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“My  God,”  Balder  said.
“Did you do this?”
August neither nodded nor
shook  his  head  but  looked
over towards the window, and
Balder  had  the  strangest
feeling  that  his  life  would
never be the same again.
Hanna Balder needed to do
some 
shopping. 
The
refrigerator was empty. Lasse
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could  come  home  at  any
moment and he would not be
happy if there was not even a
beer for him. But the weather
outside looked ghastly so she
put it off, and instead she sat
in the kitchen smoking, even
though it was bad for her skin
and bad in general.
She  scrolled  through  her
contacts two, three times, in
the hope that a new name
would come up. But of course
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there were only the same old
people,  and  they  were  all
tired  of  her.  Against  her
better judgement she called
Mia. Mia was her agent and
once upon a time they had
been  best  friends  and
dreamed  of  conquering  the
world  together.  These  days
Hanna  was  Mia’s  guilty
conscience and she had lost
count of all her excuses. “It’s
not  easy  for  an  actress  to
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grow older, blah, blah.” Why
not just say it straight out?:
“You look worn out, Hanna.
The public doesn’t love you
any more.”
But  Mia did  not  answer
and that was probably just as
well. The conversation would
not have done either of them
any good. Hanna could not
help  looking  into  August’s
room just to feel that stinging
sense of loss which made her
realize that she had failed in
her  life’s  most  important
mission  –  motherhood.  In
some perverse way she took
comfort in her self-pity, and
she  was  standing  there
wondering  whether  she
shouldn’t go out and get some
beer  after  all  when  the
telephone rang.
It was Frans. She made a
face. All day she had been
tempted – but did not dare –
to call him to say that she
wanted August back, not just
because she missed the boy,
still less because she thought
her son would be better off
with her. It was simply in
order to avoid a disaster.
Lasse  wanted  to  get  the
child  support  again.  God
knows  what  would  happen,
she thought, if he were to turn
up in Saltsjöbaden to claim
his  rights.  He  might  even
drag August out of the house,
scare him out of his wits and
beat  Frans  to  a  pulp.  She
would have to warn him. But
when she picked up and tried
to say that to Frans, it was
impossible to get a word in
edgeways. He just went on
and on about some strange
story which was apparently
“totally 
fantastic 
and
completely amazing” and all
that sort of thing.
“I’m sorry, Frans, I don’t
understand.  What  are  you
talking about?” she said.
“August is a savant. He’s a
genius.”
“Have you gone mad?”
“Quite  the  opposite,  my
love, I’ve come to my senses
at last. You have to get over
here, yes, really, right now! I
think it’s the only way. You
won’t be able to understand
otherwise.  I’ll  pay  for  the
taxi.  I  promise,  you’ll  flip
out.  He  must  have  a
photographic  memory,  you
see? 
And 
in 
some
incomprehensible  way  he
must  have  picked  up  the
secrets 
of 
perspective
drawing all by himself. It’s so
beautiful, Hanna, so precise.
It shines with a light from
another world.”
“What shines?”
“His traffic light. Weren’t
you listening? The one we
passed the other evening –
he’s been drawing a whole
series of perfect pictures of it,
actually  more  than  perfect
…”
“More than …”
“Well, how can I put it? He
hasn’t just copied it, Hanna,
not just captured it exactly,
he’s also added something, an
artistic  dimension.  There’s
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