The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [21]
That was two weeks ago. Now there was a much fresher car in the driveway. To drive the Ford into the garage was a physical impossibility. The garage was full of discarded furniture, boxes with publications no one read any longer or even knew existed, empty bottles, piles of newspaper, and mounds of other junk.
Already the new car was her ally, sworn to loyalty. Her secrets were only shared with him. It was a he, she had felt that at once. He obeyed her, took her to the places she had decided to visit. He never doubted whether it was right to go here or there. She talked to the Ford, shared her thoughts and plans. He answered by starting willingly and following her orders.
Now he stood at the ready, heard Laura rattling the keys. She hesitated for a few seconds. There was still time to put the keys away and go back into the house. She knew that as soon as she got into the car there would be no turning back. The agreement with the Ford had to be upheld.
She counted silently in her head. When she reached the count of five she opened the car door and got in. The Ford shook itself and the outfit rolled out onto the street. Everything in Kåbo was calm. She turned onto the street that ran right through the neighborhood.
A child was walking on the sidewalk, a violin case in her hand. Laura slowed down, carefully rolling down the street, looking at the girl who was walking in the way that children do, a little dreamily with an eye for the small details.
Laura was very close now. The girl, who was perhaps ten, twelve years old, was dressed in a red parka. Her hair was held back in a ponytail with a white, broad hair band. It swung in time with the girl’s step. She turned her head around, probably heard the sound of the car. Brown eyes, searching gaze.
Laura smiled. The girl smiled back, a little unsurely, but you’re supposed to smile back when you are greeted with one. This way, Laura thought, you’re supposed to smile, she’s been raised this way.
She slowed down and lowered the window. The girl stopped, hesitantly waiting.
“I used to play the violin, too,” Laura said.
The girl nodded.
“Is it going well?”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“Even if it’s difficult, you should keep practicing.”
A new nod. She had probably heard this before.
“Good luck,” Laura said and drove on, her gaze stubbornly fixed on the wet asphalt right in front of the car. With a hasty movement, she pulled the heating knob to zero. She wanted to look around in the rearview mirror, but that would be too painful.
The violin was still there. Laura had seen a glimpse of the case in the garage. For six years she had practiced and practiced, once a week walked—just like the girl on the street—the three blocks over to Miss Berg, the violin teacher, who lived in a house not unlike the Hindersten family’s. It had the same smell and the same stale atmosphere.
The only public performances were at the end-of-the-year school events in June. The promise of summer holidays blackened into anxiety in the face of the thought of standing alone on stage, enduring everyone’s looks and to play two pieces chosen by Miss Berg.
Every time in the wings she brought up her breakfast but was forced onto the stage by the teachers. Miss Berg was also there. Otherwise Laura might have found the courage to refuse. She played with a sour taste in her mouth, thought she was ugly, pitiable, and smelly.
Every time she received praise and applause. Her father was proud, Miss Berg hugged her, and the teachers patted her on the head. Stig-Björn Ljungstedt and Leif Persson sat at the very back of the auditorium and laughed scornfully at her. They would continue with this. Laura could sometimes see them on TV, the same mocking grin and derision as before. At home they were beaten but at school they were kings.
It was at the school graduation in eighth grade that she touched her violin for the very last time. Miss Berg had died that spring.