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But in the little town he lived in the only towers were the church steeple and the red tower at the fire station where the firemen used to hang up their hose pipes to dry. Joel found it hard to imagine Gertrud sitting at the top of the fire brigade tower without a nose.

But there were other ways in which grown-ups could meet. Inmost of the books he read there were always some chapters describing how people met and eventually got married. But there was never anything about what Otto had described behind the bicycle sheds. Joel assumed that was because it was so boring to write about it.

You could meet in the wreckage of a train that had fallen into a ravine. You could rescue a girl who had fallen into freezing water when the ice broke, and later marry her. You could wear a black mask and kidnap a girl.

There were lots of ways. But by the time Joel had come to the bottom of the hill and paused to regain his breath before entering the back door of the bar, he had decided that the best place for Gertrud to meet the man he hadn’t yet found for her was probably the Community Centre.

Joel sat down on a chair in the corner where he was least in the way. Sara had vanished through the swing doors again, carrying a tray full of beer bottles. He tried to think up a good way of getting Sara to help him, without her realising it. If he could get her to tell him about the men sitting out there in the bar, which ones were unmarried and which ones were nice, he’d be able to choose the one he thought would be most suitable for Gertrud.

But what characteristics would be most suitable for Gertrud?

What kind of man would she most like to have?

It wasn’t easy to think in the kitchen, with Ludde creating havoc at the sink all the time. And Sara and the other waitresses running in and out, emptying trays and loading them up again with new bottles and glasses.

‘I’ll soon be coming for a sit down,’ said Sara, before disappearing with her tray.

The other two waitresses, Karin and Hilda, said the same thing.

‘We’ll soon be coming for a sit down and a rest.’

Joel didn’t say anything. He was regretting not having waited a bit longer before coming to the bar. He ought to have thought through what kind of man Gertrud would want first. Then he should have worked out how Sara could be tricked into helping him.

This was typical of Joel — he often forgot to think before starting to do something.

And this was the result. Just then Ludde dropped another glass that shattered on the checked tile floor.

‘Now!’ exclaimed Sara, throwing down her tray and slumping onto a chair. ‘Time for a rest!’

She poured herself a cup of coffee, put a lump of sugar in her mouth, and started slurping. Then she looked up at Joel, and smiled.

‘I’m so pleased,’ she said. ‘So pleased that nothing happened to you. You wouldn’t believe how much the blokes out there are talking about the accident. You’ve given them something to talk about. Everybody knows who Joel Gustafson is now.’

Joel couldn’t make up his mind if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Perhaps in future people would turn round in the street to look at him and think: there goes that Joel Gustafson who was run over by the Ljusdal bus without suffering a single scratch.

Maybe they would even give him a nickname. Like Mr Under the horse dealer, who was only ever referred to as Neighing Ned.

Or Hugo, who was an electrician and the best player in the local ice-hockey team.

How many people knew that his name was Hugo when everybody called him Snotty?

The world is full of nicknames, Joel thought. Snotty and Fleabag-Frankie and Paintpot-Percy, who was a painter and decorator. There was a chimney sweep known to everybody as Jim even though his real name was Anders. Not to mention the baker everybody called Bluebottle, because he had a front tooth missing and made a buzzing sound when he talked. Or the stonemason known as Buggery, because that was more or less all he ever said. Or the vicar whose name was Nikodemus but was called Knickers by those who knew him. But most people just said Vicar. Then there was a skier known as Skater-Sammy, and a drayman nicknamed Pop. But oddest of all was surely the carpenter called Johanson who was known to everybody as The Welder.

What would Joel’s nickname be?

Joel Ljusdal Gustafson?

Lucky Joel?

Miracle Gustafson?

Joel frowned, and pulled a face at the very thought.

That was the worst thing about nicknames — it was always somebody else who invented them.

You ought to be able to choose your own nickname.

‘What are you pulling a face at?’ asked Sara, with a laugh.

‘Nothing,’ said Joel.

‘It was nice of you to come and visit me.’

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ said Joel, without knowing what he wanted to ask her about.

Sara nodded, and looked at him.

Just then the swing doors were flung open and Karin came storming into the kitchen. She was red in the face with anger.

‘I can’t make head nor tail of that lot,’ she said. ‘Now two of them have started thumping each other.’

Ludde broke off his washing up and turned to look at her.

‘What’s Nyberg doing about it?’ he asked. ‘Why doesn’t he throw them out?’

‘He tried,’ said Karin. ‘But now he’s on the floor with the other two on top of him.’

Before they knew where they were, everybody was rushing towards the swing doors. Joel had stood up and followed Sara, but when she got as far as the doors she turned round and said sternly:

‘You stay here.’

Joel was angry at not being allowed to go with them. But at the same time, he had to admit that he was a bit scared.

He peered cautiously through the crack in the doors.

Tables and chairs were overturned all over the floor. Nyberg the bouncer was just crawling out from underneath a mass of arms and legs. He was rubbing his nose and looking furious. Sara had taken hold of one of the drunks, and was shaking him as if he were a little boy. Ludde was waving his red hands about and shouting something Joel couldn’t make out.

He wasn’t at all sure who had been fighting.

On the other hand, he noticed two men sitting calmly at a table, apparently completely unconcerned by what had been going on. They were drinking Pilsner, both leaning forward with heads close together, and talking away. One of them was fair-haired. It struck Joel that he looked very like the blond boy depicted on tubes of one of Sweden’s favourite delicacies, Kalle’s Caviar. (It wasn’t the expensive, ‘real’ caviar, but what you might call the poor man’s caviar — fish roe, delicious with your breakfast toast.) The man was the spitting image of Kalle, despite the fact that he was probably three times as old. His friend had dark hair, combed in Elvis Presley style.

They are the ones, Joel thought.

One of them could become Gertrud’s husband!

He would have liked to continue spying on them through the crack in the doors, but Ludde and Sara were striding back towards the kitchen again. Bouncer Nyberg had thrown out the two troublemakers through the big front door. Karin and Hilda were busy clearing up after the fight.

Joel scurried back to his chair.

Ludde returned to the sink, and started by dropping a plate that smashed on the floor. Sara flopped down on her chair, produced a handkerchief from her cleavage and mopped her face.

‘What happened?’ asked Joel, trying to give the impression that he’d been sitting on his chair all the time.

Sara leaned forward and whispered:

‘I saw you peeping out through the doors.’

Joel blushed. He felt as if he’d turned red all the way from his stomach up to his forehead.

His first reaction was to deny that he’d been looking.