Hell Fire Read Free

chased him into the bathroom to wash his hands, he felt superior. His mother looked out at the snow that was still falling thick and fast. “We’ll take the bus today,” she said, looking at her son. “It’s just as easy. And we really need to get you to the hairdresser’s; you look like a girl.”
    Eddie snorted. How could she say that? He was six feet and two inches tall and his voice was as coarse as a grater. There was no way he looked like a girl. His hair was curling at the neck, thick and brown and soft, but he didn’t like it when the scissors snipped around his ears.
    Soon after she was sitting on the bus seat beside him, with her hands folded around her brown handbag. “We’ll go to the Suit Store,” she said with authority. “They have XXL. You really must stop putting sugar on your bread,” she added. “You’ll get diabetes.”
    He didn’t answer. He sat on the seat beside her and breathed in the scent of soap. He liked sitting on the bus, swaying along with the low, drowsy humming of the engine and the smell of the new red plush seats. The smell of strangers he didn’t need to interact with.
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    The Suit Store was on the second floor of the shopping center, so they took the escalator up. There were racks of sale items outside the store, all old stock that had been reduced.
    â€œI want a pair of pants and a sweatshirt,” he said, loud and clear, to the young sales assistant who came over. “The pants have to be black. With lots of pockets, front, back, and on the legs. Not denim—it has to be some other material. I hate stiff clothes. Extra large, because I’m a big boy.”
    The sales assistant smiled and showed her white teeth. Her skin was as dark as chocolate and her hair was black.
    â€œYou’re not Norwegian,” Eddie said, more a statement than anything else.
    â€œI am too,” she retorted. “My dad’s Ethiopian, but I was born and brought up in Norway. Look, these pants have lots of pockets. Six in front and two at the back—how’s that?”
    â€œThey’re not black,” Eddie said, dissatisfied.
    â€œNo, but it’s the closest I’ve got in your size. If the pockets are so important. We do have other pants that are black, but they’re jeans. And you just said you didn’t want jeans.”
    â€œAh well,” Eddie said. “I guess I’ll be going home with dark blue pants today, then. To think you can’t even satisfy such a simple request. And the sweatshirt,” he continued. “Black as well. Have you ever been to Ethiopia to look for your roots?” he asked out of curiosity.
    â€œDon’t be so nosy,” his mother interrupted. “Why don’t you just go to the fitting room and try on the pants? I’ll look for a sweatshirt. You shouldn’t ask people where they come from—it’s none of your business. How would you like it if people asked and went on about your origins?”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind; I’d like it,” he said. He pulled open the curtain and went into the narrow changing room. He took off his old pants and tried on the new ones. His mother came back with a sweatshirt she had found with
New York
on it. He didn’t even want to try it on because he could see it would fit. Mass paid 720 kroner for the clothes and Eddie carried the bag out of the store.
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    They stood in front of the counter in Christiania Café on the first floor.
    â€œYou can have a sandwich and some pie,” Mass said. “I’m going to have waffles and jam. Listen, Eddie, you really mustn’t ask people where they’re from.”
    â€œBut Ethiopia’s a nice place,” he said. “It’s not anything to be ashamed of.”
    They sat down at a table by the window. Eddie pressed his custard slice down on the plate, trying to break the top layer into small pieces.
    â€œDo you remember