She jumps down from the wurse’s back. The wurse closes its jaws around the moo-gun and gently but firmly takes it away from her, then shambles off and puts it on a stool out of reach of her trigger finger. But it avoids eating the cookie, which, as anyone who understands just how much wurses love cookies knows, is a significant sign of respect for Elsa.
There’s another ring at the door. Elsa throws it open and is just about to snap impatiently at George when she realizes just in time that it’s not George.
There’s a silence lasting for probably half a dozen eternities.
“Hello, Elsa,” says the woman in the black skirt, sounding a bit lost. She’s wearing jeans, not a black skirt, today, admittedly. And she smells of mint and looks scared. She breathes so slowly that Elsa fears she’s about to expire from a shortage of oxygen.
“I’m . . . I’m very sorry I shouted at you in my office,” she begins.
They scrutinize each other’s shoes.
“It’s cool,” Elsa manages to say at last.
The corners of the woman’s mouth vibrate gently.
“I was a bit caught off guard when you came to the office. I don’t get many people visiting me there. I’m . . . I’m not so good at visits.”
Elsa nods guiltily without looking up from the woman’s shoes.
“It doesn’t matter. Sorry for saying that about . . .” she whispers, unable to get out the last few words.
The woman waves her hand dismissively.
“It was my fault. It’s difficult for me to talk about my family. Your grandmother tried to make me do it, but it only made me . . . well . . . angry.”
Elsa pokes at the floor with the tip of her toe.
“People drink wine to forget things that are hard, right?”
“Or to have the strength to remember. I think.”
Elsa snuffles.
“You’re also broken, right? Like Wolfheart?”
“Broken in . . . in another way. Maybe.”
“Couldn’t you mend yourself, then?”
“You mean because I’m a psychologist?”
Elsa nods. “Doesn’t that work?”
“I don’t think surgeons can operate on themselves. It’s probably more or less the same thing.”
Elsa nods again. For an instant the woman in the jeans looks as if she’s about to reach out towards her, but she stops herself and absentmindedly scratches the palm of her hand instead.
“Your granny wrote in the letter that she wanted me to look after you,” she whispers.
Elsa nods.
“That’s what she writes in all the letters, apparently.”
“You sound angry.”
“She didn’t write any letters to me.”
The woman reaches into a bag on the floor and gets something out.
“I . . . I bought these Harry Potter books yesterday. I haven’t had time to get very far yet, but, you know.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I . . . I understand Harry Potter is important to you.”
“Harry Potter is important for everyone!”
The skin around the woman’s mouth cracks again. She takes another long, deep breath, looks into Elsa’s eyes and says: “I like him a lot too, that’s what I wanted to say. It’s been a long time since I had such an amazing reading experience. You almost never do, once you grow up, things are at their peak when you’re a child and then it’s all downhill from there . . . well . . . because of the cynicism, I suppose. I just wanted to thank you for reminding me of how things used to be.”
Those are more words than Elsa has ever heard the woman say without stuttering. The woman offers her what’s in the bag. Elsa takes it. It’s also a book. A fairy tale. The Brothers Lionheart, by Astrid Lindgren. Elsa knows that, because it’s one of her favorite stories that doesn’t come from the Land-of-Almost-Awake. She read it aloud to Granny many times while they were driving around in Renault. It’s about Karl and Jonatan, who die and come to Nangijala, where they have to fight the tyrant Tengil and the dragon Katla.
The woman’s gaze loses its footing again.
“I used to read it to my boys when their granny died. I don’t know if you’ve read it. You probably have.”
Elsa shakes her head and holds the book tightly.