A Fairy Tale (Jonas Bengtsson) by Jonas Bengtsson

Author:Jonas Bengtsson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Literary, Coming of Age, Family Life, Fiction
ISBN: 9781770893078
Publisher: House of Anansi
Published: 2014-01-18T05:00:00+00:00

My dad starts to tape his newspaper clippings to the wall. He rearranges them. He draws lines with a black ballpoint pen, arrows going both ways and winding their way across the wallpaper.

In nearly all the clippings I see the woman whose name is Monika, the woman we heard speak in the park. Her name is in big letters, she smiles down at us.

My dad says: “Just give me a couple of days . . . I could be wrong.” He draws another line with the pen across the wallpaper. “Perhaps the devil isn’t as black as he’s painted.”

“I’m hungry,” I say to him.

“Right.” He swaps two clippings around. “Why don’t you have a go at cooking today?”

“But what if . . . ?”

“Just give it a go. And if something catches fire, there’s water in the tap.”

I find saucepans and take out food from the fridge. The margarine sizzles in the pan. I drink a glass of water and pretend it’s beer. That night I cook spaghetti with fried raisins. We eat in front of the television. It doesn’t taste very good, but my dad clears his plate. “Delicious,” he says, never once taking his eyes off the screen. Tomorrow I’ll try adding some spinach.

I never cook the same dish twice. I cook rice with fried onions. I cook potatoes with cod roe.

I tell my dad that the fridge is nearly empty. He points to the coffee can on the kitchen table which has money in it.

I’ve been to the corner store before; a couple of times my dad has waited outside while I’ve gone inside on my own to buy an ice cream.

Now I stand there looking at packets of gravy powder that you mix with water. I see cans of fruit, peas, and carrots. Jaka Bov Pork Shoulder, it says on one of the cans. If I buy it, I won’t be able to carry much else, it’s that big. And it’s quite expensive. But you can fry the meat and eat it cold in a sandwich. I stare at the can for a long time until the grocer in his coat comes over to me and asks if he can help.

I jingle the coins in my pocket, afraid he might think I’m going to steal something. He merely smiles and moves on.

I stand by the till trying to count the money. I sweat on the one-krone coins; I’ve never had to count anything with other people watching me before, no one except my dad.

“Would you like me to help you?” the grocer says.

My dad has always said never mix money and people. Money makes people strange. And yet I put the coins on the counter. The grocer counts them slowly so I can keep up.

I fry the pork on both sides and put peas and carrots on top. Today I have dinner on the table before the news begins.

When they show something about Africa, my dad tells me to look away.

When they show something about the politician whose name is Monika, he holds a finger to his lips.

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