Read an Excerpt
The Invisible
By Mats Wahl, Katarina E. Tucker Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2000 Mats Wahl
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9580-5
CHAPTER 1
monday morning
It was on one of the first days of May that Hilmer Eriksson discovered he had become invisible. Hilmer attended Lugnet School, a small high school that served several villages in this rural area of northern Sweden. He got to school early that day and went up to his classroom, Room 9A. No one was there when he came in. He hung his jacket on the back of his chair, sat down, and opened his school bag.
Hilmer liked to read, and today he was planning to stop by the library to return the books he had borrowed the week before. He took out one of the books (Huckleberry Finn), opened it to his favorite chapter (Chapter 7), and started reading. He became so engrossed in the story that he barely noticed when Henrik Malmsten and Lars-Erik Bulterman came into the room.
It was only when he heard Malmsten laugh that he turned around and mumbled a greeting.
But Malmsten and Bulterman didn't seem to notice him. Malmsten sat down in his chair in the corner by the window. Bulterman slid into the seat next to him. Both of the boys stretched out their legs. They wore identical outfits: high black lace-up boots, black pants, black shirts.
Bulterman ran his hand over his buzz-cut hair. He had big ears. He used to have long hair and then his ears didn't stick out.
"Someone should just torch the barracks where all that scum lives," he muttered.
"Yes," Malmsten replied with a smile. "Someone really should torch the parracks!"
Bulterman wrinkled his forehead. "It isn't parracks, idiot, it's barracks."
Malmsten flushed. "That's what I said."
"It sure sounded like parracks," said Bulterman.
"I know what they're called," muttered Malmsten.
"Sure you do," said his friend. "Anyway, someone could pour gasoline all over the place."
Malmsten sneered. "Right. Gasoline. Then they would go right up."
"Parracks purn," Bulterman cracked.
Malmsten smacked Bulterman on the arm.
Bulterman laughed. "You have to keep after that migrant scum," he said.
After this, the two of them settled down.
Hilmer guessed they were talking about the housing development up in Sållan, where a hundred or so of the area's "guest workers" from abroad lived. The squat concrete buildings resembled army barracks. He glanced over as Malmsten put the middle finger of his left hand to his mouth and started biting the nail. Malmsten's teeth clicked together when the nail broke.
"Idiot," Bulterman said in a distracted way.
Malmsten kept biting.
"It's important that we tell the same story," Bulterman said after a while.
Malmsten switched fingers and started biting the nail on his pointer finger.
"Do you hear me?" Bulterman asked.
"Of course."
Malmsten switched to his pinkie.
"Cut it out!" Bulterman howled, and kicked Malmsten's shin.
"What'd you kick me for?"
"It's disgusting!"
"You don't have to kick me!"
"I'm gonna kick the crap out of you if you don't stop it!"
"I don't think so," said Malmsten, and began working on his thumbnail.
Bulterman kicked him again, in the same spot as before.
"Goddamnit!"
"I'm gonna teach you a lesson."
And then Bulterman kicked again, but this time Malmsten pulled his leg out of the way.
With glimpses over his shoulder, Hilmer had been watching the two of them. It surprised him that Malmsten hadn't caught him staring and yelled something like "What are you looking at, you freaking idiot?" Now Hilmer turned all the way around in his chair. He wouldn't usually push his luck like this. No one wanted to get caught staring at Bulterman and Malmsten. They didn't care who you were, they'd come after you. A few weeks ago, Ms. Nyman had given them a look and Bulterman had gone crazy.
"What are you staring at?" he'd roared.
"Can you please put away that magazine?" the teacher had answered.
"I can stick it up your ass," Bulterman had replied. His ears had instantly flushed a fiery red.
Ms. Nyman had also flushed, but on her neck. "I see I am going to have to speak with your father," she'd said.
Bulterman had scoffed. Malmsten had shaken his head and slapped his knee.
"You just do that," Bulterman dared.
