A Fairy Tale by Jonas Bengtsson Read Free Book Online Page B

made.
    I hear the sound of the bottle top when he opens a beer.
    I hear my dad rinse his plate in the sink. Then he stands in the doorway; he asks me if he should continue with our fairy tale. The last couple of days the King and the Prince have been travelling through an enchanted forest. They’re walking down a narrow path with carnivorous flowers on both sides. I ask my dad if we can wait with the fairy tale until tomorrow. Or will the flowers eat them? Of course we can wait, he says. The King and Prince will be all right. My dad kisses my forehead and leaves the door ajar. I hear the crackling of the thin paper when he rolls himself a cigarette; “rolling smokes,” as he calls it.
    He flicks through a book and I hear the metallic squeak from the lamp when he adjusts it to get a better reading light.
    I don’t know if I did the right thing today. You shouldn’t tell tales. But technically I didn’t tell on anyone. My dad says bad choices are rare. The most important thing is to make a choice and stand by it. I turn my face to the wall.

W hen Father Christmas stirs the porridge, he opens his mouth and closes his eyes. He looks as if he’s laughing, but no sounds come out. His beard is white, his suit is red. My dad says there’s a motor somewhere under his jacket. I stand in front of the shop window for a long time, looking at him.
    At first I thought he was funny; now he just looks creepy.
    We’re the only people not laden down with shopping bags, the only ones not in a hurry. I’ve gorged myself on the small spiced Christmas biscuits which are set out in bowls in practically every shop. The mulled wine leaves a red stain on my dad’s teeth. The snow in the city is only white when it has just fallen. Then it turns grey, before going black.
    â€œYou can come with me to work today,” my dad says, as he sprinkles soft brown sugar on his porridge. “The boss has gone to Jutland.”
    He takes a big mouthful, as much as he can pile on the spoon, and opens his mouth to let out the steam.
    â€œHe’s clearing out a house after someone died.”
    The boss is angry: I imagine him stomping through the front door of a small, yellow brick house. He heaves a cupboard outside while an old man sits on the sofa. Very still and very cold. The tip of his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth. The boss lifts the old man’s feet to pull the rug free.
    As soon as my dad has let us in, I go to the door at the back of the workshop. The one that always has a padlock on it. The boss is bound to forget the padlock one day.
    â€œDo you really not know what’s behind it?” I ask my dad again as I pull at the padlock.
    â€œIt’s none of our business,” he says as he gets out the tools.
    â€œDon’t you want to know?”
    He shakes his head. “Everyone’s entitled to their secrets.”
    Today I’m allowed to help my dad varnish a table. He shows me how to make an even brush stroke, how you have to be careful not to leave edges.
    â€œWet on wet,” he says. “Always paint wet on wet.”
    I want to show my dad that I can do it. The sound of cars in the street disappears. Even brush strokes. I keep my eyes on the wood all the time in case a single hair from the brush has come loose.
    A couple of days later we scrub the varnish with a steel brush.
    â€œYou’re getting the hang of it,” my dad says. “I think you might be ready for something more difficult.”
    He lifts me up on the table in the workshop so I can get a better look at the colour photographs on the wall: pictures of furniture with water damage or mould. Old English furniture with tea stains. French furniture with scratches from the tiny, tiny claws of noble ladies’ lapdogs. You make those with a metal coat hanger, my dad explains.
    Before I drill my first woodworm hole, I spend a long time studying the photographs. The distance between the holes