“His brother?”
“Yes.”
“And the other three? Benji, Bobo, and Amat? Will Peter talk to them?”
“No.”
“No?”
“If you want him to motivate Benji, Bobo, and Amat, you don’t need him to talk to the boys. He needs to talk to their mothers and sisters.”
“This is a very odd town,” Zackell declares.
“So we’ve been told,” Sune says.
16
Beartown Against the Rest
The news on the local paper’s website spreads quickly. Possibly because there isn’t much other news to talk about. Possibly because hockey is more important here than in a lot of other places. Or perhaps because the wind happened to change at that moment, without most people even realizing.
* * *
“Beartown Ice Hockey Saved by New Sponsor: General Manager Peter Andersson Engaged in Secret Talks,” the paper trumpets. A couple of lines farther down comes the next revelation: “Sources indicate that national women’s team player Elisabeth Zackell will be the new A-team coach, the first female coach in the history of Beartown Hockey.”
* * *
The newspaper doesn’t say where it got the information from, just that it was “a reliable source close to the club.”
* * *
Politicians need conflict to win elections, but they also need allies. Richard Theo knows only two ways of getting someone who doesn’t like you to fight on your side regardless: a shared enemy or a shared friend.
* * *
The same day Peter Andersson meets Elisabeth Zackell, a reporter from the local paper calls another politician in the council building. But Richard Theo answers the phone. “I’m afraid the person you’re trying to reach is on holiday, I was just passing in the corridor and heard the phone ringing,” he says amiably.
“Oh . . . I got an email from his assistant asking me to call . . . something about a ‘tipoff about Beartown Ice Hockey’?”
Theo has an exceptional ability to play stupid. The fact that the other politician’s assistant has a password consisting of a swear word followed by “12345” as his email password is happy coincidence.
“A tipoff about Beartown Ice Hockey? It could be about the new sponsor or the new coach, maybe?” Theo suggests helpfully.
“What?” the reporter exclaims.
Theo fakes hesitancy. “Sorry . . . I thought it was already common knowledge . . . silly of me . . . I’ve probably said more than I should have done. I’m really not the right person to be talking about this . . .”
The reporter clears her throat. “Could you . . . say a little more?”
“Can I trust you not to give my name in whatever you write?” Theo asks.
The reporter promises, and Theo says magnanimously that he “just doesn’t want to steal Peter Andersson’s thunder, because he’s the one doing all the work!”
When the news appears on the website, Theo sets off to the supermarket, asks for the owner, and is directed to the storeroom.
* * *
Tails is shifting stock, an old hockey giant driving a forklift, but dressed in a suit the same as usual. When he was younger, he had trouble attracting girls’ attention, so he started to dress up more than the other guys. When they wore T-shirts, he wore a smart jacket, and when they went to funerals in suits, he would show up wearing tails. Which is how he got his nickname.
“My name is Richard Theo,” the politician says, unnecessarily.
“I know who the hell you are, we were at school together,” Tails grunts and jumps down from the forklift.
The politician holds out a large box. The supermarket owner takes it warily.
“I want to help Beartown Ice Hockey,” Theo says.
“People around here don’t want to give a politician any control of the club,” Tails replies.
“A politician . . . or this politician?” Theo wonders ironically.
Tails’s voice is wary but not unfriendly. “I daresay you know your own reputation. What do you want with me?”
“I want us to help each other. Because you and I have a friend in common, Tails, and I think that’s more important than having enemies in common.”
Tails opens the box, looks down into it, tries not to look shocked, but fails. “What . . . what am I supposed to do with these?”
“Everyone says you’re the best salesman in Beartown. So sell them,” Theo says.
He puts his hands into the pockets of his expensive trousers. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt beneath a gray waistcoat, a red silk tie, shiny, polished shoes. No one dresses like that in Beartown, apart from him and Tails. The supermarket owner looks down into the box again. He loves just two things apart from his family: his town and his hockey club. So as Richard Theo turns to walk away, he sees Tails smile.
* * *
The box is full of T-shirts. On them are the words BEARTOWN AGAINST THE REST. Tails sells all of them in less than an hour.
* * *
There’s a loser in every relationship. We may not like to admit it, but one of us always gets a little more and one of us always gives up a little more readily.
Kira is sitting on the steps outside the house, breathing in through her nose, but her lungs never feel full. These forests can suffocate a person if she’s longing for something else, but how do you hold a family together if you think only about your own breathing? She’s been offered better jobs, far from Beartown. She’s been offered a managerial role in the firm she works at now, but it would have meant longer working days and being available on weekends. And that would be impossible, because weekends mean guitar lessons and training and hockey games. She has to sell programs and pour coffee and be a couple of kids’ mom and someone’s wife.
Naturally enough, her colleague, a fanatical antimonogamist, keeps telling her “not to put up with that shit!” But what is a marriage if you take away the infatuation? A negotiation. Dear Lord, it’s hard enough for two people to agree what TV program to watch, let alone fashion an entire life together. Someone has to sacrifice something.
Peter gets out of the Volvo with a bunch of flowers in his hand. Kira has an extra wineglass on the steps beside her. White flags. In the end she smiles, mostly at the flowers.
“Where did you find those at this time of day?”
Peter blushes. “I picked them from a garden. In Hed.”
He holds out his hand, touches her skin, and their fingertips touch tentatively.
* * *
It’s only a hockey club. Only a game. Only pretend. There will always be people who try to tell Alicia that, and obviously she’ll never listen to them, the little brat. She’s four and a half years old, and tomorrow she will knock on Sune’s door again. The old man will teach her to fire hockey pucks harder and harder at the wall of his house. The marks on the wall will be like the grandchildren’s drawings other old men pin up on their fridges: tiny etchings in time to prove that someone we love grew up here.
“How are you getting on at preschool?” Sune asks.
“The boys are stupid,” the four-and-a-half-year-old says.
“Hit them in the face,” Sune advises.
The four-and-a-half-year-old says she will. You have to keep your promises. But when Sune walks home with her later, he adds, “But you have to be a good friend to the kids who haven’t got any friends. And you have to defend the ones who are weaker. Even when it’s hard, even when you think it’s a nuisance, even when you’re scared. You always have to be a good friend.”
“Why?” the girl asks.
“Because one day you’re going to be the best. And then the coach will make you team captain. And then you have to remember that a great deal is expected of anyone who’s been given a lot.”
The girl doesn’t know what that means yet, but she will remember every word. Every night until then she dreams of the same sound. Bang. Bang. Bang-bang-bang. Her club lives on. She’s blessed enough never to really understand what happened this summer, how close it came to dying, and how it came to survive. And at what cost.
* * *