Sara has made him some pancakes. They’re on a dish in the pantry. They are to make up for his not being able to have a slice or two of birthday cake.
‘Come and help me with my tie,’ shouts Samuel from the kitchen.
It’s the blue tie. The sailor’s tie. The one Samuel bought in Glasgow. The silk tie. Joel kneels on a chair and ties the complicated knot for his father. Samuel smells of aftershave. He’s humming away as he bends his head back to make it easier for Joel to tie the knot.
‘Thank you,’ Samuel says when the knot is finished.
‘Pocket money,’ says Joel.
‘Haven’t you had it already?’ asks Samuel with a frown.
It’s the same every Saturday. Haven’t you had your pocket money already? Then he smiles and takes out his purse and gives Joel one krona.
Joel goes out with Samuel to watch him driving off in Nyberg’s car. It’s not a very special car. Not like the Pontiac Joel has seen in Krage’s showrooms. It’s a DKW that rattles and splutters like a motorbike. It’s green, with a white roof.
‘It’s a nice car,’ Samuel says.
‘A Pontiac would be better,’ says Joel.
Samuel gives him a look, then bursts out laughing.
‘Don’t be silly!’ he says. ‘Who can afford a Pontiac? Only the rich.’
We are so poor that we can’t even afford a DKW, Joel thinks.
But then he regrets thinking such a thing. He can see how happy Samuel is at the prospect of going out in a car with Sara, even if it is only a borrowed car.
‘Don’t do anything silly while we’re away,’ says Samuel, who has already sat down behind the wheel.
I’ve already done something silly, Joel thinks.
‘Of course not,’ he says.
‘I won’t be late,’ says Samuel. ‘But don’t sit up waiting for me.’
Then he engages gear and drives off. Joel waves. Then he goes back up to the kitchen and eats one of the cold pancakes. He gets out the jars of lingonberry jam and cloudberry jam and some cream and some sugar. He spreads double layers of everything onto the pancake and rolls it up. If Samuel had seen it he would have been annoyed — but Joel doesn’t have a guilty conscience. After all, Samuel’s going to be eating birthday cake all day.
Joel has counted the pancakes. There are eight of them. He’s already eaten one. He’ll have two for lunch. And save the rest for dinner.
The only question is: will he be able to wait until lunch before eating the next one?
As a reward for not eating a second pancake now, he awards himself two spoonfuls of jam. When he returns the jars of jam to the pantry, he quickly unscrews the lid of the cloudberry jam jar and takes another spoonful.
The day passes slowly. He takes out one of Samuel’s rolled-up sea charts, the one showing the east coast of Africa and the islands of the Indian Ocean. He tries to work out where the secret island might be. He searches for a spot where the sea is very deep, and it’s a long way away from both Africa and India.
Suddenly a dead fly falls down from the lampshade and onto the map. It lands on a spot where the sea is three thousand metres deep. Joel imagines the long journey down to the bottom of the sea.
Then he rolls up the chart again.
The day passes very slowly.
And he still hasn’t made up his mind whether to hide behind the woodshed or not.
He gives himself an order to make up his mind no later than two o’clock. Four hours to go. He can’t wait any longer than that.
The one-krona coin is on the kitchen table in front of him. He’ll be able to spin it if necessary and choose heads or tails.
But three o’clock comes round, and four, and five, and he still hasn’t made up his mind. He eats the pancakes that are almost bursting with cream and jam. He shifts the furniture round in his room, and moves the bed so that he’ll be lying with his feet towards the window and the blinds. He spends half an hour trying to roll up the blind using only his foot.
It’s dark outside already.
I won’t bother, he thinks. I’ll forget all about those letters.
But at seven o’clock he goes out even so. He’s eaten the last of the pancakes, and the jar of cloudberry jam is empty.
A noisy car packed with teenagers thunders past. The back seat is lit up by a red lamp. A fox’s tail is attached to the radio aerial. It’s a Chevrolet, he notices. Black, with shiny chrome. A portable gramophone on the shelf in the back window is blaring out music. Elvis.
There’s a noisy group of people outside the Grand Hotel. Joel recognises Mr Waltin, editor of the local newspaper that comes out once a week. Mr Waltin has been on safari in Africa. Now he writes about boring meetings and log jams in the river. But that man has been to Africa. He has been under the same hot sun that has also heated up Samuel...
Just past the Co-op is a green-painted block of flats. Joel can hear voices arguing through an open window. As he can’t see any faces, it’s the voices that are arguing. They rise and fall and natter away at each other like monkeys in a tree top.
Joel can see the face of the church clock, gleaming yellow. Nearly half past seven.
He walks along the path that meanders between the river and the vicarage. When he gets to the back of Mr Under’s house, he pauses and listens. There is a rustling sound behind him. A cat? No, just a woodmouse. Then everything is quiet again. The stars are glittering in a clear sky. He climbs over the fence and gropes his way forward between the rows of currant bushes. Now he can see the birdbath lit up by a not very bright lamp. Nobody is there yet. Red leaves are floating in the cloudy water of the birdbath. He hurries over to the woodshed and tries to melt into the shadow. He stumbles into a broken sledge and staggers slightly from the impact. More rustling around his feet. Lots of mice are making their way towards the houses. That’s what happens every autumn. And it’s autumn now. He can feel that the air he’s breathing is cool.
The church clock in the distance chimes three times: a quarter of an hour left.
Nobody will come, he thinks. Not the Caviar Man, not Gertrud either.
He suddenly feels scared. What if they’ve realised that he’s the one who’s written the letters! Gertrud might never let him into her house again.
Can good deeds be turned into evil deeds?
He hears a crunching noise coming from the gravel path leading from the main road. This isn’t a mouse. These are footsteps. There’s somebody coming.
A black shadow glides past the birdbath.
Joel can’t believe his eyes.
It’s Miss Nederström! What’s she doing here?
Joel gets ready to run away.
But Miss Nederström doesn’t stop at the birdbath. She keeps on walking and disappears into the shadows. Her footsteps die away. Joel remembers that she has a sister who lives on the other side of the river. Perhaps she’s on her way there, and has taken a short cut through the horse dealer’s garden?
He suppresses a giggle. Miss Nederström taking a short cut! Perhaps she climbs over fences as well...
The clock strikes eight. Joel counts the chimes to be certain... Seven, eight.
The red leaves are still floating in the birdbath.
Nobody. Nobody at all. Joel is the only one who has turned up.
It’s cold behind the woodshed. Mice are scuttling around through the fallen leaves. There’s one mouse in particular that is scratting away at the other gable end of the woodshed. Scratting and scratting away.
Then it coughs. It clears its throat.
It isn’t a mouse at all. There’s somebody standing there, at the other gable end of the woodshed. Somebody who’s hiding, just like Joel is.
Joel closes his eyes, in the hope that it will make him even more invisible. What he really wants to do is to run away. But his fear paralyses him.