Wonderful Feels Like This Page 15

  * * *

  “So did you?”

  Steffi has a different kind of lump in her throat. Even if her bass was not a child, she could understand that sad girl.

  “Did I visit? We haven’t gotten to that part of the story yet.”

  “Was the baby here? In Björke?”

  “Oh, yes, up in the forest hills by Knut Storfors. Elna Storfors was her … aunt, I think. They should have been taking care of the child.”

  “What do you mean by ‘should have been’?”

  Alvar looks thoughtful and puts his hand on his clown lips, pinching them. He’s looking down toward the floor.

  “One of the kids in my school is a Storfors,” Steffi informs him. “Kevin Storfors.”

  Alvar looks at her.

  “In little Björke,” he said, “it would be more strange if there wasn’t a Storfors at your school.”

  * * *

  Steffi walks through the hallway of the retirement home. The case drags on the ground, since the neck of the instrument can’t hold it straight. She’s pulling it along like a sledge. She’s thinking about what Alvar said. Storfors, Isaksson, Svensson, and Berntsson—they’d always been in Björke. No Herrera, of course, Steffi thinks, but Mamma was an Isaksson before she met Pappa.

  A woman with a walker meets her in the hallway. She has a vacant smile, but it’s friendly. She says today’s sermon was nice.

  Steffi usually just agrees and keeps going, but this time she stops. “Today’s Wednesday,” she says.

  She really shouldn’t do that. Alvar has told her that it’s most important to keep the people here in a good mood and not question what’s going through their addled brains.

  The woman wrinkles her forehead and worries. She starts to mutter: “Sunday, Monday, Tuesday … Sunday…”

  “But it was a really nice sermon,” Steffi says and the white-haired lady brightens up.

  “Yes, it was, wasn’t it?”

  Her gray eyes are suddenly clear and bright, as if they’d gotten their focus back. Steffi could see that she’d once been beautiful and had not always been shuffling around in the community nursing home.

  Then she sees Steffi’s bass case. Her smile disappears. “But, dear child, what has happened to … your dog?”

  “It was … somebody hurt it.”

  The woman shakes her head and her breathing is agitated. “It wasn’t our little Svea, was it?”

  “Oh, no, it wasn’t her. And we’re going right to the vet’s, so I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  The woman looks at her with worry.

  Steffi reassures her. “He’s going to be just fine.”

  “That’s good to know,” the woman says, looking relieved.

  For the sake of the woman’s peace of mind, Steffi picks up her bass and hugs it in her arms as she leaves the retirement home. Between Björke School and Sunshine Home, she thinks, the Sunshine Home is her favorite madhouse.

  — CHAPTER 21 —

  She’s avoided talking about her bass. She knows what would happen if she did: Pappa would talk to Karro’s parents, Karro would promise to be nicer, and then she’d hide her even more nasty nastiness better. Or else they’d be forced to have “friend days” at school. She already had been through those. Karro would look her in the eye and say “You’re good at math” in an appreciation exercise. Karro would then whisper slut! so that the teacher couldn’t hear her. That’s the only thing Steffi remembers from Björke School’s first attempt to “improve the atmosphere.” You’re good at math, slut! So she never brought up Karro’s bullying again, not since fifth grade. That’s why she doesn’t know what to do now about her bass. Until she figures that out, she’ll just keep busy with the clarinet.

  It’s hard to make the music sound happy when she feels so exhausted and broken. She can’t lie down on the bed while she plays it, either, like she could with her bass guitar. She sits on the edge of the bed and lets the clarinet run down a minor scale. It’s playing what her heart feels. Some notes are nothing more than squeaks. Nothing makes her feel better. After half an hour, she puts the clarinet aside and sits at her computer.

  She’s put on her hat before she logs into The Place. It feels better that way, as if Hepcat is really alive somewhere inside her. When she sees Karro’s name in the in-box, at first she wants to delete it right away, but she doesn’t. “I hate you,” she says, in the same quiet way Karro had whispered slut when Steffi was eleven years old. She opens the message.

