Walking squirrel #84628
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Walking Squirrel. A novel by Gyrður Elíasson.
Step into the shop and feel new blood flowing from a built-in fountain in your mouth. Inside the door, nothing is missing except fans and mosquito nets to evoke the atmosphere of a warmer climate. Dumb bangs come from the basement. “The shopkeeper is shooting rats with an air rifle,” Björg says dryly and squints her eyes. She knocks authoritatively on the counter. A man comes crashing and thumping up the stairs with a cardboard box marked with a well-known brand of whiskey in his arms. He greets with a snort between his teeth, puts the box down on the floor and pushes with his foot under the counter. Björg places the note on the table. “And a packet of raisins, I must have forgotten to write.” “White shoe polish?” the man asks incredulously. “Yes, isn’t that what it says there?” Björg is unmoved.
Step into the shop and feel new blood flowing from a built-in fountain in your mouth. Inside the door, nothing is missing except fans and mosquito nets to evoke the atmosphere of a warmer climate. Dumb bangs come from the basement. “The shopkeeper is shooting rats with an air rifle,” Björg says dryly and squints her eyes. She knocks authoritatively on the counter. A man comes crashing and thumping up the stairs with a cardboard box marked with a well-known brand of whiskey in his arms. He greets with a snort between his teeth, puts the box down on the floor and pushes with his foot under the counter. Björg places the note on the table. “And a packet of raisins, I must have forgotten to write.” “White shoe polish?” the man asks incredulously. “Yes, isn’t that what it says there?” Björg is unmoved.