Sleet: Selected Stories

Mr. Lind always came to Ekman last of all. And I thought I knew why: because Lind was afraid of him. At the end, when the only turn remaining was Ekman’s, Mr. Lind would always go up and sit down behind his desk, as if he were seeking refuge from something. He would sit there in silence for a long moment, looking out the window, before he eventually began a ritual that vaguely resembled a quiz, a few embarrassing little questions that Ekman would answer in a voice trembling with terror, always quoting the text book. He knew it by rote, the way a prisoner knows every inch of his cell. During other lessons with other teachers Ekman was a source of relief for the rest of us. We only needed to look at him to quell our own terror. His handicap was a source of strength for the rest of us. But in Mr. Lind’s class we despised him.

This morning’s lesson reached that inevitable point and as Mr. Lind took his place behind the desk, Ekman’s delicate face turned sheet-white, as always. Mr. Lind sat quietly for a moment, looking down at his hands on the desk before him. Then he turned his head and looked out at the falling snow, finally saying in a low tone:

“Mr. Ekman, can you tell us what the two parties on the left were called?”

With one exception every eye in the room turned to Ekman. He’d grabbed hold of the outer corners of his desktop in a kind of white-knuckled desperation. He swallowed and swallowed again, all the while staring into the middle of his desktop as into another’s eyes. At last he managed to find his voice.

“The Gironde party … and … and …”

Our teacher looked out at the snow. We looked at Ekman, curious, heartless, powerless. But Ekman took no notice of us. He was aware only of himself. His hands were as white now as his face. Finally he managed something like a whisper.

“… and the Montessori party.”

Then we all looked at each other, the other seven of us. And suddenly Larsson, the hockey player, burst out with a laugh, and Wikman, the class monitor, started giggling. Some of us smiled. Ekman had gotten the words mixed up, not realizing that Montessori wasn’t even French. It was funny, but my own laughter got caught in my throat the moment Ekman looked directly at me. He was imploring me for help with his eyes and the only help I could offer was not to laugh in his face. That’s how paltry a person can be. That’s how paltry I was.

Mr. Lind did not turn to us until the room had grown very quiet. Never before had he looked so dejected. Never before had he seemed so small, so dark.

“La Montagne,” he said in a low voice laced with grief.

In that moment I noticed a strange similarity between Ekman and Mr. Lind. Both sat looking down at their desks, with their hands knotted tight in front of them, as if their muscles were cramping. And their anguish wore the same face.

But this anguish was cut short by the bell. All at once shadows began to dart across the frosted glass of the door and a cascade of sound washed down the stairs to drown us out. We rose up, all of us, and went out into the silent snow.

Gym was scheduled at one o’clock that day, and Ekman and I both had exemptions. We used to roam around town during that free hour looking at trains or boats. Or we’d sit on a bench at the cemetery if it was nice out, and I’d read poems out loud that Ekman didn’t really get. But since it was cold and snowing, we stayed inside the classroom. We only had art class left that afternoon, so he didn’t need to read anything, and with nothing left to fear that day he could be my friend.

At first we stood for a while by the window and looked out at the living wall of snowfall. Some piles of wood stacked high, deep inside the swirling snow, reminded me for some reason of ships at sea. At some point Ekman left my side and then I heard keys jingling near the door. To my great surprise I heard a key slide into the door, and so I turned around quickly.

“Why are you locking the door?” I asked him.

Ekman stood there in front of the door. In his meager outstretched hands was the chess set, as if he were presenting a gift.

“I thought we could play a game of pocket chess,” he said timidly. “And just in case somebody came …”

We pushed the desks together, letting the chess set straddle the crack, and then we sat down to play. I was white and opened with my pawn. The door was still locked. What harm would it do? I managed to get both my knights out without losing either, and right away they scared Ekman. The pieces were too small and they kept slipping out of his trembling fingers. I noticed then that he’d mixed up one of his knights with his bishop when he set up his side. I gave in to the impulse to hassle him a little because he was so anxious.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” I said sarcastically and switched the pieces back to their right places.

His face flushed red.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he whispered. It was his turn now and he needed to do something about my rook, which was blocking his best moves.