A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Page B

for the red fire engine, the one that squirts water.
    I know I don’t need either of them. I’m eight years old today. What use is a fire engine to me? It’s also quite expensive. But what if my dad has saved up for it?
    Or perhaps he’ll just take it. The old lady could look straight at him, they could talk about the weather, how the price of butter and milk keeps going up. And he’d still be able to slip the fire engine into his rucksack without her noticing. But I also know that he wouldn’t dream of taking anything from an old lady with a small shop.
    We walk past the toy shop and we keep on going. Could it really be the bicycle? I’m almost certain of it until we also walk past the window of the bicycle shop.
    We’re waiting at the bus stop when my dad asks me if anything is wrong. I shake my head.
    The bus takes us to the city centre. It’s a cold February day; winter jackets brush against coats. I trace the number eight with my finger on the steamed-up window.
    My dad leans close to me.
    â€œToday you’re going to get a very special birthday present.”
    I look at him, trying to guess what the next word from his lips will be.
    â€œToday you’re going to see an angel,” he says.
    We walk down Strøget, Copenhagen’s main pedestrian street. My dad holds my hand in his, he shows me the way.
    We walk through the doors of one of the big department stores and continue up the escalators to the cafeteria.
    We have to wait in line for a long time to pay for our hot chocolate, coffee, and plate of Danish pastries. In a corner we find a table covered with cups and cake plates from previous guests.
    â€œThis is a good place to see an angel,” my dad says, and drops two lumps of sugar into his coffee. He stirs it with a teaspoon. “Angels follow people, I don’t know why, but they do. That’s why this is a good place; there are lots of people here, and you can drink hot chocolate at the same time.”
    I look around the cafeteria, but I can’t see any angels.
    â€œNo,” my dad says, and laughs so much that his coffee spills over. “No, angels aren’t fat children with wings on their backs. Nor are they tall men holding swords like in the Old Testament. Angels are different; they’re outside our world.”
    My dad takes off his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair. He rolls up his sleeves and takes one of the empty coffee cups from the table. He looks at me and I nod.
    â€œWe can touch this cup,” he says. “If we smash it, it’ll break.”
    My dad presses the cup into my hand.
    â€œBut there’s something more. Something you can’t get a hold of. Something you can’t touch.”
    He takes the plate with the Danish pastries and holds it under the table.
    â€œCan you see the pastries now?”
    I shake my head.
    â€œBut that doesn’t mean they aren’t there, does it?”
    He breaks off a piece of pastry and hands it to me.
    â€œThere are things in this world you can’t touch. Things you can’t see unless you know what you’re looking for. Most people have forgotten that. Or they’re too scared to open their eyes.”
    We share the Danish pastries and when only crumbs remain, he says: “Finish your chocolate. Do you need the bathroom? No? Good, then let’s get started.”
    He looks around the cafeteria, searching for something. His gaze ends up somewhere to the right of the exit, not far from the woman behind the till and the trays of cutlery and napkins.
    â€œI want you to look over there. Keep looking that way.”
    I follow his finger; I want to be quite sure that I’m looking in the right direction.
    â€œTry to relax your eyes,” he says. “Look, but don’t look at anything in particular. Like when we go to the museum.”
    I look as hard as I can, I try really hard.
    â€œAm I allowed to blink?” My eyes are starting