A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Page B

their food. Two climbing elves have been stuck to the window with tape; golden glitter from them has scattered down onto the windowsill.
    My dad finds a table for two in the corner. He goes up to the counter and returns with two plates of duck and gravy. One plate of roast pork. The fluorescent tubes above us are so bright they make the food shine.
    â€œYou prefer breast, don’t you?” My dad swaps with a thigh on my plate.
    The jukebox in the corner makes a loud ping.
    â€œI remember a Christmas with Mum,” I say. “It was in a house. Have we ever lived in a house?”
    â€œWe have. And your mum roasted the duck and I made the gravy. She cooked a great duck.”
    â€œBetter than this one?”
    â€œYes. But only slightly.”
    He breaks off a piece of pork crackling, pops it into his mouth.
    â€œI’m glad you remember. You look like her. More and more with each day.”
    A man at one of the other tables gets up and stubs out his cigarette on his plate; he drains his coffee cup and leaves. Shortly afterwards the headlights on one of the taxis come on. I follow the red rear lights with my eyes as the car drives off.
    â€œWhy is everyone sitting alone?”
    My dad puts a couple of slices of roast pork on my plate and a spoonful of redcurrant jelly.
    â€œNot everyone has someone to celebrate Christmas with,” he says.
    â€œLike us?”
    He looks up from his food.
    â€œNo, not at all like us. We’ve got each other. There’s a very big difference.”
    For dessert we have cold rice pudding with vanilla, almonds, and a warm cherry sauce. My dad drinks coffee. When we leave, I’m so full that my tummy hurts.
    â€œYou haven’t asked about your present yet,” my dad says as we walk up the stairs.
    I wait in the kitchen while he goes to the basement to fetch it. He struggles to get the present through the narrow kitchen door; it’s enormous and wrapped in red paper.
    At first I try to unwrap it slowly, but then I can’t bear it any longer and I tear off the paper. Pale wood appears.
    â€œAn easel,” my dad says. “For painting.”
    I know what it is. I’ve seen easels in shops where my dad buys paints and colouring pencils for me without spending any money. But this one is different. Every edge has been sanded down and the wood is varnished. It looks more like a musical instrument than something you would splatter paint all over. He must have made it in the workshop, spent hours on it on the days when I didn’t come along.

T he sun is setting outside the windows of the train. Quickly, as if it has somewhere to go.
    The gaps between the houses grow bigger.
    â€œWhere are we going, Dad?”
    â€œYou’ll see.”
    At first I’m scared that we’re about to move, but we haven’t brought any of our things.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œDo you intend to keep on asking questions?”
    â€œYes.”
    He laughs.
    â€œOf course you should.”
    â€œSo where are we going?”
    â€œYou’re going to school; we’ll continue where we left off.”
    â€œReligious Studies?”
    â€œNot quite.”
    We walk from the railway station past big houses with warm light coming from the windows and cars in the driveways. We keep walking until we reach a large red gate. We pass people heading in the opposite direction; they walk closely together with their hands buried deep in their pockets and their collars turned up. Soon we’re alone on the path.
    â€œPeople from Copenhagen have visited the Dyrehaven for hundreds of years,” my dad says. The sandy soil under our feet glows against the dark grass and the trees. “They wanted a kind of nature that wasn’t dangerous. One that didn’t ruin their shoes. The paths here are straight and the deer are culled to control their numbers. But when the sun goes down, the park no longer belongs to humans.”
    Behind us the red