  From: Karro N

  To: Hepcat

  I feel like U. I just want to get away from here. But U already live in Karlstad. I live in a shithole with the world’s craziest people. I can’t explain like U cause UR so deep and all, not writing, but sometimes I think really weird stuff. Anyway, I can’t stand it here. I really can’t!

  While Steffi is still reading, there’s a bing! from her speaker. A new message has arrived. She opens it, too.

  From: Karro N

  To: Hepcat

  Hope you don’t think I’m really weird. I don’t write emotional stuff to people I don’t know most of the time but I feel I can say anything to you. Anyway, hope you reply.

  Steffi leans back in her chair. She considers this message from a distance. She thinks about who she really is. A girl Karro is desperate to destroy. And a boy Karro desperately wants to get to know. Steffi thinks about erasing the message and letting Karro disappear from Hepcat’s life, but that would mean that the girl who would be destroyed would be left all alone. She hits reply.

  From: Hepcat

  To: Karro N

  What kind of weird things are you thinking about? Why can’t you stand it anymore?

  I’m feeling blue myself. Feeling blue, that’s English for feeling like giving up, feeling like you have to keep putting up with stuff. With people who want to destroy you. But only cowards try to destroy other people. Strong people, well, they keep focusing on the future.

  She doesn’t know if she’s writing this for someone else or for herself. She doesn’t really care what Karro thinks. There’s a certain pleasure in calling Karro a coward without Karro realizing it. Steffi hits send and logs out before Karro has a chance to reply.

  Strong people look toward the future, she thinks the next day as she walks toward Sunshine Home. It’s nothing written by Povel Ramel. It’s something written by Steffi.

  When outside it’s storming, strong people keep still

  When others are fighting, strong people are chill

  When space allows, strong people fill it

  When a door opens, strong people walk through it

  She decides to sing the lyrics for Alvar, but he’s not in his room. His door is locked. There’s no jazz music coming through his keyhole.

  Alvar is not in the visitors’ room, either, and not in the dining room. An emotion starts to sneak up on her, the same one she didn’t want to feel when Alvar asked her to write down her name so he could put it in his will. You’re not finished yet, pounds through her brain. You still have to tell me about when you played with Povel Ramel and what happened to the baby and everything with Anita, and we haven’t gotten there yet, that’s what you said!

  “My dear child.” It’s a small, hunchbacked woman whose pink scalp can be seen through her white hair. She stares at Steffi. Her blue eyes bulge. “What’s going on with you?”

  Steffi gives her an irritated look, feeling a panic-filled prayer go up to avoid being caught in a rambling conversation right now, but the old lady doesn’t give up. “See, you can tell me and then you’ll feel better.”

  Steffi shakes her head. “Where’s Alvar?”

  The lady laughs, for Steffi’s shoulder reaches, and with a warm hand turns her halfway around. “He’s outside enjoying the sunshine. It’s such a pleasant day. The first day of spring, if you want to be generous.”

  Steffi wants to correct the old lady and say that it can’t be spring yet, but then she realizes how warm the sunshine felt as she’d walked here. Throug
h a French door, she catches sight of Alvar’s enormous ear and his bushy hair and his knotty hand waving, explaining something.

  She turns back to the wrinkled angel beside her. “Thanks so much.”

  The lady smiles a friendly, empty smile.

  “You’re welcome, child.”

  Steffi expects to find him at the center of all the attention from all the ladies, but this time it’s the white-haired lady with the gray eyes who is entertaining everyone with a story about when her father couldn’t figure out a newfangled toilet. Her story is unconnected in certain parts, but everyone seems to have heard it before, and they fill in the gaps when the story falls apart.

  Steffi stands and listens for a while. She glances at Alvar, who is also listening attentively and who laughs when she reaches the end of the story. She thinks about what he’d been like as a seventeen-year-old, and she can almost see it. She looks at the others. The lady in the corner with her mouth hanging open. The white-haired, gray-eyed lady telling her story for the thousandth time. Svea, who’s quiet for once. All of these people had been teenagers once upon a time.

