It took me a while to shake off the nearly total silence in the room. All I could hear was the city in the distance. I leapt up and rushed over to the door to make sure it was locked and snapped the bolt into place to double-lock it. Then I peered through the peephole in the door and got that fish-eye view you get when you look out. The hallway was deserted. I swallowed.
“Get ahold of yourself,” I said.
I steeled myself and walked back to the bed, flipped on the TV and got down to playing games, though I found it hard to play anything except that Viking thing I’d tried the day before. It got even cooler the more I explored it. Man, the things this Swede could do! Time flew by, and I forgot where I was. I must have been up to about ten thousand kills when a knock came on the door. It was sort of a sneaky knock, like whoever was doing it was testing the door, checking out who was in the room.
I was in the room. Alone.
For a moment I just sat there, trying to ignore it—maybe the person would go away—but then the knock came again, and I turned the sound off on the television. There was a long pause, then a third knock. That was the only sound in the hotel, it seemed. It was as if everyone had fled. I once saw a trailer from an old movie called The Shining, about a guy and his wife and kid left alone in a hotel that kind of comes alive and attacks him, and he goes insane. I thought of that for a second. Then I got up, still in my bare feet, and approached the door. I looked through the peephole. A big man was standing there, peering back. He was unshaven and looked very serious. He knocked again, much harder. I actually jumped back.
“Mr. Murphy, I have your meal for you. Are you there?”
I felt like an idiot. I glanced down at my watch. Wow. I’d been gaming for more than two hours. It was noon.
I tiptoed into the bathroom, which was right near the door, and flushed the toilet, then called out, “Coming!”
He was a pretty stylish guy, dressed in the blue-and-gold uniform of the hotel, blond hair combed back as if a perfect wind had set it in place, and yes, unshaven but fashionably so. The meal was on a white table on wheels, and it was under three upside-down silver bowls.
“Thank you, sir,” he said in the singsong, lightly accented way the Swedes speak English (and it seemed like most of them spoke it well—how did that happen?). He brought the meal right in, uncovered it, set up the utensils, poured my drink and then stepped back.
“Will that be all, Mr. Murphy? Mr. McLean wanted to be sure you have everything you need.”
I glanced down at the burger bulging with cheese and mushrooms and tomatoes and lettuce, and the homemade fries with a big vat of ketchup beside them in a silver cup.
“Uh, yeah, that seems okay,” I said, then felt like an idiot again. Americans can sound so dumb next to Europeans and even Canadians—kind of unsophisticated, which truly ticks me off.
Then he was gone, and I was watching TV, checking out Swedish game shows while I stuffed my face. Grandpa appeared about an hour later, blasting through the door so suddenly that I just about yelled out in shock.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”
Not again.
“Must be the light,” I said. That was all I could think of.
* * *
We hit the town after that. First we crossed the bridge onto the island, walked to the palace and watched the changing of the guard, which was pretty cool, with these Swedish soldiers in old uniforms and spiked helmets (not kidding) doing all sorts of maneuvers and carrying serious weaponry. Then we went right into the heart of the Old Town, or Gamla Stan, as they call it in Swedish, where everything is really old, and we walked up and down the narrow cobblestone streets.
It felt like you could almost reach out and touch the buildings on either side. I imagined how creepy it might be in these tight streets after dark. But there were also really cool stores and cafés and people hanging out everywhere. Grandpa was treating me left and right to candy and ice cream and buying me Swedish T-shirts (I Love Stockholm in blue and gold) and stuff. Later, under the night lights, we saw a sort of circus without animals (not Swedish to have anybody think they were mistreating animals, I guess)—fire eating and juggling and acrobatics, all in a big ancient square.
We had an awesome time, and I couldn’t help but imagine how cool it would have been to grow up here, without crime, dirty streets and all the things I was used to back in Buffalo. But I kept reminding myself that this was an illusion, that the Swedes had a dark side too. I thought about those crime novels, their dead leader in a pool of blood in the street, the weapons they made and all the stories about the secret service. Maybe many of these happy people weren’t really happy at all.
I saw the girl again too, the one with the carrot-colored hair, the weird pigtails and the horse bicycle. She was on a narrow street far away and it was late at night, just before we went back to the hotel. She looked to be about my age, but there didn’t appear to be anyone with her, which was strange. It occurred to me once again that I might be imagining her.
* * *
The next day Grandpa left me alone again during the morning. He didn’t say a word about where he was going, and I didn’t ask. It was likely just him and other adults talking anyway.
I didn’t get freaked-out this time when he left nor when Sven or Mats or whatever his name was came with my meal—French toast and sausages for lunch!
When Grandpa came back he took me on a ferry ride all around Stockholm. We visited islands and stopped in for a meal of reindeer roast beef (not kidding), which was actually delicious, though it made me wonder—what kind of people butcher the beautiful animals from Santa’s sleigh? Later we went on a tour of City Hall, where they hold the banquet for the Nobel Prize awards. The building was ancient and funky, like something out of The Lord of the Rings. Then we checked out a museum that had a warship from the 1600s that was an absolute killing machine. And on the way home we walked past this place called Icebar—an entire restaurant made of ice. It was all a bit strange. And to add to the weirdness, Grandpa started acting a little on edge, sort of anxious, like time was running out or we were in danger… or something.
* * *
The next day, which would be our last full day in Stockholm, he went out in the morning again and returned in the early afternoon. This time he had stayed away a little longer than before, but I didn’t mind, not in the least. This evening we were going to the hockey game. I had a hard time concentrating on the TV. I just wanted to get to the rink.
Grandpa barely spoke to me from the minute he arrived. Something serious seemed to be on his mind.
We spent a few hours in the early afternoon shopping in the commercial area in modern downtown Stockholm, which was the other way from the Old Town, heading up and down these promenades, as they call them—pedestrian streets with modern cobblestone surfaces, filled with tourist stores and fashionable places. All the clerks looked like models to me. I bought Mom and Dad a shirt each.
Then we ate some sort of fish at the hotel and got ready for the game. Though it had an early start, a six-o’clock puck drop, Grandpa seemed to be really rushing us. I couldn’t figure it out. It seemed to me we had plenty of time. We’d eaten really early, just before four o’clock, and now he was pushing me to get out the door. He seemed worried.
But I didn’t think too much about it, because my mind was on the game. I had dreams of being a pretty good hockey player someday, though I had doubts about my abilities. I was all right in the league I played in. I could hold my own against my Canadian cousins on the ice too, although DJ, who is the oldest and biggest, is a bit of a load out there. But I felt like a million bucks when I was on the ice with the wind blowing in my face. I felt free from all my worries. Even being near a rink, smelling it, feeling the excitement in the air, was amazing. Swedish Elite League hockey on the big international ice arena right in Stockholm! This was going to be unforgettable.
I left the hotel room that night as excited as I’d ever been. I had no idea that in a very short while it would be obvious to me that I was never coming back.