When the elevator doors glide open Elsa marches out ahead of him. They pass rows of doors until they find the terropist’s door. Elsa knocks so hard she actually hurts her knuckles. The Monster backs off towards the wall on the other side of the narrow corridor, as if he realizes that the person on the other side of the door may peer through the spyhole. He seems to be trying to make himself as small and unfrightening as possible. It’s hard not to find this endearing, thinks Elsa—even if “unfrightening” is not a proper word.
Elsa knocks on the door again. Puts her ear against the lock. Another knock. Another silence.
“Empty,” says The Monster slowly.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
She really doesn’t mean to be angry with him, because it’s Granny she’s angry with. She’s just tired. So very, very tired. She looks around and catches sight of two wooden chairs.
“They must be out for lunch, we’ll have to wait,” she says glumly, and drops despondently into one of the chairs.
As far as Elsa is concerned, the silence goes from pleasant to hard work to unbearable in about one and a half eternities. And when she has occupied herself with everything she has been able to come up with—drumming her fingers against the tabletop, poking out all the stuffing from the chair cushion through a little hole in the fabric, and carving her name into the soft wood of the armrest with the nail of her index finger—she shatters the silence with one of those questions that sound much more accusing than she means it to be.
“Why do you wear soldier’s trousers if you’re not a soldier?”
The Monster breathes slowly under his hood.
“Old trousers.”
“Have you been a soldier?”
The hood moves up and down.
“War is wrong and soldiers are wrong. Soldiers kill people!”
“Not that sort of soldier,” The Monster intones.
“There’s only one sort of soldier!”
The Monster doesn’t answer. Elsa carves a swearword into the wood of the armrest, using her nail. In actual fact she doesn’t want to ask the question that’s burning inside of her, because she doesn’t want The Monster to know how wounded she is. But she can’t stop herself. It’s one of Elsa’s big problems, they say at school. That she can never control herself.
“Was it you who showed my granny Miamas, or was it Granny who showed you?”
She spits out the words. The hood doesn’t move, but she can see him breathing. She’s just about to repeat the question when she hears, from the inside of it:
“Your granny. Showed. As a child.”
He says it the way he says everything in the normal language. As if the words come bickering out of his mouth.
“You were about my age,” Elsa says, thinking of the photos of the Werewolf Boy.
The hood moves up and down.
“Did she tell you fairy tales?” she asks quietly, and wishes he’d say no, even though she knows better.
The hood moves up and down.
“Did you meet during a war? Is that why she called you Wolfheart?” She really doesn’t want to ask anymore, because she can feel her jealousy growing. But the hood continues to nod.
“Camp. Camp for the one who flees.”
“A refugee camp. Did Granny bring you here with her? Was she the one who arranged it so you could live in the flat?”
There’s a long exhalation from the hood.
“Lived in many places. Many homes.”
“Foster homes?” He nods. “Why didn’t you stay there?”
The hood moves from side to side, very slowly.
“Bad homes. Dangerous. Your granny came to get me.”
“Why did you become a soldier when you grew up? Was it so you could go to the same places as Granny?” He nods. “Did you also want to help people? Like she does?” Slowly, the hood moves up and down. “Why didn’t you become a doctor like Granny, then?” The Monster rubs his hands together.
“Blood. Don’t like . . . blood.”
“Smart idea to become a soldier. Are you an orphan?”
The hood is still. The Monster is silent. But she notices that the beard withdraws even deeper into the darkness. Suddenly Elsa nods exuberantly to herself.