Elsa waits by the lift. She doesn’t like needles, irrespective of whether they’re being stuck into her own arm or Granny’s. She sits reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on the iPad for about the twelfth time. It’s the Harry Potter book she likes the least; that’s why she’s read it so few times.
Only when Mum comes to get her and they’re about to go down to the car does Elsa remember that she’s left her Gryffindor scarf in the hall outside Granny’s room. So she runs back.
Granny is sitting on the edge of the bed with her back to the door, talking on the phone. She doesn’t see her, and Elsa realizes Granny is talking to her lawyer, because she’s instructing him about what sort of beer she wants the next time he comes to the hospital. Elsa knows that the lawyer smuggles in the beer in large encyclopedias. Granny says she needs them for her “research,” but in fact they are hollowed out inside with beer-bottle-shaped slots. Elsa takes her scarf from the hook and is just about to call out to Granny when she hears Granny’s voice fill with emotion as she says, into the telephone:
“She’s my grandchild, Marcel. May the heavens bless her little head. I’ve never met such a good and clever girl. The responsibility must be left to her. She’s the only one who can make the right decision.”
There’s silence for a moment. And then Granny goes on determinedly:
“I KNOW she’s only a child, Marcel! But she’s a damn sight smarter than all the other fools put together! And this is my will and you’re my lawyer. Just do what I say.”
Elsa stands in the hall holding her breath. And only when Granny says, “Because I don’t WANT TO tell her yet! Because all seven-year-olds deserve superheroes!”—only then does Elsa turn to quietly slip away, her Gryffindor scarf damp with tears.
And the last thing she hears Granny say on the telephone is:
“I don’t want Elsa to know that I am going to die because all seven-year-olds deserve superheroes, Marcel. And one of their superpowers ought to be that they can’t get cancer.”
3
COFFEE
There’s something special about a grandmother’s house. You never forget how it smells.
It’s a normal building, by and large. It has four floors and nine flats and the whole block smells of Granny (and coffee, thanks to Lennart). It also has a clear set of regulations pinned up in the laundry, with the heading FOR EVERYONE’S WELL-BEING in which WELL-BEING has been underlined twice. And a lift that’s always broken and rubbish separated for recycling in the yard, and a drunk, a very large animal of some sort, and, of course, a granny.
Granny lives at the top, opposite Mum and Elsa and George. Granny’s flat is exactly like Mum’s except much messier, because Granny’s flat is like Granny and Mum’s flat is like Mum.
George lives with Mum and that’s not always the easiest of things, because it means he also lives next door to Granny. He has a beard and a very small hat and is obsessed with jogging, during which he insists on wearing his shorts over the top of his tracksuit. He cooks in English, and so when he’s reading the recipes he says “pork” instead of “flask.” Granny never calls him “George,” just “Loser,” which infuriates Mum, but Elsa knows why Granny’s doing it. She just wants Elsa to know she’s on Elsa’s side, no matter what. Because that’s what you do when you’re a granny and your grandchild’s parents get divorced and find themselves new partners and suddenly tell your grandchild there’s a half sibling on its way. That it irritates the hell out of Mum is something Granny views purely as a bonus.
Mum and George don’t want to know if Halfie is a boy-half or a girl-half, even though it’s easy to find out. It’s especially important for George not to know. He always calls Halfie she/he, so he doesn’t “trap the child in a gender role.” The first time he said it, Elsa thought he said “gender troll.” It ended up being a very confusing afternoon for all involved.
Halfie is either going to be called Elvir or Elvira, Mum and George have decided. When Elsa told Granny this, she just stared at her.
“ELV-ir?!”
“It’s the boy version of Elvira.”
“Elvir, though? Are they planning to send him to Mordor to destroy the ring, or what?” (This was soon after Granny had watched all of the Lord of the Rings films with Elsa, because Elsa’s mum had expressly told Elsa she wasn’t allowed to watch them.)
Obviously Elsa knows that Granny doesn’t dislike Halfie. Or even George, really. She just talks that way because she’s Granny. One time Elsa told Granny she really did hate George, and that sometimes she even hated Halfie too. It’s very difficult not to love someone who can hear you say something as horrible as that and still be on your side.
