my palm. I watch the van drive down the street and disappear around the corner.

T
he car's headlights pass in a few seconds; they're followed by the sound of tires against wet tarmac.

I walk up the gravel path to the reinforced plastic door. I ring the bell, the lock buzzes, and I enter.

The woman behind the counter has sleepy eyes after a long shift or a Christmas party the day before.

“I have an appointment,” I say.

She enters my dad's name on the computer. Then she shakes her head.

“Are you sure it's for today?”

“It wouldn't be the first time they've forgotten to log it.”

She presses another couple of keys.

“Can't you ring someone? Try the consultant.”

“We can only do that if it's an emergency . . .”

“It's Christmas Eve. I just want to see my dad, I promised him.”

She looks at me, hoping that I'll give up. Go away and disappear and leave her with the crime novel she's pushed under the counter so all I can see is one blood-red corner with a bullet hole.

“I'm afraid there's nothing I can do,” she says.

I stay where I am.

If only I'd start shouting. If only I'd throw papers and pens on the floor; then she could press the silent alarm which sits somewhere under the counter, the one her index finger has been resting on for a couple of minutes now.

But I speak calmly; I look into her eyes without staring.

“I just want to see my dad.”

I don't move a millimetre.

She's about to say something else, then she shrugs.

Her finger leaves the alarm and she presses the intercom.

“Mikkel, would you come up here, please?”

I wait on the
sofa, I flick through three newspapers before a young man with a nametag and a ponytail appears.

I follow him through the wards I'm starting to recognize. From Ward E all the way down to Ward Q. Past R and V. The corridors have been decorated with wonky Christmas cards and paper chains cut with blunt scissors by shaking hands.

A man in a dressing gown is sitting in front of a piano in one of the common rooms.

“So how about it? How about a Christmas carol?”

The patient turns his head slightly, not enough to see us. A long thread of saliva hangs from his lower lip and nearly touches one of the black keys.

“Or what about ‘
Für Elise
'? Everyone knows that one.”

The man hits the keys at random. The piano needs tuning.

The carer slaps him on the shoulder. “I'll be back in a minute, then we'll get you back to your room.”

We walk on.

“You have to keep a sense of humour in this job. Otherwise you don't last.”

The lighting is subdued; we see no patients or other carers in the corridors.

“You're visiting your dad, right?”

“Yes.”

“He's probably heavily medicated. I'm just telling you now so that you don't come back in ten minutes asking what the hell's wrong with him.”

He finds the key card, opens the door to yet another lock.

“This place is always badly understaffed around the holidays, so they drug the patients to the eyeballs. Normally I don't work this ward, but a boy with a stick could look after them right now, frankly. The night shift will have to change a lot of soiled underwear, but that's not a problem when they don't resist.”

He unlocks the door. My dad is sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall.

I get him dressed. I stick his naked feet into his trainers, tie his laces for him. I tell the carer that we're going outside, going for a little walk. He lets us out a side entrance so we don't have to walk all the way back to reception.

My dad's movements are
slow. He stumbles his way across the lawn, he puts his foot in a molehill and sinks to his knees. I help him back up, we walk on, he mumbles, speaks in half-sentences, lips so soft I'm afraid he'll chew them to pieces.

After a couple of minutes the cold air starts to wake him up.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“To the forest, Dad.”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, so we are.”

A few metres from the sidewalk I ask him if anyone's watching us.

“No,” he replies, without turning his head. “Not today.”

We wait for the bus. No one comes running after us.

I buy two tickets, I have exact change. The bus is almost empty. I follow my dad to the back seat, I lean him up against the window.

The bus ride takes just over twenty minutes.

When I see the first trees, I know that we're getting off at the next stop.

I'm about to press the button when I feel my dad's hand on my arm.

“May I?” he asks.

He manages it at his third attempt.

“It's been a long time,” he says.

The bus stop is at the edge of the forest. For a couple of minutes we walk along the road; headlights blind us temporarily, but the car is soon far away from us.

We walk across a parking lot, past an old car with smashed-in windows and no licence plate.

We pass a board with a map of paths through the forest, scenic places you should pay attention to, advice on how to avoid ticks. Dogs must be kept on a leash. We walk for ten minutes. We take a smaller path to the left, it's almost overgrown, you have to know it's there, I hold the branches aside.