Ms. Nyman had dared. And two days later someone had spray-painted NYMAN IS A WHORE on the wall next to the school's main entrance.
Malmsten and Bulterman made no secret about who was responsible for the graffiti. They had a big laugh about it for everyone to hear.
* * *
Hilmer noticed his classmate Madeleine Strömbom standing in the doorway. She'd halted abruptly on the threshold when she saw Bulterman and Malmsten.
"Are you two the only ones here?" she asked.
"Awww, come sit with us!" Malmsten pleaded.
"Not a chance," answered Madeleine before turning and disappearing down the corridor.
Malmsten pretended to be insulted. "Maddypaddy, don't go!"
Bulterman laughed.
The bell rang, signaling that the teachers would soon be making their first rotation of the day.
"Who do we have?" wondered Bulterman.
"Nyman."
Bulterman groaned as though he'd just taken a punch to the gut. He pounded the desktop with his fists. "I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!"
"Gasoline," said Malmsten. "Someone could pour a little gasoline in here, too."
Bulterman cheered up. "It would take them six months to re-build this dump."
"At least," muttered Malmsten. "At least six months."
The students drifted in, one after the other. When Madeleine returned, Malmsten yelled, "Maddypaddy! Come and give me a kiss." But Madeleine ignored him.
Then Ms. Liselott Nyman, history teacher for 9A, came in. She was accompanied by a man dressed in gray pants and a yellow suede jacket. The man had a thin mustache, and under his arm he carried a black leather briefcase with a zippered top. His name was Harald Fors.
The class watched Fors with interest.
"We have a visitor," said Ms. Nyman when the class had quieted down. She paused as Hilda Venngarn came through the door.
"Sorry," Hilda whispered, and scurried to her seat.
"As I was saying, we have a visitor," continued Ms. Nyman. "This is Detective Harald Fors. He's an officer from the police department in Aln, and he'd like to talk to you about something important."
Police officers were always interesting, especially one who had journeyed all the way out to their village from Aln, the biggest city in the region. Cops only came out when there was serious trouble. The class was attentive. Fors placed his briefcase on the teacher's desk.
"On Saturday evening, your classmate Hilmer Eriksson disappeared," said Fors. "He left home on his bike around six o'clock to go over to Vallen. He was going to get a towel he'd forgotten in the locker room after soccer practice. He probably never made it there."
Fors paused and looked around the classroom. His gaze roamed over the faces of the curious students.
"If any of you saw Hilmer around that time, I would very much like to speak to you. If any of you know something about Hilmer that you think I need to know, I would definitely like to hear it."
Fors paused again.
Lina Stolk raised her hand. "So he's missing, then?"
"Yes," replied Fors. "His parents started looking for him late Saturday night. On Sunday we began helping. We've searched over a fairly large area at this point."
"But you haven't found him," said Lina.
"No, we haven't found him."
* * *
Hilmer had felt uneasy from the moment Detective Fors came into the room. His heart now raced, and his palms were sweating. When Fors announced the disappearance, Hilmer tried to protest.
"I'm right here!" he called out.
But no one seemed to hear him.
Hilmer stood up and threw his library book against the wall. "Can't you see me?" he yelled.
As soon as the book left his hand, it disappeared. It never hit the wall. And it didn't make a sound where it should have fallen — on the floor next to Lina Marksman. The thrown book had proved as soundless and invisible as Hilmer himself.
"I'm here!" cried Hilmer. "I'm right here!"
But no one heard his words. No one noticed his cry. The silent and invisible boy went back to watching and listening.
* * *
"Some of you are friends of Hilmer and know him better than others. Obviously."
Detective Fors opened his briefcase and took out a sheet of paper, which he studied before he continued.
"I understand that Daniel Asplund plays on the same soccer team as Hilmer." Fors looked out over the class.
"Daniel isn't here yet," said Ms. Nyman. She looked out over the class just as Fors had. "Has anyone seen Daniel today?"
Several of the students shook their heads. Again Fors checked his paper. "Peter Gelin is also on the soccer team."