In the flat under Granny’s live Britt-Marie and Kent. They like owning things, and Kent especially likes telling you how much everything costs. He’s hardly ever at home because he’s an entrepreneur, or a “Kentrepreneur” as he likes to joke loudly to people he doesn’t know. And if people don’t laugh right away, he repeats it even louder. As if their hearing is the problem.
Britt-Marie is almost always at home, so Elsa assumes she is not an entrepreneur. Granny calls her “a full-time nag-bag who will forever be the bane of my life.” She always looks a little like she just popped the wrong chocolate into her mouth. She’s the one who put up the sign in the laundry with that FOR EVERYONE’S WELL-BEING bit on it. Everyone’s well-being is very important to Britt-Marie, even though she and Kent are the only people in the house with a washing machine and tumble-dryer in their flat. One time after George had done some laundry, Britt-Marie came upstairs and asked to have a word with Elsa’s mum. She’d brought a little ball of blue fluff from the tumble-dryer filter, which she held out towards Mum as if it were a newly hatched chick, and said: “I think you forgot this when you were doing the laundry, Ulrika!” And then when George explained that actually he was in charge of their laundry, Britt-Marie looked at him and smiled, though she didn’t seem very genuine about it. And then she said, “How very modern,” and smiled well-meaningly at Mum and handed her the fluff and said: “For everyone’s well-being, in this leaseholders’ association we clear the dryer filter when we’ve finished, Ulrika!”
It actually isn’t a leaseholders’ association yet. But it’s going to become one, Britt-Marie is at pains to point out. She and Kent will see it done. And in Britt-Marie’s leaseholders’ association it’s going to be very important to keep to the rules. That is why she is Granny’s antagonist. Elsa knows what “antagonist” means, because you do if you read quality literature.
In the flat opposite Britt-Marie and Kent lives the woman with the black skirt. You hardly ever see her except when she scurries between the front entrance and her door early in the morning and late at night. She always wears high heels and a perfectly ironed black skirt and talks extremely loudly into a white cord trailing from her ear. She never says hello and she never smiles. Granny says that her skirt is too well-ironed and “if you were the cloth hanging off that woman you’d be terrified of getting yourself creased.”
Under Britt-Marie and Kent’s flat live Lennart and Maud. Lennart drinks at least twenty cups of coffee per day and always looks triumphantly proud every time his percolator is turned on. He is the second-nicest person in the world, and he’s married to Maud. Maud is the nicest person in the world and she has always just baked some cookies. They live with Samantha, who’s almost always asleep. Samantha is a bichon frise but Lennart and Maud talk to her as if she wasn’t. When Lennart and Maud drink coffee in front of Samantha they don’t say they’re having “coffee,” they call it “a drink for grown-ups.” Granny says they’re soft in the head, but Elsa just thinks they’re nice. And they always have dreams and hugs—dreams are a kind of cookie; hugs are just normal hugs.
Opposite Lennart and Maud lives Alf. He drives a taxi and always wears a leather jacket under a layer of irascibility. His shoes have soles as thin as greaseproof paper because he doesn’t lift his feet when he walks. Granny says he has the lowest ce
nter of gravity in the entire bloody universe.
In the flat under Lennart and Maud live the boy with a syndrome and his mum. The boy with a syndrome is a year and a few weeks younger than Elsa, and never speaks. His mother loses things all the time. Objects seem to rain from her pockets, like in a cartoon when the crook gets frisked by the police and the pile of stuff from his pockets ends up bigger than they are. Both the boy and his mother have very kind eyes, and not even Granny seems to dislike them. And the boy’s always dancing. He dances his way through his existence.
