Part 59 (2/2)

'You told me I could ask for a favour, anything at all,' Erik says, sitting down at the table.

'Yes,' Nestor says, nodding emphatically.

'Can I stay here for a few days?'

'Here?'

A sceptical, boyish smile flits across Nestor's face.

'What for?'

'I've had a bit of a row with my girlfriend,' Erik lies, leaning back.

'You've got a g-girlfriend?'

'Yes,' Erik replies.

Nestor pours coffee into their cups and says he has a spare room with a guest bed already made up.

'Could I have some of the food that's left over?'

'Of c-course, I'm sorry,' he says, switching the hotplate on.

'You don't have to warm it up for me,' Erik says.

'Don't you want ...?'

'No, it's fine.'

Nestor sc.r.a.pes the food on to a plate and puts it in front of Erik before sitting down opposite him.

'Have you thought any more about getting a dog?' Erik asks.

'I n-need to save up some money,' Nestor replies, lifting his coffee-spoon a few millimetres and surrept.i.tiously looking at his reflection.

'Of course,' Erik says as he eats.

'I work over there at the ch-church,' Nestor says, gesturing towards the window.

'At the church?' Erik asks, feeling a s.h.i.+ver spread down his spine.

'Yes ... well, not really,' Nestor smiles, holding one hand in front of his mouth. 'I w-work in the pet cemetery.'

'The pet cemetery ...' Erik nods politely, looking at Nestor's slender hands and the yellowing polyester s.h.i.+rt under his pullover.

Erik finishes the food and drinks his coffee as he listens to Nestor telling him about the oldest cemetery for domestic pets in Sweden, over on Djurgrden. It was established when the author August Blanche buried his dog there in the nineteenth century.

'I'm b-boring you,' Nestor says, getting to his feet.

'No, I'm tired, that's all,' Erik says.

Nestor goes over to the window and looks out. Black shapes are moving against the paler sky, trees and bushes blowing back and forth.

'It will soon be dark,' Nestor whispers to his reflection.

There are two greyhounds on the windowsill, next to a pot plant. Nestor touches their heads, out of sight of Erik.

'Can I use the bathroom?' Erik asks.

Nestor shows him through the living room, and points to an extra door behind a curtain.

'This is the old c-caretaker's flat, but I think of that d-door as an emergency exit,' he says.

The bathroom has tiles halfway up its walls, with a deep bathtub and a shower curtain with seahorses on it. Erik locks the door and takes his clothes off.

'The red toothbrush is Mother's,' Nestor calls through the door.

Erik stands on the mouldy shower mat in the scratched bathtub, showers and washes the wounds on his body. On top of the bathroom cabinet above the basin is an old light-bulb box. Some lipsticks and a mascara pen stick out from it.

When Erik emerges Nestor is standing in the hall waiting for him. His wrinkled face looks worried.

'I'd really like to t-talk about something ... it's something that ...' he begins.

'What is it?'

'I ... what do I d-do if the new dog dies?'

'We can talk about that tomorrow.'

'I'll show you to the g-guestroom,' Nestor whispers, turning his face away.

They go back into the living room again, past the kitchen to a closed door that Erik hasn't noticed before because it's on the far side of a cupboard.

Above the bed in the spare room is a large poster of Bjrn Borg kissing the Wimbledon trophy. On the wall opposite is a shelf full of porcelain dogs.

There's an old corner cupboard painted in traditional folk-art style. The top door is decorated with a hand-painted motif: the ages of man, from cradle to grave. A man and woman stand side by side on a bridge where each step represents a decade. On the top step the pair stand tall as fifty-year-olds, but death lurks beneath the bridge in the form of a skeleton with a scythe in his hand.

'That's lovely,' Erik says, looking at Nestor, who is still standing in the living room.

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