Raid and the Blackest Sheep by Harri Nykänen Page B

second part memories, and a third part damp wood and rugs—with a pinch of the scent of cardboard, the same smell you get after opening a cardboard box that has sat in the cellar for years.
         Nygren took in the lush aromas.
         “We’ll have to air it out and put on the heat.”
         Mice had stormed the cupboard. The counter was strewn with fallen flour and sugar from the chewed up sacks. Little feet had spread flour all over the table as well. Black droppings the size of rice grains were everywhere.
         “And clean up a little.”
         The cabin was somewhat devoid of furniture. In the kitchen were a small dining table, two spindle-back chairs, wood and electric stoves and a refrigerator. The floral-patterned shades, once yellow and green, were now dusty and sun-bleached.
         In the living room were a 1960s hide-a-bed and a bookshelf of the same vintage. There were no books, only a stack of magazines and a few china cups. In addition, there was a rocking chair, a shabby faux-leather recliner and a black-and-white television.
         On the window sill were a couple of flowers, now dried to an unrecognizable state. A living room door opened into the bedroom, where a cot lay next to a small nightstand and an electric heater, nothing else. A staircase painted the color of dried blood ascended from the entry to the upstairs.
         “A little run-down, but it’ll do,” said Nygren.
         “Pretty old.”
         “Turn of the century. Timber framed and well built. Not a single spot of rot. An old farm couple used to live here. The husband was a stubborn old mule…looked after the place till he was nearly eighty. The kids moved to Sweden to look for work, and when the folks died, they let the place go downhill. First they sold the fields, then the forests, then the house. It’s still got ten acres, though.”
         Raid looked at the thin sprinkling of furniture.
         “You did the interior decorating?”
         “I was here for a summer and bought everything I needed at the flea market. The upstairs is empty.”
         “You got a story for this place too?”
         “A few. I’ll tell you sometime.”
         They heard the rumble of an approaching tractor and Raid glanced out the window. Nygren came to look too.
         “Neighbor. Probably saw the car.”
         “You guys on good terms?”
         “Nothing to worry about.”
         Nygren stepped outside and Raid followed. The tractor plowed through the grove of saplings that had overgrown the drive and stopped just in front of the steps. A man in his sixties swung out of the cab. He was dressed in a sweatsuit that was far too tight and a cap with a plastic bill. On his feet was a pair of rubber boots with leather uppers. Stylistically, the ensemble would be admirably true to form if he was a farmer in the ’60s.
         The man walked up, his hand stretched out toward Nygren. They shook.
         Nygren introduced Raid.
         “My boy saw the Benz in town, so I figured my old neighbor had come to visit.”
         The man nodded toward the house.
         “I’ve been dropping by every now and again to make sure everything’s holding up.”
         “Thanks.”
         “You figuring to stay a while?”
         Nygren shook his head.
         “We’ll be on our way the day after tomorrow at the latest. We’re headed north. This just happened to be on the way.”
         “So we won’t have a new neighbor after all.”
         “You have time for a drink?”
         “We’re not so busy out in the country that we don’t have time for a little hooch.”
         He followed Nygren inside.
         “You managed to clean up already.”
         “The mouse shit was everywhere.”
         “Not sure where they come from, but every time you turn your back…” said the man.
         “Whiskey or Cognac?”
         “Well, since