In the flat next to theirs, on the other side of the lift that never works, lives The Monster. Elsa doesn’t know what his real name is, but she calls him The Monster because everyone is afraid of him. Even Elsa’s mum, who isn’t scared of anything in the entire world, gives Elsa’s back a little shove when they’re about to walk past his flat. No one ever sees The Monster because he never goes out in the daytime, but Kent always says “People like that shouldn’t be let loose! But that’s what happens when the authorities go for the soft option. People in this bloody country get psychiatric care instead of prison!” Britt-Marie has written letters to the landlord, demanding that The Monster be evicted in view of her firm conviction that he “attracts other substance abusers into the building.” Elsa is not sure what that means, and she’s not even sure Britt-Marie knows. She asked Granny one day, but she just went a bit quiet and said, “Certain things should be left well alone.” And this is a granny who fought in the War-Without-End, the war against the shadows in the Land-of-Almost-Awake, and who has met the most terrifying creatures that have been dreamed up in an eternity of ten thousand fairy tales.
That’s how you measure time in the Land-of-Almost-Awake: in eternities. There are no watches in the Land-of-Almost-Awake, so time is measured according to how you feel. If it feels like an eternity, you say, “This is a lesser eternity.” And if it feels sort of like two dozen eternities, you say, “An utter eternity.” And the only thing that feels longer than an utter eternity is the eternity of a fairy tale, because a fairy tale is an eternity of utter eternities. And the very longest kind of eternity in existence is the eternity of ten thousand fairy tales. That’s the biggest number in the Land-of-Almost-Awake.
Anyway, to get back to the point: at the bottom of the house where all these people live, there’s a meeting room, where residents’ meetings are held once every month. This is a bit more than in most buildings, but the flats are rented, and Britt-Marie and Kent really want everyone living there, by “a democratic process,” to make a request to the landlord to sell them the building so they can become flat owners. And to do that, you must have residents’ meetings. Because no one else in the house actually wants to be a flat-owner. The democratic bit of the democratic process is the one Kent and Britt-Marie like the least, you might say.
And the meetings are obviously terrifically boring. First everyone argues about what they were arguing about in the last meeting, and then they all look at their agendas and argue about when to have the next meeting, and then the meeting is over. But Elsa still goes there today because she needs to know when the arguing starts, so no one notices when she sneaks off.
Elsa arrives early. Kent hasn’t got there yet, because Kent is always late. Alf hasn’t arrived either, because Alf is always exactly on time. But Maud and Lennart are sitting at the big table and Britt-Marie and Mum are in the pantry discussing the coffee. Samantha is sleeping on the floor. Maud pushes a big tin of dreams towards Elsa. Lennart sits next to her, waiting for the coffee. Meanwhile he sips from a thermos he has brought with him. It’s important to Lennart to have standby coffee available while he’s waiting for the new coffee.
Britt-Marie is by the kitchen counter in the pantry with her hands clasped together in frustration over her stomach, while she looks nervously at Mum. Mum is making coffee. This is making Britt-Marie nervous because she thinks it would be best if they waited for Kent. Britt-Marie always thinks it would be best to wait for Kent, but Mum is not so big on waiting. She is more about taking control. Britt-Marie smiles well-meaningly at Mum.
“Everything all right with the coffee, Ulrika?”
“Yes, thanks,” says Mum curtly.
“Maybe we should wait for Kent after all?”
“Oh, I think we can manage to make some coffee without Kent,” Mum answers pleasantly.
Again, Britt-Marie clasps her hands together over her stomach. Smiles.
“Well, of course, please yourself, Ulrika. You always do.”
Mum looks as if she’s counting to some three-digit number and continues measuring the scoops of coffee.
“It’s only coffee, Britt-Marie.”
Britt-Marie nods her understanding of the situation and brushes some invisible dust off her skirt. There is always a bit of invisible dust on Britt-Marie’s skirt, which only Britt-Marie can see, and which she absolutely must brush off.
“Kent always makes very nice coffee. Everyone always thinks Kent makes very nice coffee.”
Maud sits at the table looking worried. Because Maud doesn’t like conflict. That’s why she bakes so many cookies, because it’s much more difficult to have conflict when there are cookies around.
“Well, it’s lovely that you and your little Elsa are here today. We all think it’s . . . lovely,” says Britt-Marie.
There’s a patient “mmm” from Mum. A bit more coffee is measured out. A bit more dust is brushed off.
