the oars, placed them on the gunwales of the boat and started to grab at his body.
‘But where the soul is, devil knows. I think it moves around. When I eat, it’s in my stomach. When I read, it’s in my head. When I think about Britt Laxman—’
‘Enough,’ I interrupted. ‘I get it. You have a nomadic soul; that’s probably because you’ve spent so much of your life moving around.’
‘Maybe,’ said Edmund, taking hold of the oars again. ‘Have you told your brother about the fight in Lackaparken, how it escalated?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because my gypsy-soul tells me that it would be right to let him know.’
I sat in silence for a few seconds.
‘Henry always comes out on top,’ I said. ‘He’s been to sea twice.’
‘Well, then,’ said Edmund. ‘I was just thinking. Damn, it’s hot.’
‘Long, hot summer,’ I said.
‘That’s a cracking song,’ said Edmund. ‘It can’t hurt for us to be on the alert, both you and me. About Henry and Ewa and what they’re up to. What do you think?’
‘White man speak with forked tongue,’ I said.
It was one of the best lines I knew. It could be used in any situation, except when you were talking to a Red Indian, and Edmund didn’t have anything to add.
‘No further questions,’ is all he said and continued rowing along the channel of reeds.
A few nights later I woke when Edmund sat up in his bed, panting.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked.
‘He must have picked her up in the car,’ said Edmund. ‘In Killer. I didn’t hear a moped.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Listen,’ said Edmund and now I heard it, too.
Two distinct sounds.
One was Henry’s bed creaking and groaning. Rhythmically and calmly. The other was Ewa Kaludis whining. Or moaning. Or gurgling. I didn’t know which because I’d never heard a woman make noises like that before.
‘My, my, my,’ whispered Edmund. ‘They’re going at it so hard the whole house is shaking. I think I’m going to blow.’
His childish nonsense upset me.
‘Shut up, Edmund,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t talk about it like that.’
Edmund fell silent. Leaving only the sound of Henry’s bed, rhythmically, insistently reverberating through the night. Throughout the house.
‘Sorry,’ said Edmund after a while. ‘You’re right, of course. But I’m going to sneak down and check it out anyway.’
‘Check it out?’ I said.
‘Sure,’ said Edmund. ‘We can spy on them from the stairs. They don’t have a blind down there. It’ll be educational. Come on, don’t hang about.’
For the first time in my fourteen-year-old life I had an erection that was so hard it hurt.
Edmund had probably thought we could each sit on a step and eyeball them, but that didn’t work. The ramshackle stairs ran up to our room along the gable wall, but were a bit above the window in Henry’s room. If we were going to see anything, we’d have to stand in the flower bed near the wall with peonies, mignonettes and a hundred different types of weeds. As stealthily as Indians, we sneaked there, and twice as stealthily as Indians we popped our heads up above the window ledge.
And then we saw everything.
It was like a film, but there weren’t any films like that at that time, way back at the start of the sixties. But I had the vague notion that they’d exist in twenty years’ time. Or thirty. Or a hundred; never mind, at some point there’d be films like this, if only for the simple reason that they were necessary.
I had that vague notion. The rest wasn’t so vague.
Ewa Kaludis was sitting astride my brother. She was naked and her breasts were dancing as she moved up and down on top of him. They were partly turned in our direction—well, she was, and that was the main thing. They’d lit a few candles in empty bottles; the flames flickered every now and then and cast patterns of shadows on her body.
Across her bare face and bare shoulders and bare breasts. Her
‘But where the soul is, devil knows. I think it moves around. When I eat, it’s in my stomach. When I read, it’s in my head. When I think about Britt Laxman—’
‘Enough,’ I interrupted. ‘I get it. You have a nomadic soul; that’s probably because you’ve spent so much of your life moving around.’
‘Maybe,’ said Edmund, taking hold of the oars again. ‘Have you told your brother about the fight in Lackaparken, how it escalated?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because my gypsy-soul tells me that it would be right to let him know.’
I sat in silence for a few seconds.
‘Henry always comes out on top,’ I said. ‘He’s been to sea twice.’
‘Well, then,’ said Edmund. ‘I was just thinking. Damn, it’s hot.’
‘Long, hot summer,’ I said.
‘That’s a cracking song,’ said Edmund. ‘It can’t hurt for us to be on the alert, both you and me. About Henry and Ewa and what they’re up to. What do you think?’
‘White man speak with forked tongue,’ I said.
It was one of the best lines I knew. It could be used in any situation, except when you were talking to a Red Indian, and Edmund didn’t have anything to add.
‘No further questions,’ is all he said and continued rowing along the channel of reeds.
A few nights later I woke when Edmund sat up in his bed, panting.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I asked.
‘He must have picked her up in the car,’ said Edmund. ‘In Killer. I didn’t hear a moped.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Listen,’ said Edmund and now I heard it, too.
Two distinct sounds.
One was Henry’s bed creaking and groaning. Rhythmically and calmly. The other was Ewa Kaludis whining. Or moaning. Or gurgling. I didn’t know which because I’d never heard a woman make noises like that before.
‘My, my, my,’ whispered Edmund. ‘They’re going at it so hard the whole house is shaking. I think I’m going to blow.’
His childish nonsense upset me.
‘Shut up, Edmund,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t talk about it like that.’
Edmund fell silent. Leaving only the sound of Henry’s bed, rhythmically, insistently reverberating through the night. Throughout the house.
‘Sorry,’ said Edmund after a while. ‘You’re right, of course. But I’m going to sneak down and check it out anyway.’
‘Check it out?’ I said.
‘Sure,’ said Edmund. ‘We can spy on them from the stairs. They don’t have a blind down there. It’ll be educational. Come on, don’t hang about.’
For the first time in my fourteen-year-old life I had an erection that was so hard it hurt.
Edmund had probably thought we could each sit on a step and eyeball them, but that didn’t work. The ramshackle stairs ran up to our room along the gable wall, but were a bit above the window in Henry’s room. If we were going to see anything, we’d have to stand in the flower bed near the wall with peonies, mignonettes and a hundred different types of weeds. As stealthily as Indians, we sneaked there, and twice as stealthily as Indians we popped our heads up above the window ledge.
And then we saw everything.
It was like a film, but there weren’t any films like that at that time, way back at the start of the sixties. But I had the vague notion that they’d exist in twenty years’ time. Or thirty. Or a hundred; never mind, at some point there’d be films like this, if only for the simple reason that they were necessary.
I had that vague notion. The rest wasn’t so vague.
Ewa Kaludis was sitting astride my brother. She was naked and her breasts were dancing as she moved up and down on top of him. They were partly turned in our direction—well, she was, and that was the main thing. They’d lit a few candles in empty bottles; the flames flickered every now and then and cast patterns of shadows on her body.
Across her bare face and bare shoulders and bare breasts. Her
Similar Books
