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.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
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)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
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.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
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.”
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A Fairy Tale Page 29