  “Steffi!”

  Alvar sees her, and this sets off a chain reaction. The first thing that happens is Svea pounding her fist on the table.

  “Whore! Bastard child! Get out of here! Go away!”

  Three of the ladies at her table shrink back and look around helplessly. Everyone wants to avoid listening to her nasty words.

  Alvar turns toward Svea. “Now, now, she’s a good girl. She’s a nice girl.”

  Svea hisses. “None of you are nice! You’re all bastard children! Whooooore children!”

  Two of the old ladies hasten out as best they can with their walkers.

  The storyteller takes Svea’s hand and begins to stroke it. “Now, now, Svea. Now, now.”

  Svea calms down, little by little. Steffi watches as a miracle happens. Svea’s hateful stare softens and she almost seems peaceful.

  Alvar relaxes and looks at the white-haired lady. “So, is there any more to your story?”

  “My story?”

  “The one about the newfangled toilet?”

  The woman looks at him in confusion.

  Steffi recognizes the empty look, the smile that is friendly but void of context. “Toilet?”

  Alvar nods and pats her on the cheek. “That’s all right. It’s all right.”

  * * *

  “You can understand,” Alvar says later. “You can understand why I appreciate your visits. First, because I like jazz, and second, because I don’t forget what I’m saying in the middle of saying it.”

  “That’s right.”

  They’re sitting on a bench behind the Sunshine Home buildings and they each have a blanket over their knees because the April sun doesn’t yet have a lot of warming power.

  “Can I record some of your stories? I have a special project I have to do for school. I have to get started on it soon.”

  He laughs. “My first professional vocal recording! It’s about time!”

  “You can tell me about the Second World War. If there’s anything you can say. I’m supposed to write about the Second World War in Sweden.”

  “If there’s anything I can say? Oh my, well, then. For most of us, it was just rationing, lack of coffee, and blackout paper covering the windows. In spite of the anxiety in the air, the news coverage, and the children from Finland who were taken in as refugees from the war, people were still mostly concerned with the mundane issues of daily life. But there was that one day when bombs fell on Stockholm. It was in February.”

  * * *

  On the twenty-second of February in 1944, bombs fell on Stockholm. The first explosion was heard throughout the city. In Södermalm, it was so loud that people thought the end had come. In Vasa Stan, it was more like a puff, like the way the gas burners go out when the token’s time had finished. Aunt Hilda didn’t even notice because her hearing was now at such a comfortable level that it let her keep on sleeping while Alvar was able to drum on tables and chairs whenever he felt like it.

  When the explosion came, Alvar startled awake and got up to look out the kitchen window. He stared in all directions but couldn’t see anything, so he went back to sleep. He slept well for the rest of the night.

  The next day, the twenty-third of February, the headlines filled the papers.

  BOMBS FALL ON STOCKHOLM! RUSSIAN BOMBERS OVER STOCKHOLM!

  Just like everyone else, Alvar bought a morning paper and tried to comprehend the unfathomable. The papers said it was clear that the Russians were behind it. Nobody could say why. Nobody could say if they were going to do it again. The papers said the bombs had hit Södermalm. Alvar didn’t finish reading before he leaped on his bike. If his mother had been there, she would have told him not to bike to a place where the Russians had just dropped a bomb. But his mother didn’t know Erling.

  Alvar calmed down when he saw that Erling’s city block was unscathed. He was panting, and let his head hang over the handlebars until his breathing was back to normal. He was suddenly able to hear the people around him. Many people had rushed to Södermalm just as he had so they could see things with their own eyes. Others had rushed away from the block that was hardest hit. Those windows had all been shattered by the blast. Many people were crying. Others were afraid. “Now the war has come to Sweden!” The sentence was breathed throughout the city that morning. Perhaps even Anita was afraid.

