16 October 1981
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Eli stood before him, interrupting his reading.
“Let’s go out.”
“Why? We need to stay out of sight.”
“You need to stay out of sight.”
“Then you go.”
“No, I need you to come along.”
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Oskar slipped through the back door of this building and into the courtyard. Cold night air greeted him and he pulled his coat closed. His mother would be home soon but he couldn’t take being alone and waiting. He had done most of his homework, made some food and listened to some music. But he was restless and couldn’t figure out how to fill the time.
The swings were good for a couple of minutes. But then he stopped and sat in the middle swing doing little other than flexing legs so as to push himself backwards until the swing rocked him back a bit before his weight brought him forward again.
He tried watching the windows of the surrounding buildings. Many were lit as it was early. If he was lucky he would see a shape, likely a person, move somewhere within. It was like watching a silent movie. Except it was one where little happens. He knew some of the families who lived here, more often by having seen them enough to feel familiar with them than to know them by name. He imagined being able to see his weekend route through the buildings, delivering the flyers. Yes, a red tracer line showing his ascent and descent through each section, perhaps growing stronger where he dawdled and weaker where he hastened. Through the basements, for example. On rainy Saturdays he would use the basements instead of going outside between sections. He usually moved quickly through them, so he imagined a thinner, duller red tracer line.
He held out his hand and worked out how the line would proceed up, down, and slowly around the building complex. One complete revolution. His trip ended when his finger came back to point at his own flat. The lights, he saw, were on now in the kitchen. He had turned them off. This could only mean one thing.
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“My mother.”
“What about her?”
“I remember her here.”
Håkan startled and looked to where Eli was indicating, expecting to see a figure.
“No, she’s gone.”
As they had done a week ago, Eli had led Håkan down Nygaten, crossing over Kungsgatan, and eventually over to Sankt Persgatan. There they made a left and walked the short distance to the broad roundabout intersection with Södra Promenaden. Cars moved steadily passed them throughout. Headlights, the noise of tires on the pavement, the smell of the exhaust in the night air.
Last week Håkan had been treated by being allowed to hold Eli’s hand as they crossed over the busier intersections along Nygaten. But once here at the roundabout Eli had turned sullen and wouldn’t hold his hand then or on the way back. He was wanting the same tonight, but so far Eli’s hands stayed by his own side.
“Do you know where?”
Eli didn’t look at him. Instead, he wandered towards the southeast, towards the direction he had pointed. Håkan followed behind until Eli came to stop and stared off at the park area before them.
“Here,” Eli said after a while.
“Do you know where she would have gone next?”
Eli glared up at him, shook his head and walked off east along Södra Promenaden. A bus moved passed them, filling the air with the roar of its engine until it had moved on. Håkan trailed along. Chances of getting to hold Eli’s hand seemed all but dashed.
Håkan reflected on the book he was reading. Dödsbrickan, by Henning Mankell. The protagonist, Harold, had been robbed. A girl took his winnings. This propelled the story along well enough as Harold attempted to pursue the culprit. But as Håkan worked his way into the midst of the story he found Harold was coming to pursue a deeper understanding of himself. Trudging along behind Eli, Håkan realized a kindship with this Harold. The immediate quest was to come to understand his assailant. The introspective journey was to find himself. Yes, he thought, where am I? Do I know anymore?
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Oskar sat on the couch next to his mother. The television was on but he was not paying attention. Instead he wanted to match how she sat with her feet up on the edge of the coffee table that was before the couch. He tried it but his legs were too short.
“What you doing? You’re going to fall of the sofa,” she said.
“Yeh right,” he laughed, rolled over playfully towards here and, yes, ended up on the floor.
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It was at the traffic circle where Albrektsvägen came up from the south and met Södra Promenaden where Eli allowed Håkan to catch up. The traffic was lighter but they needed to wait before crossing.
“I don’t want to be here,” said Eli.
“Yes, we’re leaving,” ventured Håkan, not sure what exactly was being discussed. “The day after tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Is that okay with you?”
“Yes.”
For the second time this evening Håkan was startled. Eli’s little hand had grabbed his. Heaven. Håkan waited for the next break in the traffic. “Here we go then. Smartly.” And they started off again.
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