Three Seconds by Anders Roslund, Börge Hellström Read Free Book Online Page B

numbers."
        "I want to know more."
    "Osiem, dziewire, dziewire."
    "Osiem, dzieunre… dziewirc?"
        "Now you know them."
        "Now I know."
        They drove past the Enskede flower shop and Piet Hoffmann stopped, reversed and got out.
        "Wait here. I'll be back in a moment."
        A couple of hundred meters farther on, a small red plastic fire engine was standing in front of the garage and he just managed to avoid it, but only by scraping the right-hand side of the car against the fence. He released the seat belts and child car seats and watched his children's feet run over the moss green grass. They both threw themselves down on to the ground and crawled through the low hedge into the neighbor's garden, where there were three children and two dogs. Piet Hoffmann laughed and felt a warmth in his belly and throat. Their energy and joy-sometimes things were just so simple.
        He held the flowers in one hand as he opened the door to the house that they had left in such a rush-it had been one of those mornings when everything took a little bit longer. He would tidy away the breakfast dishes that were still on the table, and pick up the trail of clothes that spread through every room downstairs, but first he had to go down into the cellar and the boiler room.
        It was May and the timer on the boiler would be turned off for a long time yet, so he started it manually by pressing the red button, then he opened the door and listened to it cranking into action and starting to burn. He bent down, undid his shoes and dropped them into the flames.
        The three red roses would go on the middle of the kitchen table in the vase that he liked so much, the one they'd bought at the Kosta Boda glassworks one summer. Plates for Zofia, Hugo, and Rasmus in the places where they had sat every day since they left the flat the same summer. Half a kilo of defrosted ground beef from the top shelf in the fridge which he browned in the frying pan, salt and pepper, cream and two tins of chopped tomatoes. It was starting to smell good. He dipped a finger in the sauce, which tasted good too. A half-full pan of water and a bit of olive oil so that the pasta wouldn't boil over.
        He went upstairs to the bedroom. The bed was still unmade and he buried his face in the pillow that smelled of her. His overnight bag was in the wardrobe, already packed: two passports; wallet with euros, zloty, and U.S. dollars; a shirt, socks, underwear, and a toilet bag. He picked it up and carried it down into the hall. The water had started to boil, half a bag of dry spaghetti into the bubbling water. He looked at the clock. Half past five. He didn't have much time, but he would make it.
        It was still warm outside, the last of the sun would soon disappear behind the roof of the neighboring house. Piet Hoffmann went over to the hedge that would have to be pruned properly this summer. He saw two children he recognized on the other side and called to them that food was ready. He heard a taxi approaching down the narrow road. It pulled up and parked in the driveway by the garage. The red plastic fire engine survived once again.
        "Hi."
        "Hi."
        They hugged each other, like they always did and every time he thought he would never let go.
        "I can't eat with you. I have to go to Warsaw this evening. An emergency meeting. But I'll be home again tomorrow night. Okay?"
        She shrugged.
        "No, not really. I was looking forward to having the evening together. But Okay."
        "I've made supper. It's on the table. I've told the boys food is ready so they're on their way. Or at least, they should be."
        He kissed her quickly on the lips.
        "One more. You know."
        One more. Always an even number. His hand on her cheek, two more kisses.
        "Now it's three. So one more."
        He kissed her again. They smiled at each other. He picked up his bag and walked over