  First he took his bike to Eriksdal Theater. There was nothing remaining but a crater. Police inspectors were wandering back and forth without clear instructions. A crowd of people had gathered to see the damage. They were all very quiet as they tried to comprehend what had happened.

  “If it had just hit a few meters in this direction…,” one of the other errand boys said and didn’t finish his sentence. Alvar stared at the gaping hole that had once been a theater building. The stone walls lay in heaps and the trees surrounding it were broken off like sticks. This, he thought to himself, this is what a bomb does. This realization was uncomfortable. He saw now what war could do right at his feet. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he got on his bike and headed toward Östermalm.

  This was the second time in his life that he had visited Anita’s home. He hadn’t been invited this time, but he reasoned that in time of war, all the rules were suspended. Two elegant ladies with fur muffs were standing by the entrance, speaking quickly and quietly to each other. Alvar could make out only the word war. The doorman did not recognize him.

  “Message for the Bergners.”

  On the elevator he had time to think. Should he pretend to be there with a message and give Anita a secret sign? What message could he give, and how would a lie like that help him to marry Anita one day?

  Alvar’s plan to marry Anita had just spilled out one evening with Inga-Lill—which effectively ended their relationship. Erling had told him that the key was in making a girl feel like she’s the only one in the whole wide world. Alvar could see how he’d messed up on that point.

  The elevator stopped and he still had not found a good way to meet whichever parent would probably answer the door. He stopped thinking and simply rang the doorbell.

  The woman who opened it was about forty years old and looked exhausted. Any resemblance to Anita would have to have been only in the body shape. She smiled questioningly at him. “Yes?”

  Alvar took off his cap. He’d understood immediately that Södermalm slang would not be acceptable in Östermalm. So he said in as formal a manner as possible, “Good day, Mrs. Bergner. I would like to see An … Miss Anita.”

  The woman smiled again and shook his trembling hand, but explained that she was not Mrs. Bergner. She said she would bring Anita to him.

  “Rather … Anita … in that case,” Alvar stammered, blushing, but the domestic was already walking back into the apartment.

  The real Mrs. Bergner had dark hair and gray, searching eyes. Alvar wanted to say that she resembled her daughter, but didn’t k
now how people took compliments here in Östermalm. Mrs. Bergner did not take her eyes from him, even when she lifted the teacups from the sideboard. The domestic watched them with curiosity until Mrs. Bergner said, “Thank you, Edna,” with such clear dismissal that she was forced to leave the room.

  Anita was seated on the other side of the table. The last time Alvar was here, Anita was walking around and showing him the furniture arrangements and the portraits. Now she looked scared to death.

  Mrs. Bergner started the conversation with a question. “Where do you live, Alvar?”

  “In Vasa Stan.”

  “But you don’t come from there.”

  “I’m from Björke in Värmland. I’m staying at Mamma’s … my mother’s aunt’s place. My aunt is the widow of a major in the army … Mrs. Hilda af Uhr.”

  He could see a slight upward tick at the corner of Anita’s mouth as he said his aunt’s entire name. The “af” in a name was the kind of thing people in Östermalm appreciated. He was well aware of this.

  “And your parents?”

  He swallowed. “Svensson, just like me. I’m Alvar Svensson. Af Björke.”

  He laughed a bit at his own joke, although he didn’t know if it would be appreciated or even acceptable in a house where family background was important. But Anita’s mother smiled and he saw she had an appreciative glint in her eye. He hung tightly to that thought.

  “Svensson af Björke,” Anita repeated with a nervous laugh.

  If her mother hadn’t been there, she would have laughed out loud.

  “And your father? What does he do?”

  Alvar realized he should have discussed all this with Anita before he’d come here. His hands were sweating so hard they were leaving spots on his trousers. Any lie about his parents would bring no honor to anyone.

  “He works in forestry.”

  “In what way?”

  Alvar looked down at the table so as not to see Mrs. Bergner’s puzzlement. How many ways do people work in forestry?

  “Well, logging, calculations, planting. All the things he needs to do with his forest.”