A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Page A

trees in the fairy tales my dad tells me. Forests filled with trolls who may grant you three wishes, but who’ll always want something in return. Trolls who love little boys, keeping them as servants before they put them on the spit and roast them or eat them with wild berries.
    My dad opens the door to the garage. The car has been washed since I last saw it. He opens the back door and I get in. The leather upholstery is cold against my bare legs.
    â€œI know you’re not ready. I know that. But we need you.” He puts his hand on the dark wood of the dashboard. “Afterwards we’ll take really good care of you. But do this for us, please.”
    He turns the key, but nothing happens.
    â€œJust today, sweetheart.”
    Again he turns the key. The engine growls, then the whole car starts to shudder like a dog shaking off water.
    â€œThat’s right, you can do it.”
    Slowly we drive across the uneven lawn, down the path, and out onto the big road.
    Sometime later my dad pulls over and takes a woolly blanket from the trunk. He covers me with it.
    â€œTry to get some sleep if you can,” he says, and gets back behind the wheel.
    I experience that night in glimpses, in the brief moments when I’m awake.
    I know we’re by the sea, I can hear the waves. My dad stands in the glow from the headlights. He smokes and looks at his watch.
    Another glimpse, we’re back on the road again. The engine purrs: a calm and friendly sound. I lie staring up at the roof of the car.
    Yet another glimpse: we’ve stopped in front of the archway leading to the courtyard. My dad is busy filling the trunk; he’s holding the box with the records.
    â€œJust go back to sleep,” he says.
    I’m woken up by my head bouncing up and down on the seat. We drive past the old lady’s house and into the garage.
    My dad empties the car, it doesn’t take him long. Every time we move, we have fewer things. The last thing he takes out of the trunk is my easel; in his other hand he has the portfolio with my drawings.
    â€œWe can always buy new towels,” he says.
    We sit in the old lady’s kitchen eating crispbread with salami and cheese. I drink fruit punch, my dad heats coffee in a saucepan on the stove.
    He talks to the old lady in the hallway; they whisper as if there were other people in the house we should try not to wake. My dad laughs; it sounds as if it was his plan all along to move in here. The old lady wishes us a good night and I hear the sound of her slippers down the hallway.
    There’s still one last bite of crispbread on the plate, but my eyes grow heavy. My dad carries me up the stairs. He pushes open the door with his foot, our new home. The room isn’t big, but bigger than our last apartment. The wallpaper is pale yellow with small flowers, the mattress is hard. My dad puts me down on the bed; the sheet is stiff and smells of fresh air.

I wake up alone in the room. In the distance I can hear the sound of the chainsaw. I stay in bed and read the same comic over and over. I get to know every single cobweb on the ceiling. The abandoned ones and the ones where I occasionally see a black spider darting up and down. I get to know the cracks in the wallpaper; a small flap points down at me. I stand on the suitcase and pee out the window. I’m scared that the old lady is going to come and get me every time the house creaks. Then I hide under the blanket.
    At noon my dad comes up to my room to fetch me. We go downstairs and have lunch together. I ask him if he would please wake me in the morning, take me with him outside, I promise to look after myself. He nods and I’m glad he doesn’t ask why.
    I stay on the lawn until my dad has finished his work for the day. He says goodnight to the car: “We were too hard on you. But you did well.”
    In the kitchen a big pot of soup is waiting for us with slices of freshly baked whole-grain bread. Bowls have been