"Yes," answered a tall, skinny boy with short blond hair.
Fors nodded in Peter's direction. "Can we talk privately for a minute?"
"Sure."
"That's all for now," Fors said to the class. "If anyone wants to speak with me, I can be reached at this number."
Fors turned around toward the whiteboard, took a marker, and started writing. But the marker was dry.
"I have a new marker here," said Ms. Nyman, producing one out of her bag. With it, Fors wrote a string of digits in thick red strokes. Then he turned toward Peter. "Perhaps we can go and sit somewhere?"
"Sure," Peter said, and got up.
Fors took the briefcase and walked toward the door with Peter following. Just when the door was about to close behind them, Hilmer Eriksson quickly crossed the room and slipped through.
"We can go to the main office," Fors suggested to Peter as Hilmer followed.
Hilmer placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, but the hand disappeared. It seemed as though Peter hadn't felt it either.
They came to the main office. Margit Lundkvist, the school secretary, sat glued to her computer screen as usual. Fors knocked on her open door, and Margit turned around.
"Is there a room we can use?"
Margit glanced at the clock. "You can borrow the principal's office. He's out at a meeting with someone at the real estate office and won't be back for a while."
She got up and guided Fors and Peter to the end of the corridor. "In here," she said, and stepped aside so that the two could get by. Then she closed the door behind them, but not before Hilmer slipped in.
Fors sat in one of the visitor's chairs in front of a desk cluttered with papers and open binders. As Peter sat across from him in the other visitor's chair, Fors opened his briefcase and removed a notebook. From his inside pocket he took a ballpoint pen. With a click, he pushed out the point and in careful handwriting noted the day's date. Then he checked his watch and noted the time.
"How do you spell your last name, Peter?"
"G-E-L-I-N."
Fors wrote it down. "How do you know Hilmer Eriksson?"
"We've been in the same class for nine years."
"Do you ever see each other outside of school?"
"We both play in BK."
"That's the youth soccer league?"
"Yes."
"Are you on the same team?"
"Yes."
"Have you been on the same team a long time?"
"I joined when I was in sixth grade. Hilmer started the same time."
"What position do you play?"
"We switch around, but I like playing forward the best."
"And Hilmer?"
"He likes being goalie, but he's not very good at it. He usually plays defense."
"Why isn't he a good goalie?"
Peter thought for a moment before he answered. "A goalie can't just stand there and wait for the ball to come his way. He has to move with the game. He can even steer the game if he's good. But Hilmer ..."
"What?"
"Mostly he just stands there and spaces out. At least that's what it looks like."
"So he isn't a good goalie. Is he popular?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do people like him?"
"I guess so."
"If you had to describe him, what would you say?"
Peter remained silent.
"Try," said Fors.
"It's hard."
"Why is it hard?"
Peter hesitated. "He's so normal."
"Is that what characterizes Hilmer? That he's normal?"
"I guess so."
Fors made another note. Then he looked up. "You had practice on Saturday?"
"Yes."
"Did anything in particular happen during practice?"
"We did warm-ups and drills. The usual."
"What's your coach's name?"
"Alf."
"What happened after practice?"
"Nothing special. Showered, got dressed, and biked home. Alf's last name is Nordström. He's the janitor here and at another school down the road."
"And nothing unusual happened in the locker room?"
Peter thought for a while. "No — Wait, yes. Daniel and Hilmer fought over a towel."
"What happened?"
"I think Hilmer had a towel and Daniel forgot his. Daniel took Hilmer's towel and used it and Hilmer tried to get it back. They fought and Hilmer fell. He scraped his knee."
"What kind of fight was it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Were they messing around or serious?"
"It wasn't serious. They're friends."
"So it was an accident that Hilmer fell?"
"Yes."
"Daniel didn't mean to hurt Hilmer?"
"He wouldn't do that. They're friends from chess club, too."
As Fors wrote, Peter shifted in his chair. After a while he said: "There are two weird things about Hilmer. One, he plays chess, and two, he's always really quiet."
