Page 100 of The Living and the Dead

“I bet he can’t afford to buy any when he’s out. Or maybe there’s rat poison inside.”

Then he returned, Filip Söderström, skinny and rangy like a bag of bones in clothing; he looked beyond unsteady as he sat back down in the booth.

Sander heard Filip guffaw loudly, a drunken racket that made the others urge him to calm down.

“Whaddaya mean, calm down?”

“You’re being so fucking loud.”

“Aw. Shut up.”

“What did you just say?”

Filip cocked his head. “I said,shut up. Can you do that?”

A crash, the clatter of tables and chairs. That was how violence began, like a tiny explosion in the dark, out of nowhere. One second everything is still; the next, it’s simply there.

One of the men grabbed Filip by the collar and was about to haul him across the table, but it was difficult since Filip was windmilling into the man’s face.

“For fuck’s sake,” one of the other guys said wearily, trying to protect his bottle of beer from the scuffle. “Can you just—”

Filip’s elbow caught his jaw and cut him off. The man grabbed his face, set his bottle down at a safe distance, and swung a fist at Filip’s head.

Filip sagged over the table, still trying to strike back, but he was slower now. He took a blow to the mouth and red droplets flew out. They yanked him out of the booth and Filip’s feet slipped around on the floor, his feet scrabbling for balance.

The man holding Filip by the collar was getting ready for a punch or a kick. Then something happened. His grip on Filip’s jacket loosened and suddenly the man was down on his back. Filip collapsed too, but he quickly looked up, trying to figure out what was goingon.

Next to him stood Sander. He’d jabbed his foot into the back of the man’s knee. The man tried to crawl back up, but Sander grabbed him by the hair, a thin brown mop, made a fist with his free hand, andstruck the man in the cheek so hard it made his knuckles crack. Something in the man’s face broke, and he began to let out a shrill howl as he fell back to the floor.

Everything stopped. Now that it was over, the staff approached. Filip gaped at Sander, blood trickling from his lip.

“Sander?”

“Hi,” Sander said hoarsely. His hand ached and throbbed. “You’re bleeding.”

Filip gingerly brushed the back of his hand over his mouth and observed the man, who was still lying on the floor and panting.

“I’m fine. Thanks for the help.”

So strange to see him like this, in the dim lighting. Filip asked if he wanted a cigarette, and Sander saidno.

“Some fresh air, then?”

“That sounds good. I’ll just grab my stuff and pay.”

They emerged into a warm, clear July evening. Filip’s cigarette was stained with blood from his lip.

“Good to see you.” He blew out smoke, unbothered by the blood, and looked at the book in Sander’s hand. “What are you reading?”

Sander showed him the cover.

“The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter,” Filip read. “Speaking of, weren’t you supposed to go to Stockholm? Please, have a seat.”

He said it as though they were in his kitchen. Sander sank onto the curb next to him. The odor of alcohol was stale but sharp; it mixed with the cigarette smoke.

“Yeah,” Sander said. “I was supposed to go. But it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”