A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Page A

duck in the supermarket freezer.”
    My dad leans close to me, whispers into my ear. “Take a look around, just look at them all. Tradition and faith are two completely separate things.”
    The vicar reads from the Gospel according to Matthew. He talks about bread and fishes, about sharing.
    â€œPeople confuse God with Jesus,” my dad says into my ear. “They like Jesus because Jesus cries.”
    An elderly man in the pew in front of us turns around and holds a finger to his lips.
    â€œThey worship the son as if there was nothing else,” my dad says. He’s talking more loudly now. “They forget that the father is a vengeful God. A cruel and jealous God. They forget what happened to Job’s daughters and to all the people who didn’t get to go on the ark.”
    More people turn around and look in our direction.
    â€œThey really shouldn’t step inside a church without a life jacket,” my dad says. His laughter sounds very loud in the church.
    The vicar pauses in his sermon and looks around to discover who keeps interrupting him. I’m scared that he’ll shout at us. Throw us out, possibly. My dad catches his eye and, for a brief moment, it looks as if the vicar recognizes him, but then he busies himself with his papers. The vicar is still smiling, but his voice is less certain when he talks about how seven loaves can feed a thousand people.
    My dad leans back in the pew. He folds his hands across his stomach and lets the vicar finish his sermon without further interruption. People around us seemed relieved; they’re no longer staring at us.
    The vicar gathers up his papers. The organ plays as he steps down from the pulpit. He stands in the middle of the floor.
    â€œLet us pray,” he says, and folds his hands.
    â€œWe’re leaving,” my dad says. “God’s not here.”
    People have to stand up so we can get past; an old lady asks if the sermon is finished already. While we walk down the centre aisle, the vicar tries to continue; the last words I hear him say are “deliver us from evil.” Then the door slams shut behind us.
    Outside it has grown colder. The sidewalk is slippery and I have to watch my step. I liked the people in the church. They wore nice clothes and they smiled. They held hands and they smiled at me, too, even though I didn’t know them. I liked the warm glow from the candles. I don’t tell my dad this; he’s marching on ahead and I try to keep up with him. I jump over snowdrifts and puddles of slush and I leap aside to avoid getting sprayed when cars pass. The wind makes my eyes water.
    â€œSo we don’t have to believe in him?” I ask my dad.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œGod.”
    â€œOh, right. Him.”
    â€œDon’t we have to believe in him?”
    My dad rummages around his pocket for a cigarette.
    â€œMaybe that’s not the question.” He holds out his jacket as a screen against the wind while he lights the cigarette, then he takes my hand.
    â€œLet’s go get ourselves some duck,” he says.
    We walk past restaurants. Through the windows I can see people sitting around white tablecloths.
    â€œAre we going to eat in there?” I ask.
    â€œNo. We’re going to get the best duck this city has to offer.”
    We carry on walking. Past more restaurants, down many streets, many more snowdrifts. We reach the street with the girls in high heels; today they wear short quilted jackets that fall just above their hips. We walk past the old warehouses and places that could be small factories. A couple of the streetlights have gone out, others blink.
    â€œHere we are,” my dad says. “Best place in town.”
    Across the street lies a small, square wooden house with red and yellow signs on its roof. Two taxis are parked outside the entrance. I kick the snow off my shoes before we go inside.
    People are sitting alone, one to each little table. They look down at