"He's quiet?"
"He doesn't say much. Like his mind is some place else."
"Do you have any idea what he thinks about?"
"No."
Fors took more notes. Then he continued. "So there was a fight, a friendly one, in the locker room?"
"Yes."
"Then what happened?"
"I don't know. I got dressed pretty quick and left while Hilmer and Daniel were still messing around."
"So you don't know how it ended?"
"No."
"Who was still there when you left?"
"Almost everyone. I think I was the first one to leave."
Fors put his pen away and zipped the notebook into his briefcase. "Just one last question. Do you have any idea where Hilmer might be?"
"No."
"There isn't a place he sometimes goes, an old hangout or abandoned building?"
"Not that I know of."
Fors got up and gave Peter his card. "Be in touch if you think of anything else I should know about. Don't be afraid to call. Let me be the one to decide if it's important or not."
They shook hands and left the room together, Peter first.
* * *
Hilmer stayed behind, seated in a corner chair. It was quiet in the room after Peter and Fors left, except for the sound of a radio from the office next door. Hilmer couldn't remember which room was next to the principal's office.
Memory.
What is wrong with my memory?
He tried to picture what had happened in the locker room on Saturday, but he couldn't. He couldn't even remember what his friend Daniel looked like. Or the towel.
What towel had they fought over?
Then he thought of something else ... his mother.
What is Mom doing?
Hilmer felt as if he was breaking into a sweat. He tried to picture his mother, but it was difficult. He remembered Dad, but only as a word, not as a person. He tried to picture his father, but he couldn't. He knew that he should know what his mom and dad looked like, but he didn't.
He heard a shout from the playground. Hilmer stood and looked out over the paved school yard from a closed window. He saw two girls walking toward each other, but he didn't recognize them.
This is a dream, Hilmer thought.
Then the door opened, and Principal Sven Humbleberg came into the room, lugging an overstuffed briefcase. He placed it on one of the chairs in front of the desk and took off his light-colored overcoat. As he was hanging it up, he noticed a red tag from the dry cleaner's stapled to the back of the collar. He tore away the tag, crumpled it up, and was about to throw it in the trash when he noticed Margit standing in the doorway.
"There's a policeman here today," she whispered, as though it was a secret.
Humbleberg furrowed his brow. Distracted now, he put the crumpled-up red tag in his pants pocket. "Really? Is it Nilsson?"
"It's someone from Aln," Margit continued. "He's speaking with students in 9A. He just interviewed a student privately in your office."
"Really, about what?"
Humbleberg opened his gigantic briefcase and took out two binders.
"Hilmer Eriksson has disappeared."
Humbleberg's brow furrowed even more. "Disappeared? Today?"
"On Saturday."
"That doesn't sound good. Is he gone — I mean, completely gone?"
"I'm here!" cried Hilmer. He went up to Humbleberg and slapped him on the shoulder.
But Humbleberg didn't seem to notice anything. He put his hand up to his ear and scratched absentmindedly.
"Yes," said Margit. "It seems like he's disappeared completely." She took a step into the room and whispered: "It could be foul play."
Humbleberg sighed. "It doesn't sound good. Since Saturday ... Today is Monday."
"Today is Monday." Margit nodded. "I heard about it last night. They were searching over in Vallen. With dogs."
"Terrible," muttered Humbleberg.
"I'm right here!" cried Hilmer. "I'm here, don't you see?" And he went up to the desk, took one of the principal's binders, and threw it at the wall.
He was sure he saw the binder hit the wall, yet it was still lying on the desk from which he had taken it. He grabbed the binder again, and again he threw it. He saw the binder fly through the air and hit the wall.
But the binder he had just thrown remained on the desk.
Nearly choking with frustration, Hilmer threw the binder one more time, with the same result. Humbleberg and Margit didn't notice a thing.
Hilmer let out a desperate sob.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Invisible by Mats Wahl, Katarina E. Tucker. Copyright © 2000 Mats Wahl. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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