ship, or a vessel, because whoâs ever heard of pirates in a boat? â is a sorry sight. The water inside and the water outside are almost on a level. It takes all my strength to drag it close, and a talent for balance I donât even know I have to keep my footing on the thwarts while I ï¬ll the sea, bucket by bucket, with fresh quantities of new water.
It takes an hour, even though weâre talking about a fairly modest fourteen-foot ship.
I leave it to the sun to sip up the last drops and hardly dare to believe it when the motor makes a promising sound on the third attempt and starts on the sixth. Then I go ashore with a âNo, not yet, Balderâ to the tail-wagging enthusiast on the jetty, and fetch the blankets and foam mats and life jackets weâre going to need. Then I hurry up to the house, which you like to call a castle, or a fortress, because kings and princes donât live in ordinary houses, do they?
Victoria lies half asleep on the sofa in front of the television. She doesnât want to come; sheâs waiting for her boyfriend. Apparently the same one as yesterday and the day before, so itâs probably serious. Mom has a meeting straight after work and wonât be coming until later.
In the fridge I ï¬nd the chops I was hoping for, and even a bottle of white wine behind the vegetables. Into the cooler with them, along with the freezer elements, juice, a bar of chocolate, and the vanilla yogourt that was actually saved for school tomorrow. No need for water for Balder, he manages well enough with what he ï¬nds in puddles and cracks in the rocks. Into a plastic bag I put a roll of kitchen paper, cutlery, marinade, glasses, a corkscrew, paper plates, and two Thermoses, one with coffee and one with cocoa. Iâm standing there thinking that the charcoal and the white spirit are in the shed when Balder announces an arrival. Through the kitchen window I can see that it is your taxi.
I wouldnât say a word against the councilâs taxi service that makes sure youâre conveyed to and from school each day. Itâs a generous service, I think, and not something I should take for granted. I also understand that the council has to save money, or that the councilâs money has to be saved, or whatever. All the same, it gives me a little jab to the heart each day when the maxi-taxi drives up, mornings and afternoons. Itâs cheaper this way, they say, and I understand that too, but I donât like it, seeing you rounded up in the bus for pupils with special difï¬culties, along with multi-handicapped children who sit chained to their wheelchairs and are hardly able to communicate with their surroundings. Let them call it what they will â demanding, inappropriate pride â but I donât like it, for I canât help asking myself what you think. You rarely say anything, but do these daily drives in the company of those who are so much less endowed than you have any inï¬uence on your self-image? Are you gradually being driven to see yourself as you see them? Have you heard what the others at school call it, the spaz-taxi? Does that bother you? Do you ï¬nd it hard and hurtful to talk about? One day they told us at school that you had pulled some poor girlâs hair and tried to tip her wheelchair over, because âshe makes a mess when she eats and she canât speak.â Was it your own hair you were pulling, Gabriel?
But like I said: praise be to the councilâs taxi service, weâd never have managed without it, and today the sun is shining and itâs a bright little lark of a boy who comes running to greet me.
â Hi, Gabriel, how good to see you!
I open my arms to receive you, but you have neither the time nor the capacity for such attention:
â Yeah, yeah, I know, letâs not talk about it anymore. Do you know what Morten told me today?
I donât know who Morten is and answer only:
â Morten
Learning to Kill: Stories