When the Snow Fell by Henning Mankell Page A

back wasn’t quite as hunched as usual this morning.
    He also realized that he’d discovered a secret. From nowon he would only ask for things that cost money after Samuel had spent the night with Sara. Never at any other time.
    The feeling that Joel’s body was as heavy as a fully loaded railway wagon had gone. Nothing could make Joel feel as energetic as he felt when Samuel had just agreed to pay for something that Joel wanted. He hurried to finish his breakfast, so as not to be late for school.
    When school was over Joel was pleased to note that he hadn’t fallen asleep during lessons a single time. I’ve already started to toughen up, he thought.
    During the art class he’d also had time to think about what had happened the previous night. The mistake he’d made had been to decide to sleep in the open for a whole night right from the start. In future he’d start by aiming to sleep out just for an hour. When he woke up without feeling cold, he’d increase that to two hours. And then three. And so on, until he could cope with sleeping out of doors for a whole night. By then he’d be really tough.
    As soon as school had finished Joel walked up the hill to Kringström’s flat. This time he was happy to be accompanied by the Greyhound. He was sure that Kringström would make time to teach him to play the guitar. In which case, people’s knowing about it had to be a good thing. As the Greyhound was more gossipy than most, it could be an idea to start by telling her. And before you could say Jack Robinson, the whole town would know.
    He walked by her side up the hill.
    “Where are you going?” she asked.
    “I’m going to visit you,” Joel said.
    “Oh no, you’re not.”
    “I’m going to sign your visitors’ book.”
    “Oh no, you’re not.”
    “I thought you might agree to get dressed up in transparent veils for me.”
    “Are you feeling all right? How childish can you get?”
    “Yes, I’m childish, no doubt about it. Can you tell me what I should do in order not to be childish? So that I can be as grown-up as you are?”
    “Go away and leave me in peace.”
    “Kringström’s going to teach me how to play the guitar.”
    The Greyhound hesitated. Joel was pleased. She didn’t know what to say.
    “Is he really?”
    “We’re going to start today.”
    “But you can’t play the guitar.”
    “I’ve just said, I’m going to learn.”
    “With hands like yours?”
    “What do you mean? There’s nothing wrong with my hands.”
    “You have to have long fingers. You don’t.”
    Now it was Joel’s turn to hesitate. He felt worried. Was she right? Did you really have to have long fingers? Were his fingers shorter than other people’s?
    The Greyhound grinned.
    “You’re telling porkies, Joel. You’re making it up. You’re not going to learn to play the guitar at all.”
    “You can go to hell.”
    “Go to hell yourself.”
    She grinned again, then started running. Joel knew there was no point in trying to catch up with her. She wasn’t called the Greyhound for nothing. Miss Nederström used to say in PE lessons that the Greyhound was a prodigy. One of these days she was bound to become a Swedish running champion.
    Or sprint champion, as Miss Nederström called it.
    Ordinary people ran, but greyhounds and future gold medalists like Eva-Lisa sprinted.
    But if he had been able to catch up with her he would have stuffed snow down her collar. Preferably down every item of clothing she was wearing.
    When he came to the block of flats where Kringström lived he was still worrying about his fingers. How could you make them longer? Could you stretch them some how or other? Or should you just let your fingernails grow longer?
    Then he noticed, to his great disappointment, that Kringström’s enormous van wasn’t there.
    Kringström’s orchestra must have been playing at a dance somewhere or other.
    He was just about to leave when one of the windows high up in the building opened. It was the