“I mean, it must be hard for you to find time for little Elsa, we can appreciate that, what with you being so ambitious about your career.”
And then Mum spoons the coffee a little as if she’s having fantasies of flinging it in Britt-Marie’s face. But in a controlled way.
Britt-Marie goes to the window and moves a plant and says, as if thinking out aloud: “And your partner’s so good, isn’t he, staying at home to take care of the household. That’s what you call it, isn’t it? Partner? It’s very modern, I understand.” And then she smiles again. Well-meaning. Brushes a little more and adds, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. Nothing at all.”
Alf comes in, in a very bad mood, wearing his creaking leather jacket with a taxi logo on its chest. He has an evening newspaper in his hand. Checks his watch. It’s seven o’clock sharp.
“Bloody says seven on the note,” he grunts across the room at no one in particular.
“Kent is a little late,” says Britt-Marie, and smiles and clasps her hands together over her stomach again. “He has an important group meeting with Germany,” she goes on, as if Kent is meeting the entire population of Germany.
Fifteen minutes later Kent comes storming into the room, his jacket flapping like a mantle around him, and yelling, “Ja, Klaus! Ja! We will dizcuzz it at ze meeting in Frankfurt!” into his telephone. Alf looks up from his evening newspaper and taps his wristwatch and mutters, “Hope we didn’t cause you any inconvenience by being here on time.” Kent ignores him and instead claps his hands excitedly towards Lennart and Maud and says, with a grin, “Shall we kick things off, then? Eh? It’s not like we’re getting any babies made here, are we?” And then he turns quickly to Mum and points at her belly and laughs: “At least no more than we’ve already got!” And when Mum doesn’t immediately laugh, Kent points at her belly again and repeats, “At least no more than we’ve already got!” in a louder voice, as if his levels weren’t quite right the first time.
Maud brings in cookies. Mum serves coffee. Kent takes a gulp, pauses, and announces that it’s rather strong. Alf sweeps down the whole cup in one go and mutters, “Just right!” Britt-Marie takes a tiny, tiny mouthful and rests the cup in the palm of her hand before offering her verdict: “I do think it’s a little strong, personally.” Then she throws a furtive glance at Mum and adds, “And you’re drinking coffee, Ulrika, even though you’re pregnant.” And before Mum has time to answer, Britt-Marie immediately excuses herself: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, obviously. Obviously not!”
&n
bsp; And then Kent declares the meeting open and then everyone argues for two hours about what they argued about at the last meeting. Which is when Elsa sneaks out without anyone noticing.
She tiptoes up the stairs to the mezzanine floor. She peers at the door to The Monster’s flat, but calms herself with the thought that there is still daylight outside. The Monster never goes outside while it’s still light.
Then she looks at the door of the flat next to The Monster’s, the one without a name on the mail slot. That is where Our Friend lives. Elsa stands a few feet from it, holding her breath because she’s afraid it will smash the door and come charging out of the splintered remains and try to close its jaws around her throat if it hears her coming too close. Only Granny calls it Our Friend; everyone else says “the hound.” Especially Britt-Marie. Elsa doesn’t know how much fight there is in it, but either way she’s never seen such a big dog in her life. When you hear it barking from behind the door it’s like being whacked in the stomach by a medicine ball.
But she has only seen it once, in Granny’s flat, a few days before Granny got taken ill. She couldn’t have imagined feeling more afraid, even if facing a shadow eye-to-eye in the Land-of-Almost-Awake.
It was a Saturday and Granny and Elsa were going to an exhibition about dinosaurs. That was the morning Mum put the Gryffindor scarf in the wash without asking and made Elsa take another scarf—a vomit-green one. Mum knows Elsa hates green. She really lacks empathy sometimes, that woman.
Our Friend had been lying on Granny’s bed, like a sphinx outside a pyramid. Elsa stood transfixed in the hall, staring at that gigantic black head and the terrifying, depthless eyes. Granny had come out of the kitchen and was putting on her coat as if it were the most natural thing in the whole universe to have the biggest thing ever lying on her bed.