Chapter 45 Cherry Tree #2
Jeanette hesitates. “This is—well—pretty advanced. Maybe we should start with something lighter?”
“Can’t I just try?” Ana asks.
So Jeanette lets her try, because sometimes you have to let some people fail in order for them to learn.
The only problem with that theory is that Ana doesn’t fail.
Jeanette shows her the movement, and Ana duplicates it on her first attempt.
Jeanette shows her a more difficult move, then another, even harder, and Ana manages them all by her second or third attempt.
Jeanette is panting with her hands on her knees after twenty minutes, but Ana doesn’t seem out of breath at all.
Jeanette’s old coach used to talk about “physical intelligence” and how some martial arts practitioners seem to have an equivalent of a musician’s perfect pitch: when they see something, their body knows instinctively how to do the same thing.
Ana played hockey for a few years when she was younger, but she’s never done any martial arts.
Even so, her physique seems perfectly suited to it.
She’s grown up in the forest, running on uneven ground, jumping and climbing.
Her dad’s a hunter and fisherman, she’s tracked and shot and dragged heavy animals with him since she was a child, she’s shoveled snow and dug ditches and drilled holes in the ice on the lake.
She’s strong, supple, resilient, and tougher than one of the Bearskin’s pork chops.
Jeanette holds her hands up and says, “Hit me as hard as you can.”
“Seriously?” Ana asks.
Jeanette nods. “As hard as you can!”
Maya is sitting on the floor, and she’ll never forget seeing this happen.
Ana hits so quickly and so hard that Jeanette staggers backward.
Ana just explodes. Jeanette and Maya start laughing.
Ana doesn’t even realize what’s so special about what she’s just done, but Jeanette is already planning her career.
The three women inside the barn are wet with sweat; the landscape outside is deep-frozen, covered in snow, sunk in darkness.
But the whole town smells of cherry blossom.
Early one morning Zacharias’s parents’ doorbell rings.
Amat is standing outside. Zacharias’s mother looks both happy and frustrated.
First the happiness: “Amat, how lovely to see you! Congratulations on getting onto the A-team, we’re so proud of you.
Just think, we’ve had you running about here for so many years, you can’t imagine how much we boast about you to the neighbors! Your mom must be so proud of you!”
Before Amat has time to reply, she moves straight on to the frustration: “I’m afraid Zacharias isn’t home. He’s gone to play computer games with some friends. Several hours away! Can you imagine? What on earth’s the point of that?”
Amat takes a deep breath, because he’s very fond of Zacharias’s parents, but he says firmly, “Zach isn’t playing games with ‘some friends.’ It’s a huge competition. He qualified ahead of thousands of other players. You should come and watch him with me.”
Zacharias’s dad is standing further back in the hall. He doesn’t want to insult Amat but can’t help snorting, “It’s good of you to stand up for him, Amat, but playing computer games isn’t a real spo—”
Amat fixes his eyes on him. “All through our childhoods Zach and I have competed to see who could turn professional first. He’s going to win. If you aren’t there to see it happen, you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives.”
He turns and walks down the stairs before they have time to answer.
When Zacharias walks into the vast hall where the competition is taking place, several hours away from Beartown, Amat is there to watch. Not a big army, but an army nonetheless.
The floor where the computers are lined up is surrounded by tall banks of seating, full of spectators; there are screens hanging from the roof and music thundering from the loudspeakers.
“It’s . . . almost like hockey,” Zacharias’s father concedes in amazement.
He and Zacharias’s mother caught up with Amat at the railway station.
They drove here together instead. The parents walked in reluctantly, not really understanding any of it, but before the competition is over the people around them will be cheering and applauding what Zacharias has done.
When he wins, Amat will yell out loud, and his parents will follow his example.
A stranger in the row in front will turn around and ask Zacharias’s mom, “Do you know him?”
“He’s my son!” Zacharias’s mom will exclaim.
The stranger will nod and look impressed and will say, “You must be incredibly proud of him!”
It’s not that important. It’s only a sport. A different sport.
Kira Andersson’s own mother once said to her, “The hardest thing about having a family is that you’re never finished.
” Kira can’t quite forget that as she and her colleague furnish their office, chase clients and try to recruit staff, negotiate with the bank, and worry about money.
Kira’s phone keeps ringing the whole time.
She looks at the photograph of the children on her desk with the same silent questions as always: For whose sake do you have a career?
Is it worth all the sacrifices? How are you supposed to know that in advance?
Peter Andersson comes home to an empty house.
Kira is at work, the children are out with friends.
Peter makes a meal for himself and eats it watching a hockey game on TV.
His phone is silent. When he accepted the job of general manager all those years ago, he used to hate the sound of it ringing, because it never stopped, not even when he was on vacation. Now he misses it.
Maya Andersson puts the key into the lock and walks into the hall.
Her dad gets up from the couch and tries to hide how happy he is not to have to be home alone.
Maya is exhausted after her martial arts training, but when she sees the look on her dad’s face she goes to get her guitar.
They play three songs together in the garage.
Then the daughter asks, “Has Mom told you? About . . . music school?”
Peter looks surprised. Then embarrassed. “We . . . your mom and I . . . we haven’t had much time to talk lately.”
Maya fetches the letter. “I can start in January. It’s a long way away, I’d have to move and I’d need to borrow money, but . . . Mom said it was okay.”
Peter doesn’t succeed in his attempt not to fall apart. “I just want you to be . . . to be happy, Pumpkin . . . just happy!” he manages to say.
“You know what, Dad? That’s all I want for you, too,” his daughter whispers.
Leo Andersson is walking alone through Beartown.
He isn’t going anywhere particular, has no plan, he’s just walking about.
When he’s grown up, he’ll remember this as the winter when he was desperate for something to feel passionate about.
Everyone else seems to have something they love unconditionally: his dad has his club, his mom her new business, and Maya her music.
Leo wants something of his own. Perhaps he’ll find it. Perhaps that’s another story.
But this evening when he comes home, his mom is still at work and his big sister has gone to bed.
His dad is sitting in the living room watching television.
Leo hangs his coat up, considers going straight to his room, like anyone else who’s only just become a teenager, but this evening he goes into the living room instead.
He sits down next to his dad. They watch a hockey game together.
“You . . . I . . . I hope you know how much I love you,” his dad says during one of the breaks.
“I know, Dad. I know.” Leo grins and yawns as if he takes that for granted.
Peter can’t help hoping that he might have done something right as a parent after all. They’re both asleep on the sofa when Kira comes home. She covers the pair of them with blankets.
You’re never finished with a family.