When the Snow Fell by Henning Mankell Page B

Greyhound, ofcourse. Even at that distance he could see that she was smirking.
    “Kringström’s gone to play at a dance,” she said. “You’ll have to find somebody else to teach you how to play the guitar.”
    “Where’s he gone to?” Joel shouted.
    “I’m not telling you,” she shouted back. “But he’s gone to Brunflo.”
    Joel knew that Brunflo was a town even further north. He didn’t know if it was a big town or not, but just now the place annoyed him. He hoped that everybody living in Brunflo would soon move away. And that in the end there would be zero persons living there. Brunflo would be at the very bottom of the league table in
Where When How
. Kringström ought to have been at home, and placing a guitar in Joel’s hands.
    A guitar! Joel stopped dead.
    He didn’t have a guitar! And he hadn’t seen one in Kringström’s flat either. That was the only instrument Kringström didn’t play, because everybody else did. And also because most of the ones who did play were involved in music that Kringström didn’t approve of. Rock ’n’ roll.
    Joel trudged down the hill. How could he have been so stupid as to forget the most important thing of all? That he didn’t have a guitar. All they had at home was a rusty old harmonica. Did he know anybody who had a guitar? Gertud didn’t, nor did any of his schoolmates he couldconsider asking. Some of them had accordions. And violins. A few had harmonicas. But nobody had a guitar.
    He stopped dead. He’d seen a guitar somewhere or other. He was certain of it. The only question was where? Who had it? He started walking slowly, concentrating hard. He thought about all the homes he’d been in over the last few years. Ture had a guitar, but he’d taken it with him when he moved away. And Joel wouldn’t have wanted to borrow that one anyway. He disliked Ture too much.
    And then the penny dropped.
    Simon Windstorm had a guitar. It was hanging on the wall in Simon’s peculiar house in the trees. Joel didn’t know if it was in good enough condition to play. He couldn’t even remember if it had any strings. But it was a guitar. Deep chestnut brown in color. Almost black. Just like the record sleeve with Elvis Presley. When he sang “That’s All Right, Mama.” Or maybe it was “Hound Dog”?
    He’d reached the bottom of the hill. From there he could see the hands on the church clock. It was too late to pay a visit to Simon Windstorm.
    That would have to wait until tomorrow. Still, he was greatly relieved to have remembered somebody with a guitar. The Greyhound would start gossiping tomorrow. Joel would become a laughingstock if he didn’t have a guitar.
    Joel stood in the shadows and waited until the bus to Ånge had clattered past. Then he unbuttoned the fourfly buttons on his pants. There should really have been five, but one had dropped off.
    Then he started peeing and drew a yellow guitar in the snow. He had nearly enough for the whole thing, but when he came to the pegboard where you tightened the strings at the top of the neck, he had nothing left.
    He stood and pulled at his willy for a while before fastening his fly. Thought about what he was going to do that evening. It was like scratching a mosquito bite. The same peculiar feeling.
    He buttoned up his fly before it became completely stiff. Then he looked round guiltily. Had there been somebody in the shadows watching him?
    He could hardly imagine anything more horrific. What if the Greyhound had seen what he was doing, for instance? He would have had to dig himself down in the churchyard next to Lars Olson. But without a stone telling everybody where he was buried.
    By half past five he had prepared Samuel’s meal and written a note that he left in the middle of the kitchen table.
    I’ve already eaten. I’ve gone to the library. Joel
.
    He was in place outside the block of flats where she lived when she came home. She swayed slightly as she walked, the movement of her head tossing her hair