My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry(54)

“It’ll have to go in the trunk, then,” says Alf firmly.

But obviously that is not how things end up. Elsa keeps her face buried in its fur all the way home. It’s one of the very, very best things about wurses: they’re waterproof.

There’s opera coming from the car stereo. At least Elsa thinks it must be opera. She hasn’t really heard very much opera, but she’s heard it mentioned and she supposes this is what it sounds like. When they’re about halfway home, Alf peers with concern at her in the rearview mirror.

“Is there anything you want?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Coffee?”

Elsa raises her head and glares at him.

“I’m seven!”

“What the hell’s that got to do with it?”

“Do you know any seven-year-olds who drink coffee?”

“I don’t know very many seven-year-olds.”

“I can tell.”

“Well, bloody forget it, then,” he grunts.

Elsa lowers her face into the wurse’s pelt. Alf swears a bit in the front, and then after a while he passes her a paper bag. It has the same writing on it as the bakery where Granny always went.

“There’s a cinnamon bun in there,” he says, adding, “But don’t bloody cry all over it or it won’t taste good.”

Elsa cries on it. It’s good anyway.

When they get to the house she runs from the garage up to the flat without even thanking Alf or saying good-bye to the wurse, and without thinking about how Alf has seen the wurse now and might even call the police. Without saying a word to him, she walks right past the dinner that George has put on the kitchen table. When Mum comes home she pretends to be asleep.

And when the drunk starts yelling on the stairs that night, and the singing starts again, Elsa, for the first time, does what all the others in the house do.

She pretends she doesn’t hear.





18





SMOKE


Every fairy tale has a dragon. Thanks to Granny, that is. . . .

Elsa is having terrible nightmares tonight. She’s always dreaded closing her eyes and no longer being able to get to the Land-of-Almost-Awake. The worst thing would be a dreamless sleep. But this is the night she learns of something even worse. Because she can’t get to the Land-of-Almost-Awake, and yet she dreams about it. She can see it clearly from above, as if she’s lying on her stomach on top of a huge glass dome, peering down at it. Without being able to smell any smells or hear any laughter or feel the rush of wind over her face when the cloud animals take off. It’s the most terrifying dream of all the eternities.

Miamas is burning.

She sees all the princes and princesses and the wurses and the dream hunters and the sea-angel and the innocent people of the Land-of-Almost-Awake running for their lives. Behind them the shadows are closing in, banishing imagination and leaving nothing but death as they pass. Elsa tries to find Wolfheart in the inferno, but he’s gone. Cloud animals, mercilessly butchered, lie in the ashes. All of Granny’s tales are burning.

One figure wanders among the shadows. A slim man enveloped in a cloud of cigarette smoke. That’s the only scent Elsa can smell up there on top of the dome, the smell of Granny’s tobacco. Suddenly the figure looks up and two clear blue eyes penetrate the haze. A shroud of mist seeps between his thin lips. Then he points directly at Elsa, his forefinger deformed into a gray claw, and he shouts something, and in the next moment hundreds of shadows launch themselves from the ground and engulf her.

Elsa wakes up when she throws herself out of the bed and lands facedown against the floor. She cowers there, her chest heaving, her hands covering her throat. It feels as if millions of eternities have passed before she can trust that she’s back in the real world. She’s not had a single nightmare since Granny and the cloud animals first brought her to the Land-of-Almost-Awake. She had forgotten how nightmares feel. She stands up, sweaty and exhausted, checks to see that she’s not been bitten by one of the shadows, and tries to get her thoughts into order.

She hears someone talking in the hall and has to muster all her powers of concentration to scatter the mists of sleep and be able to hear what’s happening.

“I see! But surely you understand, Ulrika, that it’s a bit odd for them to be calling you. Why don’t they call Kent? Kent is actually the chairman of this residents’ association and I am in charge of information, and it’s common practice for the accountant to call the chairman with these types of errands. Not just any old person!”

Elsa understands that “any old person” is an insult. Mum’s sigh as she answers is so deep that it feels as if Elsa’s sheets are ruffled by the draft:

“I don’t know why they called me, Britt-Marie. But the accountant said he would come here today to explain everything.”

Elsa opens the bedroom door and stands in her pajamas in the doorway. Not only Britt-Marie is standing there in the hall; Lennart and Maud and Alf are also there. Samantha is sleeping on the landing. Mum is wearing only her dressing gown, hurriedly tied across her belly. Maud catches sight of Elsa and smiles mildly, with a cookie tin in her arms. Lennart gulps from a coffee thermos.

For once Alf doesn’t look entirely in a bad mood, which means he only looks irritated in an everyday way. He nods curtly at Elsa, as if she has forced him into a secret. Only then does Elsa remember that she left him and the wurse in the garage yesterday when she ran up to the flat. Panic wells up inside of her, but Alf glares at her and makes a quick “stay calm” gesture, so that’s what she tries to do. She looks at Britt-Marie and tries to figure out if she’s worked up today because she has found the wurse, or if it’s a quite normal fuss about the usual Britt-Marie stuff. It seems to be the latter, thank God, but directed at Mum.