My dad's feet get tangled up in the dense undergrowth; I bend down to free him.

We cross a small clearing and pass wet, charred logs surrounded by empty beer cans, the remains of a campfire.

Finally we reach the shore. The lake in front of us is dark.

“We don't need a frog. Today we don't need a frog, Dad. We'll get to the other side, don't you worry.”

I take his hand. He follows me.

The cold water seeps through my shoes.

I
sink into the seat and cover myself with my jacket. The train sets in motion with a couple of grunts and a metallic squeal. It's just past six o'clock in the morning, it's Christmas Day. I walked around the town all last night, forcing myself not to run every time I heard a siren. I drank coffee in bars and walked on while I waited for the first train.

The train speeds past apartment buildings, terraced houses; and bungalows, their windows are dark, a few lit up by Christmas lights. The train stops at empty stations, then it pulls away again.

In a couple of days Elsebeth will start to wonder where I am. It'll take her a long time to climb the stairs. She'll knock on my door, which is ajar, then she'll find the note. The letters are big and clear so she won't have to strain her eyes to read them. An apology, but no explanation. Next to the note is an extra month's rent. In a couple of days down at the sorting office they'll realize that I'm not coming back to work. I won't be the first to quit by staying away.

The train drives through
Denmark. The sun rises and families with gift-wrapped presents get on board.

A little girl in a pale blue parka sits down in the seat opposite me. She has fallen out with her mother, who's sitting further ahead in the carriage.

The girl is busy playing with her shoelaces when the cramping starts. My muscles spasm from my neck to my toes. My body remembering the cold water. I grip the armrests and dig my nails into the synthetic material. When I've regained control of my body, I look at the girl; her eyes are wide. I try to smile but taste blood in my mouth. I must have bitten my tongue. The girl starts to cry.

I don't notice us
crossing the border. The signs at the railway stations now have German place names.

I change to a modern train with a racing stripe along the side. When I've found my seat and put down my rucksack, I walk to the dining car. A middle-aged German woman sells me a cup of coffee, a sausage with mustard, and a small bread roll. I gobble down the food. I've drunk half my coffee when I can no longer keep my eyes open.

My sleep is restless; it's green and dark blue.

I don't know how
long I've been asleep before the dreams come.

I'm too tired and too shattered to shake myself awake.

In my dream I'm standing on the shore watching two figures in the lake. A boy and a man. The boy is bent over the man, holding him down. The man is resisting. The body struggling to surface, gasping for air. Then acceptance. Even here, from the shore, I can see my dad's eyes. The man in the water looks up at the boy. Through the green water I can see the serenity in his face and a faint smile.

At last the boy lets go of the man. His body remains submerged; it floats away, out into the middle of the lake. The boy wades back to the shore; green plants cling to his clothes, refusing to let go until they're ripped apart. The boy finds his rucksack on the forest floor, covered by branches. His movements are stiff and mechanical. He starts to undress; he's wearing several layers of soaked clothing. His skin lights up in the twilight. The boy takes out dry clothes from the rucksack and gets dressed. He puts the wet clothes into a plastic bag. Then he starts to walk.

With thanks to Jacob Søndergaard and Rosinante & Co.

The quote on page
30 is from the poem “The Stranger” by Charles Baudelaire, translated by James Huneker. (Project Gutenberg, www.gutenberg.org)

Author photograph:
Robin Skjoldborg

Jonas T. Bengtsson was
born in 1976. He is the author of the critically acclaimed and prize-winning debut Amina's Letters, which won the BG Bank First Book Award and was a finalist for the Weekendavisens Litterature Prize. His second novel, Submarino, was awarded the PO Enquist Literary Prize and was adapted into film by Thomas Vinterberg. A Fairy Tale, his third novel, was a finalist for the Danish Radio Literature Prize for Best Novel of the Year. He lives in Copenhagen.

Charlotte Barslund is a
Scandinavian translator. She has translated novels by Peter Adolphsen, Mikkel Birkegaard, Izzet Celasin, Thomas Enger, Karin Fossum, Sissel-Jo Gazan, Steffen Jacobsen, Carsten Jensen, and Per Petterson, as well as a wide range of classic and contemporary plays. She lives in the U.K.

House of Anansi Press
was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi's commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada's pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”